People from multiple cultures, earlier today

A decade or so ago, both German Chancellor Angela Merkel and British Prime Minister David Cameron agreed on something; Multiculturalism has failed. I couldn’t agree less. The clue is in the word itself. You need not be a philologist to be able to look at the word “multiculturalism” and come to a conclusion as to what it means. Does it not mean a combination of “multiple” and “culture”? Then, in what sense can it be said to have failed? It is, if anything, one of the West’s few growth industries.

London, city of my birth, has been multicultural for a very long time. Every Londoner knows that Ealing and Acton, in the west of London, are Polish areas. Around Victoria and Pimlico, you will find what you might call “the French Quarter”. They have a French school. I spent many happy times with my Serbian friends around Cricklewood, where they have their own denominational church. I have never met warmer people than Serbs, and if I ever get slung out of Central America, I’ll see you in a bar in Belgrade. As for Kilburn, well, that has been Irish forever, so it has. So multiculturalism, the co-existence of multiple cultures, does work. Or it did.

The difference now is that the French didn’t march to demand that we all eat baguettes, the Poles didn’t insist we make drinking vodka with every meal compulsory, the Serbs didn’t petition the government to ensure everyone played a musical instrument (every Serb I have ever met has been a talented musician), and there is – or was - even a pub in Kilburn known as “The English Pub”, where you could have a pint without feeling you had to stand up whenever The Wearing of the Green came on the jukebox. But times change.

Multiculturalism is, and always has been, a miserable lie, and for two reasons. Firstly, what was always meant was monoculturalism. All the recent arrivistes - and boy are they arriving - were supposed to “integrate”, according to successive governments. That’s right. An Afghani goatherd will arrive on the Kent coast, be sent to a leafy village, sup a half of cider, do some Morris-dancing, watch a spot of cricket on the green, and suddenly yell; “England, my England!” while putting Elgar on the gramophone. As young Americans say, never gonna happen.

What they meant was monoculturalism, this was the paper tiger set loose on the British public. We all join hands with Iraqis and go to the Pride march. I have my doubts.

There are parts of Britain which are now de facto Islamic. What happens when these mini-caliphates join hands and link arms? This can only end in tears.

A Victorian asylum patient, earlier today

In Victorian England, the upper classes would pay a penny to gain admittance to insane asylums. It was a curious form of entertainment. These titled ladies and gentlemen would gaze in wonder at the contortions and facial expressions of the insane, who were undoubtedly excited by the presence of these morbid voyeurs, and so doubtless put on an even better show than their warders usually saw. Nowadays, the asylums are all closed, their fine, robust old superstructures long converted into expensive apartments. In a way, the rich are still paying to enter the asylums. But as a medium of entertainment, watching mentally ill people has returned under a different guise; TikTok.

This platform is a carnival of grotesques, an endless procession of twisted humanity from the most feverish of dreams. The genuinely surprising aspect of this parade of abnormality is the utter shamelessness of those people – and I use the term loosely – who post there. They have absolutely no sense of the utter hopelessness of their lives, and seem all too keen to show off what is, in some cases, extreme mental imbalance. The most fascinating of these zanies fall into very different categories.

There are the physical freaks, a tapestry of tattoos and piercings, scarification and mutilation. It is reminiscent of a wonderful comic-book series which used to run in a much-missed British title, 2000AD. The strip was called The Ballad of Halo Jones, and its opening is set on The Hoop, a great revolving space station containing a mass of hopeless humanity shuffling around pointlessly. The cartoon is actually prescient in a number of ways. Everyone lives on universal credit, a clear aim of modern Western government. A tribe called the Different Drummers have had cranial implants which transmit a constant, repetitive rhythm inside their heads. But its relevance in terms of TikTok is another sect whose fashion sense requires uglification, scars and sutures, goitres and garishness. They have come to life on this most bizarre of channels.

Then there are the women, the so-called “TikTok Moms”, who have been out in force in the wake of the Clancy case in America, involving a woman who strangled her three children. These mothers of young children on TikTok can’t sing her praises highly enough. Next, we have black women telling us about their latest cosmetic quirks. I watched in wonder as a woman applied fleshy false lips in preparation for a date. We also have many, many black people demanding reparations from whites, reparations we have already effectively paid and continue to pay in kind. It costs a lot of money to babysit and police black people. We already gave at the door. There are depressives and repressives on display, midwits and morons, a whole cast of dysfunction, like some Busby Berkeley production set in Bedlam.

The societal imperative TikTok suggests – nay, demands - is a simple one; Re-open the asylums.

A magician, earlier today

Modern Western governments can be understood by the application of a simple grounding principle; Unless you can prove otherwise to your satisfaction, assume everything your government does is a psy-op. One tactic these malevolent gauleiters use to dupe and deceive their citizenry is distraction, which brings us to the magician’s coin.

A magician once told me a simple truth about his craft. He is not some occultist, but a member of the Swedish Magic Circle, specializing in card and coin tricks, many of which I have seen and are extraordinary examples of the art of prestidigitation. He explained the principle of distraction, whereby the stage magician makes extravagant gestures with one hand, while pulling off his deception with the other. This is a perfect analogue for governmental practice, an example of which occurred this week.

The British government published a pamphlet intended for immigrants arriving in the UK from Muslim countries. This helpful “How to” guide to life in the UK includes several pointers to British cultural norms which might not be familiar to the many arrivistes arriving daily on the shores of Kent. Sex, it states, must be consensual, otherwise it is rape, which is bad. We don’t hit or abuse children here, it trumpeted. Women in the UK, it advised, can wear what they like. They can even show their hair. They can work, they can go out by themselves without a chaperone (although that is increasingly not the case precisely because of the intended readership of this strange document), they can vote and drive and speak to men who are not family members and everything. On and on it goes. A few points.

Firstly, it is printed in English. Many immigrants don’t speak English, so they won’t be able so sit down and enjoy this informative brochure. One has only to observe the number of “Arabic interpreters”, funded by the taxpayer, required by immigrants who end up in court, as many do. Secondly, and to quote from the great movie Performance, this document is “like telling a mad dog not to bite you”. But this document – again, paid for by the British taxpayer – is the magician’s free hand. Let’s pay attention to his other hand, the one producing or pocketing the coin.

At the same time as this tawdry document was grabbing media attention, something else was taking place. The British government has quietly put in place contractual arrangements to guarantee property, goods, and transport finance to providers until 2039. This windfall is solely intended for immigrants and their greater comfort. They have described it with a phrase which is a paradigm of technocratic psychobabble; “Transformative re-procurement”. This means, for the hard-working, tax-paying citizen, that your money is not only going to other companies than it was previously (giving the illusion of a free market) to coddle your replacement population, but that this will be going on for almost a decade and a half. The government assumed that they could sneak this latest redistributive boondoggle under the radar, but unfortunately the alternative media were watching the magician’s hand. They picked up the story the omission media – the courtiers to the state – wouldn’t touch. This is why Western governments are coming after social media. In the meantime, we await the sequel to the government document explaining to incoming Africans that cannibalism in England just isn’t on, old boy.

Socrates enjoying a drink with friends. earlier today

Many philosophers have been persecuted by the state. Socrates, Giordano Bruno, Savonarola, John Wyckham; all met their death at the jurisdiction of their respective governments. Nowadays, philosophers are not burned at the stake or poisoned, but they are still dealt with swiftly by the state, albeit via indirect routes.

In the wake of the recent disgrace, resignation, and ultimate suicide of British academic, Jason Arday, there has been predictable fallout, and one of the victims is American philosopher, Nathan Cofnas. He has already lost his position at an American university, and has been suspended by his own university, Ghent, for his role in the fall of the mythomaniac Arday. What was his crime?

Firstly, he was one of several people who exposed both Arday’s academic plagiarism, and also calling into question elements of the fabulism of the youngest-ever black professor at Cambridge. But his other academic research was truly unforgiveable in the modern academic climate. Professor Cofnas used verifiable data to show that black American students would be less represented at Harvard University than they currently are if they were held to the same academic standard for entry as white and Asian students (I use “Asian” here in the American sense). At the moment, 14% of the Harvard student body is black. Without affirmative action applying to the entrance examinations, that figure would drop to 0.7%, a drop of 95%. These are not figures the academic establishment – part of the provisional wing of the deep state – want to see, particularly from a white man.

And so, Professor Cofnas is out of work. He has stated that his suspension is almost certainly the preamble to his dismissal from Ghent University. The Rector of this august institution, ‘Petra’ De Sutter (a former leader of the Green Party), is herself no stranger to plagiarism charges. From Breitbart London:

“Apparently further asserting that Ghent’s politically-left-leaning, transgender rector may have an axe to grind when it comes to those exposing academic malpractice, Cofnas added further remarks to recall that De Sutter had recently been caught making a speech containing fake quotes, the ‘hallucinations’ of an A.I. chat bot that helped write the address. Ghent and De Sutter acknowledged it had happened it had happened at the time, but as stated, hand waved the issue away despite it being a failing a regular student would face serious consequences for committing.”

As for Cambridge, they still flatly deny the demonstrable fact that Arday heavily plagiarised someone else’s thesis. In these days of AI, plagiarism is a risky business. Before the internet, catching a student lifting text from another work relied on peer review, and able academics recognising text and scurrying off to the library. Now, you can just feed text into Chat GPT.

Professor Cofnas has effectively been cancelled by two universities for telling the truth. He avoids the hemlock, but his career as a philosopher has been ended just as effectively.

The original Jolly Headmen, earlier today

If you dabble in poetry, as I do, may I suggest a simple rule? Don’t write poetry about yourself. Try to write as objectively as possible, and that will tell us all we need to know about your innate wonders. To celebrate the arrival of my 30th subscriber - welcome! - I thought we might have a Poetry Friday. After a long week, you know you deserve it.

The Song of the Jolly Headmen

Now the year turns

Like a mill-wheel

Grinding the chaff away.

The river’s up,

The doors won’t close,

Puffed with moisture.

Or is it fairies, little Mabs

And Hobs and bottle imps?

Mischief, the old bicycle’s flat tyres,

Mud spooned over Wellingtons.

In the lop-sided hall

The fairies wash their babies in the beer.

Dreams without people.

Sandbanks. A grey silvered sky.

The hearty tramp on the moors,

The springy heather, the golden retriever

Bounding ahead, happy to be happy.

But there is something in the gorse.

It is the same shape as the gorse.

But it is not the gorse.

It is in the gorse

But not of it.

There is something in the gorse.

The dog stops and listens.

Grass wet with hovering mist.

The ticks climb the blades.

Shellacked buttons, feelers

Twitching morse,

They speak of tick affairs.

Conspiracies. The world

Is all cogs and springs and clicking gears

Run and maintained by grotesques.

Who rules a queenless hive?

Each soul has its wetlands.

Knee-deep in filmy water,

The murrain suck and pull

Of depth and marshy ooze.

She stands in storms.

She is motion and its consequence,

A woman caught in movement,

She plays with time,

Or time plays with her.

Keelhauled, roped and plunged,

This fear of winds

In a world not old but young,

Swimming in the dreaming brine

We fish together

Strung with weed.

Feed the feathered arrow through the torso.

Never pull. The raggedy flesh,

Slippy blood and gristle.

Stag’s teeth and a charm bracelet.

Your mood like fur stroked the wrong way.

Let the moral contortions commence.

The teller’s smile

A copper-wire crescent

Set in dough.

Chile powder on a horseshoe

Of pineapple,

Her hair disgraceful,

A heron’s nest of reds and aubergine.

Champagne and cigarettes,

An origami cat

Weakened by two fat raindrops.

Swill it around the mind.

Troubled blessing.

Torch the pretensions.

Let ideals smother in the crib.

We need no thinkers here,

Just pragmatists. Log-splitting men,

Cabin builders, calloused hands

And minds. For thinkers

There are crosswords and cribbage.

These hang and pluck no pheasants

Nor slat the shutters

‘Gainst the wind.

Love hides but waits to be found.

One hundred counted. Look

In the pockets of your scuff-sleeved coat,

And behind the Japanese screen

And in the coal scuttle

And in your heart last of all

Because you never want games to end.

We never met.

An echo in each other’s thoughts.

Corridors untaken

And doors untried.

After all the bright manifestoes

They still hang the prisoners.

Thirteen loops, thirteen steps,

The trapdoor surprises with its speed,

The vertebrae traumatised,

A mangle of gristle,

The spine’s perfection compromised,

Its question-mark answered.

Crane marionettes,

All-gallows eve.

There is a woman on the roof,

Astride the gables,

Set against the peat-black sky.

The thunder-heads roll in.

She holds a bird’s head

On a bamboo cane,

Shakes it in a palsy-dance,

Come, lightning,

And strike us all dead.

Tiny monkeys swarm

On beached and rotting palanquins.

The old empires pass,

Dowagers in a sick-breathed room,

Never to rise again.

Time smooths the blankets

And combs the hair.

Plants and puppets.

Unfurl the flags,

Hang them rightways

And have the village girls

Take Death down to the river.

Don’t whistle in the house, mother.

You’ll whistle away the luck

We never had.

The luck my father wished for

But never had.

Luck is a lady in the restaurant

But a harlot on the streets.

Ceremonial attire

Shaken out for wearing.

Confetti of dead moth-wings

Strew the tiles.

The ceremony is late starting,

Late finishing.

It is late now

All over the world.

The time zones come together,

The wicket-gate closes

On the dog-rose garden

Where we left our shadows.

There are eight jolly headmen.

Phobos, stripe-faced, pink- eyed,

A bobbing albino.

Kurtz, there in the heart

Of darkness.

Faustina, wife of Marcus,

The kind, wise emperor.

The wood-sprite, juju man,

With his matted coconut face.

Next Beppo,

Black head, nodding,

Red dashes for eyes.

Little Kätschen with her twig arms

Held up in glee.

Odilon with his one eye

And carven grin.

Jack the cartoon man,

Crosses for eyes,

Railroad teeth.

The shard

Of black-daubed tile

Digs the earth.

Eight jolly headmen.

Will there be more?

Hear them sing

And regret nothing.

Chickens in the church-yard.

They are the quick, and the dead

Sleep on and dream of loam

And trinket and flint.

The stolen church-bell

Was Domesday Book scriven.

Inside the church the mural,

Terracotta devils’ tongues

Of flame, the croix patée

Skewed in its corner.

The land a Templar’s,

A knight in absence,

Gone to the Holy Land.

Sir Stephen something,

Supping with Saladin

On mulled blood and old wine.

Born to be a dilettante,

Now I work the night shift

At the doll hospital.

The graveyard shift.

The dollies have no graves

But live again, remade

and recycled. All the little

Plastic arms and legs,

The eyes, the squeaky joints.

Clock in, clock out.

As I go about my work,

The dollies watch.

The fan-dance has commenced and now

The town of devils must be rid.

The pharmakoi, the four bad men

And woman one in number

Outside the township limits

Must be driven. Point of order.

What of the names?

The names, the names.

In every log-book, almanac,

Or registration form,

Certificate of birth or marriage,

Bill of sale for Hackney-carriage.

All the names and signatures

Remain. The printer’s devils.

Vespers, Angelus, Domesday.

All the bells sing

And the overtones hum

and quiver.

Water-boatmen dimple the pools.

The water table’s up,

The underground river

Seeks a place in the sun,

Brings all its secrets with it

From the inky black,

The moss-slimed walls and runnels.

Artesian wells, Cartesian bells.

They ring therefore thou art.

The young daughter fears blindness.

A squint from a childhood illness

Brings twilight in like tarpaulin.

The edges of things blur and bleed.

Now she edges blindfold round the dark house.

Tap, tap, tap.

Learning the alignments and edges

For when the light fails.

You were told

Of the false lights,

Warned, cuffed once, twice.

Stay on the path, Will.

Gaseous exhalations

Sparked into a life

To flit and course the dead peat.

Thus science. Miss Abby

Says Will o’ th’ Wisp

Is come. Red dots

For eyes.

Stay on the path, Will.

Your namesake flickers,

Leads you on

To the graves of the bad children.

Unquiet

In the marshy ooze.

Down the causey.

(‘Ware the slimy steps

Do not pitch you in the Thames!)

The ghost of Bruno

Passes you

On his way up to The Strand

To the ambassadorial house.

In the end all endings

Are beginnings.

The old hallway clock

Strikes to end one hour

And begin another.

Wheel moves wheel,

Cycles, seasons and a turning.

And so the year turns

Like a millwheel

Grinding the chaff away.

Sir Francis Drake’s Armada, earlier today

Three separate events in the last week had a synchronicity which might excuse us for suggesting something of a conspiracy theory. Firstly, 49,000 Moroccans land in a Spanish enclave in 24 hours. The British are alarmed at 2,000 migrants landing a week. This invasion was 2,000 per hour for an entire day. Secondly, a new, far larger design of inflatable boat was seen on the English Channel. It ferried 165 Muslims soldiers in one journey across the 21-mile divide that used to be a natural moat protecting England from invaders. As always, they were aided and abetted by the French police (France has received 1 billion to stop departures from their beaches) and Britain’s Border Force. Thirdly and finally, the British Army announced its largest home invasion exercise for 40 years, Operation Albiston Shadow. What links these apparently very different events and, if they are connected, what are the implications?

The invasion of Ceuta suggests an immediate question; how can the simultaneous arrival of 50,000 undocumented migrants not be orchestrated? Did these tens of thousands all decide on the same day that Morocco was a bit dull, and apparently Ceuta is nice this time of year? Unlikely. Just as unlikely is the lame suggestion made by Liberals that these men are escaping war or famine. They are not. It may be that they are escaping, however, and the Moroccan government is implementing the “Venezuelan strategy” that Donald Trump quickly saw through. When a low-IQ, low-trust, low-achievement country realizes there are richer pickings in high-IQ, high-trust, high-achievement nations, they will not, as Trump realized long ago, send their best. In fact, there is a simple expedient which lets these countries send their worst, and solve a problem of their own, as well as saving a lot of money and transferring that cost to the northern nations. Empty the jails. It’s simple, like all the best plans. You tell the low-life prisoners in your jails that they have two choices: get in a boat or swim, and get out of here and don’t come back, or go back to jail. I don’t imagine there is the range of kitchenettes, plasma TVs, and video games available in a Moroccan jail that there would be in a British prison. So, once these potentials dangerous criminals are in Europe, what next?

Well, they are in the Schengen area of the EU, which means they are free to travel between borders. They will need passports, but EU countries have proved more than willing to waive through those that are undocumented. They don’t want them, and would rather they continued their journey, many heading for the UK. (It is poor journalistic practice that has led to the myth that migrants have to apply for asylum in the first country they reach which is not at war. They do not). Those that do have passports will throw them into the English Channel once on a boat. But how will the supposed “people smuggling gangs” which Starmer vowed to “smash”, as though he was the Incredible Hulk, cope with this sudden spike in demand for Channel crossing? As noted, enter the mega-dinghy. They will just upscale their business model. After all, they have investment capital. Records will tumble during the final weeks of summer. And what of this riptide of arrivistes in the UK, whose infrastructure is begging to buckle, and whose national mood is increasingly hostile? What will be the effect of this invasion?

There are already more Muslim immigrants quartered across the UK than there are trained soldiers. Those trained soldiers will be taking part in a huge invasion simulation next year, which is just six months away. But will they be training to fight invading Muslims? Or are they training to take swift action against any of the indigenous population who try to give resistance? There is no guarantee that the British Army will be on the side of the British people in the coming conflict. The police certainly won’t be.

For the first time in history, an occupying army is being protected by the governments whose countries are being invaded. The original Ottomans needed armour, scimitars and horses to reach the Gates of Vienna. Now, they just need the European Convention on Human Rights. There will be blood.

A machine, earlier today

The machinations of the British deep state are going up through the gears. Technocratic government works on a machine metaphor in which system and process is everything. Morgan McSweeney, a top government adviser, talked in an interview about the preparations for the Starmer government in 2024, “when we were building the machine”. David Lammy, the laughable Justice Minister and clear diversity hire, spoke in the House of Commons about an attempt to solve the latest problem; “We have pulled every lever we can”. Political rhetoric is full of these mechanical metaphors. Now, an adjustment to the mechanics is necessary.

Britain is about to get its sixth Prime Minister (PM) in a decade, Andy Burnham. Of the previous five, three were unelected, and essentially just a change in machine parts. Usually, the election of a PM requires “going to the people”, or a General Election. This is the fabled democracy that politicians bring up whenever those of whom they disapprove need attacking. Trump, as we have heard ad nauseam, is a threat to democracy. Democracy, of course, means “power to the people”, from the Ancient Greek demos, the people, and kratos, power. It is nothing of the sort, and hasn’t been for some time in the UK.

Democracy is an illusion when the choice the voter has is between Tweedledee and Tweedledum. It’s like choosing a washing-powder between two different brand names and packaging but containing the same ingredients. We have known that Britain has not been governed by two main parties who have run the country for over a century, but a “uniparty” the two factions of which are the Labour Party and the Conservatives, since Peter Oborne’s seminal 2007 book The Triumph of the Political Class. Oborne was the first to detail the fact that there is no significant difference between the policies of Labour and the Tories, that they are one and the same thing, a political class. When there is change of party in government, it is simply the deep state passing the baton to the next relay-runner. It is the machine’s engineer clocking off, and the next engineer starting his shift. It offers the advantage of the illusion of difference, like the soap-powder. This allows a “new” government to blame the mess they inherited from the “old” government. “Inherited” is the mot juste here, as an inheritance is usually passed down a familial line. Hardly a day passed during Starmer’s two years as PM without talking of “inheriting” a chaotic failure from the Tories which Labour were now heroically putting right. But it is always a question, as The Who sang in Won’t Get Fooled Again, of “meet the new boss, same as the old boss”.

The machine does not require initiative, innovation, or invention. It requires maintenance by an engineer who monitors, oversees and adjusts as necessary. It does not actually need a political class, not in the old sense of “political”, it requires a managerial stratum who know how to organize. Curiously, another seminal book, 1946’s The Managerial Revolution, was written by a man with the same surname as the incoming British PM, James Burnham.

The main problem for the current machine operators is that the British people have taken just about as much as they are going to take, and the government can expect a long, hot summer of civil unrest. Burnham’s government would do well to recall the title of another book, E. M. Forster’s 1909 novella, The Machine Stops.

Plato, earlier today

Soon, very soon, thou wilt be ashes, or a skeleton, and either a name or not even a name...

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations.

Whatever happened to philosophy? You remember philosophy. Nice kid, always asking questions. She did well, made quite a name for herself, before it all went wrong. Now? She hangs around the places she used to own, hoping for scraps or even a little work, like a jetty stevedore grasping at the gang-boss’s ticket for a day’s graft at the dockside. I heard she was theology’s handmaiden, back in the day. But those days are gone. Whatever happened to philosophy?

This is an invitation to a funeral, but there is no need to mourn. The grave has been dug for some time, eulogies prepared, obituaries written, flowers cut and all the arrangements made. The deceased passed away peacefully, in her sleep (although there are other theories), and she has gone to a better place. Although some suspect foul play, others that she took her own life, in the end she just lay down, like a weary Napoleonic soldier in the snows of Moscow, and let the mist swim around her. What did she have to live for?

Philosophy is finished, for now. A combination of that discipline’s lack of relevance in an age dominated by science and its offspring, technology, boosted by an intellectual malaise which has settled like fallen feathers across the West, the broad replacement of a culture of reading - what Jacques Derrida calls in Of Grammatology, ‘the end of the civilization of the book’ - with one led by the televisual and Guy Debord’s ‘society of the spectacle’, together with so-called ‘woke’ culture and, negating the Renaissance, a resultant and socially engineered Denaissance, have finally smothered the old beldam in her bed. Philosophy was withering on the vine as an academic subject long before the spores of today’s toxic and dysfunctional culture settled to finish the job, certainly. Apparently, all that is left for genuine philosophers is to obituarise.

The exact historical point at which philosophy began its demise is debatable, although it seems clear that the emergence of advanced technology, firstly as mechanics and subsequently as solid-state electronics, was the start of a long goodbye. Then, science’s own little handmaiden, technology, appearing if not originally then certainly most forcefully in the form of the British Industrial Revolution, applied the ether-soaked handkerchief to philosophy’s airways.

As we shall see, talking together at the wake, philosophy is the love of wisdom and, casting a jaded eye over the modern world, it is not hard to see that her services are no longer required. For philosophy is a part of the old world, to be swept away just as Mao’s Cultural Revolution was designed to destroy much of China’s cultural heritage in order to rid the empire of the ‘Four Olds’: old customs, old culture, old habits, old ideas. Wise has been replaced with woke.

Our brave new world has no need of philosophy. She has no role to play. She has nothing to offer the new boss (science), the new chief of staff (technology), and their upstart apprentice (technocracy). Philosophy ceased to be useful when science became self-sufficient. She is the love of wisdom, naturally intellectual, the province of those who try to protect the flame with their cupped hands, like an old frontiersman carrying fire in a ram-horn, shielding it from the gathering storm. Unlike technology, philosophy does not seek to clutter up an already chaotic world with ever more technological trinkets so that it increasingly resembles a global version of a psychotic 10-year-old’s bedroom. There is a quietude about philosophy which science mistakes for inactivity, and so she outlived her usefulness to the modern state. Philosophy builds no suspension bridges, discovers no vaccines, invents no driverless cars. Nietzsche writes in Schopenhauer as Educator;

‘I believe in all seriousness that it is to the state’s advantage to have nothing further to do with philosophy...’

The only use value philosophy has now is to the individual, and even then only a certain caste of individual, one who requires respite from the storm and time away from the junkyard of the modern. For these, philosophy is a friend and travelling companion, solace, consolation and salvation. As Cicero writes to M. Portius Cato;

‘I have only one last resource – philosophy: and to make her plead for me, as though I doubted the efficacy of a mere request: philosophy, the best ever friend I had in all my life, the greatest gift which has been bestowed by the gods upon mankind’.

Respect for philosophers has of course all but vanished, to be replaced by suspicion, hatred, scorn and the post-modern charge-sheet of racism, whiteness and other modish offences. There is tokenism in the media when ethics are being discussed, and a philosopher might be asked to appear on radio or even the television for a few minutes, but this is ideologically orthodox and adds a patina of intellectual respectability to a producer’s schedule, provided that the philosopher says the right things. There is still no respect for philosophy in and of itself.

But ‘we philosophers’ – Nietzsche’s fraternal call - neither want nor do we need respect, excepting our own for the dead philosophers with whom we converse. Just as Socrates looked forward to his death sentence as it would bring forward the time when he could converse with Homer in the afterlife, so too we cherish our time in this life with those men – and Plato reminds us that to read is to converse with the writer - who offer an alternative to the chaotic chatter of what passes for modern culture.

Which separates us from what Plato might have termed the hoi-polloi. And perhaps that separation should emerge from its larval form as segregation, and finally take flight. Seneca, in a letter to Lucilius, forewarns of the coming attitude of the efficient modern ideologue to philosophy, but looks forward to a secession that may be inevitable;

‘The mere name of philosophy, however quietly pursued, is an object of sufficient scorn: and what would happen if we should begin to separate ourselves from the customs of our fellow-men?’

What indeed? This book is not a plea for the return of philosophy to the people, most of whom had no use for her in the first place. It is not a prophecy of reappearance or resurrection, of one raised from the dead, a messiah, revenant or zombie, to the classroom (a habitat it only really enjoyed, in the modern Western world, in France, and look what is happening to her), not curricular salvation nor salve nor universal panacea, not philosophy for the masses. Rather a secession. Rather philosophy for the esoteric few, Nietzsche’s philosophical aristocracy, Bowden’s cultured thugs, those of us Kant was talking about when he noted, in a rare moment off-piste during his transcendentalist magnum opus, The Critique of Pure Reason;

‘…those who really have philosophy at heart – and their number is but small…’

It is indeed. Philosophy is liberatory discourse, and the more it is cancelled, annulled, erased, stigmatised, ostracised and exiled beyond the walls of the polis, like the pharmakōs of the Ancient Greeks, the city’s chosen scapegoat, the more it will attract a certain type of person, a certain breed of thinker, Nietzsche’s philosophers of the future.

This is not a book for the philosophical specialist, nor is it a critique of philosophical specialism. It is a broad-brush daub, not a precise pointillist canvas. Nor am I a systematiser. This book is no eagle’s flight, seeing all below as it soars, but rather the collection of trinkets with which the bower-bird decorates the entrance to its nest to entice a mate, the toys of Dionysus, given to the child by the Titans as a distraction. The pugnacious Julius Caesar was of the opinion that he would rather be a notebook for the sayings of great men than be a great man himself. So, with regard to the fragments from other writers which are strewn about herein, my working maxim is that if it was good enough for Montaigne, it’s good enough for me.

So, then. It appears that those of you who know nothing of philosophy have arrived too late, in time only for the uneasy threnodies which must be sung, just there to see the dirt flung on the sunken coffin. Not at all. Do not feel quite so bereaved. Death is not eternal. I come both to bury philosophy and to praise her, and also, perhaps, after all, to tell of the possibility of a resurrection. Every phoenix needs its ashes.

A new movie has kicked the hornet’s nest of the Left, not that this is something that needs much kicking to get all riled up. Citizen Vigilante, as its name suggests, is in a genre in which you will also find films such as Death Wish, Dirty Harry, and Law-Abiding Citizen, and the TV series, Dexter. It has been termed “revenge porn”. Now, I haven’t seen the film, just a few scenes from it plus the trailer. The director is Uwe Boll, and the protagonist is played by Armie Hammer, neither of whom I had heard of. But the movie at a meta level is causing controversy, and for reasons which are easy to fathom.

The citizen in question decides to become the law, like the comic character Judge Dredd. His hits include a Muslim family who have taken part in the rape of a white girl, judges who have allowed rapists to walk free, and muggers. Now, the first set of victims alludes directly to the “grooming gang scandal” in the UK, and the British deep state – and those across Europe - take nothing as seriously as protecting brand Islam. The movie has already been banned in Germany and, I believe, the UK. Other European nations will follow suit. The reason for the ban is, of course, primarily fear.

If vigilantism does increase, and there is every indication that it will, then the UK will be that little bit closer to, if not civil war, then certainly massive civil unrest. The police and the judicial system have made it as clear as an unmuddied lake that they will do as little as they can get away with to stop Muslim violence and sexual assault, and indeed that of any ethnic minority. However, there are still white men (although it may be hard to believe) who will protect their children and womenfolk, ergo it is only a matter of time before the public take matters into their own hands.

Anarcho-tyranny is the theory proposed by Samuel T. Francis. Under anarcho-tyranny, the police do not police violent criminals, rapists, and thieves. They do, however, heavily police law-abiding citizens. This deliberately dysfunctional system is obviously entropic and cannot last. The British police are particularly culpable of this anti-policing. They even have a name for it; two-tier policing. The system, as hammer’s character says in the movie, has failed us.

The predictably hysterical response of the Leftist media – aka the media – has, of course, boosted the film. It is now the tenth most popular film in the world, and has over a 90% approval rating on prestigious movie revue site, Rotten Tomatoes. I have seen more than one reviewer say that it is poorly directed with a clunky script, but that is doing nothing to stop its increasing popularity and hold on popular culture. I will watch with interest to see when the first British arrest is made simply for watching this movie.

Alex DeLarge, earlier today

In Anthony Burgess’s famous novel, A Clockwork Orange, the British Prime Minister visits a prison to see how the Lodovico Treatment is getting on. The treatment is a sort of reversed aversion therapy. Aversion therapy stops you being scared of whatever it is that petrifies you, whatever your phobia is. My brother was scared of spiders. He went to aversion therapy at London Zoo, where he allowed a tarantula to walk down his arm. He is no longer afraid of spiders. That is aversion therapy. How does it work in reverse?

The central idea is to make people afraid. And the way to do that is to criminalize instinctive functions, such as speaking freely, and to make familiar environments, such as streets and shopping malls, menacing and dangerous. We recall the famous scene in which Alex DeLarge is forced to watch scenes of violence while listening to Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony. At the end of the Lodovico Treatment, Alex is averse to both violence and his beloved Beethoven.

The PM in Burgess’s novel – and Kubrick’s notorious movie – makes an interesting observation. He is interested in the Lodovico Treatment because it will free up prison space as violent prisoners are trained to fear their previous behaviour, and therefore not to partake it. This is what the PM says:

“Soon we will be needing all our prison space for political prisoners”.

It seems that Burgess’s novel joins Orwell’s 1984 and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World in a dystopian trilogy. Britain is arresting 12,000 people a year for social media posts. For comparison, Russia arrests 400, most of whom have described the Ukraine conflict as a “war” rather than whatever Putin’s preferred phrase is. Violent criminals are being released before the end of their sentences, and people who have posted Tweets are taking their place. Criminals and rapists often walk free from court while a lady such as Lucy Connolly was given 31 months for a Tweet. Prison space is being freed up, just as Burgess’s book suggests it will.

As for fear of the familiar, the freeing of dangerous criminals, or the reluctance to jail them in the first place, is increasingly making British streets high-risk zones, particularly for women. This is anarcho-tyranny, as described by Samual T. Francis. The police are not there to protect the vulnerable but rather to help in their persecution. They are taught to give preferential treatment to ethnic minorities, and to be particularly hard on whites. Just as little Alex and his gang of droogs look for prey on the streets, so too gangs of blacks and Muslims are increasingly taking their sport with white prey. Soon, of course, there will be pushback and there will be blood. This is the reason the movie Citizen Vigilante is being banned across Europe. The film centres on a man who decides to take it on himself to right society’s wrongs by killing criminals, including blacks and Muslims. Whether the film becomes as prophetic as A Clockwork Orange remains to be seen.

The execution of Charles I, earlier today

Britain is about to get her seventh Prime Minister in seven years. Nigel Farage, who may well be the eighth PM in a decade, made an interesting point. When he was growing up, he said, he remembers thinking that Italy was ungovernable as they had a new premier more or less every year. A fair point, but Italy is still a heavyweight, part of the G7, doubtless as beautiful as it was in the time of Dante, Petrarch, or Savonarola, and, as a bonus, full of Italian women, something to be profoundly wished for wherever you are. Where were we? Ah, yes, regicide by any other name, aka Sir Keir Starmer’s resignation speech.

Whether or not Starmer was a globalist fall-guy we may never know, but the amateur dramatics on display as my old school chum gave his resignation speech was breath-taking. I never met him, as far as I know, and he was a year below me. I bet he knew me though, holy terror as I was. Back to the speech, a piece of mangled doggerel that was less ars rhetorica than arse rhetorica.

To begin with, he came out of the famous black door of Number Ten, Downing Street, to the kind of huge applause usually reserved for rock stars and boxers. Is this real, I thought, or one of those Foley effects dubbed on? There was a hastily assembled crowd of apparatchiks doing the cawing, and it may have been refreshing for the outgoing PM. Starmer has been present at football matches, or “soccer” if you are of the American persuasion, and listened to thousands of men give a reasonable approximation of a song by White Stripes, or The White Stripes, or whatever they are called, Seven Nation Army. The lyrics have been subtly modified:

“Keir Starmer’s a wanker!”

And now we are expected to believe the world loves the guy. This man is Frank Spencer, from the 1970s sitcom about an idiot, Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, but he is under the impression that he is the reincarnation of Alexander the Great. His speech was surreal:

“I took the chance to change the lives of millions of people for the better. That’s why I came into politics”.

As he came out with this trex, in a surreal touch, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, was playing in the street outside. It is the official EU anthem. As it went through its gorgeous choral phase, Starmer was saying the following:

“Look at what we’ve achieved in just two years”.

Is this guy out of his bloody mind? To say his speech was delusional does the word a disservice. Someone who is delusional has no choice in the dreams and visions they are seeing and believe correspond to reality. Starmer is a conniving man, he’s a lawyer with a lawyer’s mind. He has nothing we would recognize as a conscience, as though the amygdala had been bred out, like a hare-lip or short legs in a greyhound. This new political class is different and dangerous. I am still not convinced he is not AI.

At the end of his speech, Starmer almost cried as he spoke of wanting to be a good father and a good husband. It was a surreal speech, and there is more to be said about it, and what happens next.

A Turkish policeman, earlier today

Firstly, welcome to my new subscribers. I hope you find my writing worth your time. It certainly seems to have been worth someone’s money, and thank you to my donors. I live in the Third World, but rent has to be paid and catfood has to be bought. Not for me, I hasten to add. For the cats.

I have a big working weekend, so don’t think I am fobbing you off with an excerpt from my weblog in 2004. You may enjoy it, but I must give some context. I was working for a firm of private investigators run by a friend of mine who was at school with me and, indeed, Sir Keir Starmer. I had been sent to Turkey to record police raids on counterfeiters who were producing copies of various items made by General Motors. I was using a covert analogue video recorder, with the camera secreted in a tie. This is the tale of how I almost starred in Midnight Express 2…

It was the last day of the raids. I was alternately playing chess and looking at pornography on my rather smart Sony Ericsson telephone in the back of a 4x4 manufactured by the company in whose employ, sub-contractually speaking, I was. Keith was such an arsehole that he had insisted on one of these motors for the whole job. Of course, as I could have told him [being several leagues above him in terms of intelligence], driving a brand-new car through a poor area of Tikrit is going to turn heads. We actually had to postpone the first day’s raid because the balloon went up on the Arab street as we cruised by an industrial estate in this gleaming minge-wagon. Keith was probably earning seventy grand - in 2004 - for this type of tactical genius. In that vulgar vehicle, Hameed, the elderly Turkish lawyer, was in the passenger seat next to our non-English speaking driver, and rat-like Keith had gone to bribe the Turkish police.
This last raid was on a small manufactory outside Istanbul which was knocking out GM-branded rubber mats for the floors of motor-cars. I had a bad feeling about it, but I put that down to the early hour and the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to drink much, the hotel mini-bar being, to all intents and purposes, denuded. It was cold. One of the Turkish police officers recognised me. “Hey! Matrix!” He called me that because of my long leather coat. Brilliant. Now every fucker here knows that we are effectively the Feds. Undercover expertise at its finest. I was hungover and still imagined I could feel my hips moving rhythmically; muscle memory from my exertions with my Czech client of the evening prior. It was four days from my 43rd birthday.
The raid should have been the simplest of the lot, but the rodent Keith was in a bad mood, and almost fucked it up by arguing with the skinhead Turkish cop whose palm he had greased. He also had the hump with me and my drinking. His problem was simple; he assumed I looked on my work with a professional eye, as he did, but failed to spot that I judged the whole thing to be a fucking good laugh, more experience, more. Always more. He loved his company. I hated his company almost as much as I hated him.
We entered the very small factory and registered the usual looks of outrage and fear and surprise as we started throwing our weight around. It was a look I was beginning to enjoy. Ooh, pardon us for stopping you breaking the law. I stood impassively, watching, recording. As the raid progressed, and I was getting my jollies watching little ferrety Keith getting more and more irritated by his incompetent Turkish phalanx, I heard a noise behind me.
Now, I have never actually heard a gun being shucked, but I had seen enough movies to be familiar with Hollywood’s approximation of the sound. It came from behind me, to the right. It’s curious, but life really does slow right down when you believe it is about to end. If you doubt me, read Dostoyevsky’s account of when he was almost shot by the Tzar’s troops against a wall in Siberia. The moss on the wall, and his fascination with it, his wish to have a little more time to study it. I think it’s in The House of the Dead.
I turned to face my nemesis, and saw a skinny man with a huge pair of rubber-cutting shears, opening and closing them like crocodile jaws. I lived to tell the tale, and here it is.
When the raid was finished, rodential Keith told me I was booked on a midday flight out of Istanbul. We said goodbye. I didn’t shake his hand. His company is now in serious trouble, being bailed out, I believe, by Saint Obama. I hope, so much, that he has lost his job.
The cab to Istanbul was driven by a dour Turk. On the way, it began to snow heavily. The trip was over; I’d done it, whatever ‘it’ was. We arrived, I paid my driver and got two receipts - thereby making my Hilton treat that little bit cheaper - and made my way into the concourse of Istanbul airport. It was then, just as the door slid shut behind me, that I realised three things at the same time.
Firstly, I saw that I was, effectively, airside. There was now no way out of Istanbul airport unless it be by aeroplane. Secondly, I would now be joining a queue to be searched by the heavily armed Turkish policemen manning the check-through gates. I joined that queue, my face a rictus mask of calm. Inside, though, my mind was racing as I saw the law of unintended consequences unfolding in front of me like the road to hell. And that, gentle reader, was because of the third thing, the tertium quid.
I had forgotten to remove the harness that had held the video equipment with which I had been gathering evidence. What this meant, to give the full context, is that I was about to try to exit a Muslim country on a flight to London, less than three years after 9/11, wearing a fabric harness underneath my clothing which contained battery packs and a film unit. Yes, very clever.
I waited in the ever-diminishing queue, watching people being pat-searched, and reviewed my options. In my hand luggage there was my camera tie, all the surveillance equipment I wasn’t actually wearing, and eight Super-8 tapes, shot illegally, of counterfeiting activity in a country outside the EU.
As I approached the customs cops, I watched them patting down every second person. It seemed to be their operational policy. I estimated that, mathematically speaking, I would be searched. I knew what the procedure would be, and I knew what I had to do. They would pull guns on me as soon as they felt the harness and the battery packs. They would make me lie face down with my arms spread. This I would do. I knew too that if I panicked they would panic too and shoot me in the head. That is the favoured shot of anti-terror police. Ask the family of Jean-Charles Mendezes.
Then my saviour arrived. A cop, looking at his watch, indicating to his colleagues that they were taking too long, that these rich Westerners must be allowed to take their flights quickly. They stopped pat-searching and started using a hand-held metal detector. By the time I went through, they weren’t even doing that, which was all to the good as it would have picked up the batteries and the tape heads. If I had had a bomb, I could have blown that ‘plane out of the sky. As it was, I simply boarded and drank heavily for the rest of the flight.
The next day, I was back in London, trying to trace people who had offended the credit gods, arranging to steal people’s rubbish and look through it for incriminating evidence, and checking for copyright infringement concerning the name of a packet of biscuits. My American girlfriend, a green-eyed, hard-drinking minx from Arizona, had looked after my canal boat admirably while I was away, and we had a good week. I don’t know what she had been up to while I was away, but I omitted to tell her about the Czech courtesan I had hired at the Istanbul Hilton.

And that, dear reader, is how I narrowly missed the Midnight Express.

An Indian pharmacist, earlier today

I once had an interesting conversation with a pharmacist, a rather jolly little Indian man who could have stepped from the pages of E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India. All things medical interest me, partly because I have a body, and partly because I was working for the NHS (National Health Service) at the time. My job partly involved giving talks to GPs (General Practitioners, or regular doctors) and pharmacists (who can prescribe, contrary to popular opinion), and I never missed a chance to pick their brains, to coin a rather unpleasant, if medical, phrase. This gentleman and I were talking about pharmaceutical contra-indication. This is when two different medications should not be taken together, either because they cancel one another out (as the name “contra-indication” suggests) or they work in tandem to produce an undesired outcome. I voiced the opinion that contra-indicative medications could perhaps produce a range of side-effects greater than either drug used in isolation. The man said something I have never forgotten. Drugs, he said, don’t have side-effects. Now, I was familiar with the pharmaceutical Bible, MIMS (Monthly Index of Medical Specialities), and I said that I was pretty sure they did. No, he said. Drugs have a range of effects. One of them is the one you want. That stayed with me, and is not irrelevant today.

It is clear now to all but the most obtuse reality-TV fans that Renaud Camus was right. Camus (no relation to the great Albert) was the man who coined the term “the Great Replacement” (I shouldn’t really give the phrase capital letters, but I feel it has earned them). This is the theory that the white population of Europe is being gradually erased and replaced with immigrants, largely from Muslim countries. If this is the case – and inductive reasoning strongly suggests it is – then this is the effect that whoever runs this strange and rather sinister globe want. What of the other effects, the side-effects as we might say (with all due respect to my sub-continental Asian interlocutor)?

The effect of mass migration into Europe is compound, just as Aspirin both thins the blood and helps the headache. Firstly, it is demographic. Demographics is destiny, quoth Mark Steyn all those years ago, and you can tattoo that on your arm. No European country’s indigenous population is having babies at the replacement rate of 2.1 per couple. Muslims reproduce at roughly between 3 and 4. As Turkish PM Erdogan noted, wombs are far more of a weapon than bombs. He didn’t phrase it that way, but I have given his original though some clarity. The future of Europe is Islamic simply by weight of numbers. The Islamic invasion involves no scimitars this time around, and it also involves no contraception. Muslims, as is well known, can have up to four wives (although I don’t know if this covers all sects), and the UK, and Ireland, recently voted through that benefits can be claimed for every wife of the male claimant. There is a madness abroad just now that is as chilling as any horror movie.

Secondly is infrastructural strain. Health services, housing, transport, policing, administration: all of these sectors are not growing at a rate concomitant with the ingress of migrants, nor can they. This is a side-effect (remember my Indian pal’s caveat) which although it looks calamitous, is the result of clear and precise planning. The system is supposed to break down. That is part of the point of the Great Replacement.

Next is political organization. Muslims are superb at organizing themselves for political ends, and I suspect that is because they are closer to their tribal roots than the natives of Europe are, who long separated into urban and rural. This will hasten the inevitable Islamization of Europe.

Anyway, I don’t want to turn this into a screed. You take my point, and that of Mr. Pharmacist (do listen to the song. I love The Fall). There will be other effects of mass migration. Dissidence and vigilantism will be among them. Mass civil unrest will present, just as measles presents as red spots on the skin. But the central point is a strong one. Whatever the ruling cabals conjure up, whatever drug they force us to take, there will be, not side-effects, but a range of effects, one of which is the one they want. Which of these effects do we want?

The County Election, George Caleb Bingham, 1852

Tomorrow sees the Makerfield by-election in Greater Manchester. It is the most fascinating and important local Parliamentary election of this century, and there are three main parties involved. Only two of them have a realistic chance of winning the seat, but the third may play the part of kingmaker. Who are the main players?

Labour is the party of government although, almost two years into their term, many of those who voted for them will be experiencing sincere buyer’s remorse. Labour, and Prime Minister Starmer, have not exactly endeared themselves to the great British public since they got in mandated by just 33% of the electorate who were not necessarily voting for them, but voted against the hated Tories. And Labour’s candidate is the first crucial aspect of Makerfield. The standing member of Parliament (MP) was Josh Simons, who stood down to allow the current Mayor of Manchester, Andy Burnham, to run for the seat. Should he win – and he is the favourite to do so – he will immediately launch a challenge against PM Starmer to lead the party, and thereby become PM himself. Labour Party constitutional rules require a PM to be a sitting MP.

Labour’s nearest challengers are Reform UK, the party of Nigel Farage. Their rise to the top of national polls has been meteoric, but their main problem is not Labour and Burnham, but the newest party in the UK, started and led by a man Farage ejected from Reform. Rupert Lowe is a gentleman farmer whose Restore Britain party is only a few months old, but is already polling well in Makerfield, having won all the council seats on offer in Great Yarmouth in recent local elections.

Accurate polling is not easy to ascertain in Makerfield, but one projected result is that Labour win by a margin which would effectively mean that Restore had split the Right-wing vote, allowing Labour in to a narrow victory. Certainly, anyone to the political Right thinking of voting Conservative would be backing a party polling at 1-2%, so they aren’t going to be splitting any votes. Another polling uncertainty is whether accurate figures are being given for Restore’s projected share of the vote. On the ground, Restore say that are experiencing a groundswell of support, but the media have already moved their guns from Reform’s lawn to that of Restore. Lowe’s party are seen as some way to the Right of reform, while Nigel Farage’s doubters are beginning to suspect Reform may not offer the alternative to the “unipasrty” of Laboiur and Conservative which has run Britain for oiver a century, and may in fact simply be continuity Liberalism.

It is a curious situation. It may be that a vote for Restore will effectively be a vote to decide who becomes the next Prime Minister of the UK. A mad world, my masters.

Voltaire, looking particularly tolerant earlier today

What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other’s folly, and that is the first law of nature".

Voltaire.

Tolerance of intolerance is cowardice.

Ayaan Hirsi Ali.

The British are famously tolerant. From Huguenots to homosexuals to Haitians, they will live and let live, and indeed let you live in their country. Now, however, it is time to revisit a comment made by former Conservative Prime Minister, Sir John Major. He was specifically referring to the English, but his comments apply to all Britons. Step on an Englishman’s toe, said Major, and he will apologise. Step on his toe again, and he will apologise. Step on his toe a third time, and he will knock you down. It may be that the British have had just about enough.

Tolerance is an interesting concept, and it has been genetically modified by the current political and media class. To tolerate something is not necessarily to approve of it. It is to “put up with” something. You tolerate your neighbour’s child screaming because it is an infant with teething troubles. You hate the noise, but you would not dream of complaining. You tolerate it. You don’t like your Ukrainian neighbours, but they have genuinely come from a “war-torn country”, to use the approved media phrase, and so you put up with their rudeness and noise. You tolerate them. You don’t approve of near-naked men prancing about at Pride parades in front of children, but you shrug and face the fact that you have to accept it. You tolerate what you actually see as deviancy, if that is your viewpoint. You tolerate it. You tolerate it right up until the point that you don’t. That point, in the British Isles, has been reached in the last two weeks.

The details of Henry Nowak’s murder, and the attack on a disabled man, Stephen Ogilvie, in Belfast, have pushed the tolerance of the British too far. The anarcho-tyrannical state the political class has deliberately put in place has stepped on the British toe for the third time. With summer now here, the rioting seen over the last ten days will only increase, and the response of the state will be of interest.

The British deep state does not ask its citizens merely to tolerate the endless stream of immigrants it omports, who are themselves notably intolerant. It mandates the celebration of what is called “diversity”, and demands it be trumpeted as a strength. Any expression of intolerance is becoming criminalised. You will note the media and political response to Mr. Ogilvie’s hospitalisation – and enucleation – was not to focus on the Sudanese attacker. Instead, it all appears to be Elon Musk’s fault. Mr. Musk, of course, is rich enough for his intolerance to have no consequences for him personally. This is not the case with the ordinary citizen. This will be a dangerous summer, and a summer of intolerance.

Francisco Goya, The Third of May 1808 (aka The Executions).

History has a way of drawing a discreet veil over certain events. That is to say, those who control the historical narrative will conceal that which they deem against their interests. In recent history, the Armenian genocide during World War I comes to mind, during which up to 1.5 million Armenians were slaughtered by Ottomans. The thuggish Muslim President of Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, who has managed to undo most of the good Kamal Ataturk did for that rather backward country (as are all Muslim countries), becomes enraged when the UN start muttering about possibly recognizing the Armenian genocide. And this obscurantism is not confined to the past. Today, the same veil is drawn over both the slaughter of Nigerian Christians by Muslims, and the Chinese persecution and incarceration of its Uighur Muslim population. Neither the Archbishop of Canterbury, a woman, or the Muslim Council of Great Britain have a word to say on either subject. These demonstrably real events are also regularly omitted from any commentary by mainstream media, and this is almost certainly under pressure from groups with a vested interest. The holocaust, of course, is very much not covered in a veil, quite the reverse. At least, the Jewish holocaust. My recent studies have led me into the heart of both fascism and Nazism, and one historical event keeps vying for attention, one concerning which there has been a tradition of omertà, the Mafia’s code of silence. This is the “other holocaust”, and I recently discovered a short but illuminating audit of an event deliberately omitted from history, almost certainly at the behest of history’s eternal victims, the Jews.

The Other Holocaust: Many Circles of Hell, by Bohdan Wytwycky, was published in 1980, and is little more than a booklet, but it gives a factual, statistical account of this other holocaust, in which 9-10 million non-Jews were exterminated by Hitler’s Nazis. Despite the famed efficiency of the Germans, the Nazis didn’t exactly leave a full audit of the numbers of various peoples they expunged, and some estimates put the figure of the gentile dead far higher. Curiously, a Jew writes the foreword to the book rather than, say, a Pole or a Serbian gypsy, which might have seemed more appropriate. However, with anything to do with what we are forced to see as history’s greatest crime against humanity, the Jews must be the curators. This foreword sets the tone for Jewish special pleading:

“The Jews, above all others, were the victims. Though all Jews were victims, not all victims were Jews. The special suffering of the Jews was intensified by their isolation – only a very few helped them in their tribulation. What made Jewish suffering even more cruel was that even among the other victims of Nazi persecution there were those who helped the Germans stoke the fires of the crematoria”.

This paragraph, written by Seymour Segel of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, is doing a lot of work, some of it rather sly. Firstly, the implication is that the other groups the Nazis sent to the ovens, gas chambers, and lime-filled pits included some who collaborated against the Jews, and so perhaps they had it coming. Also, why was the undoubted suffering of Jews “special suffering”? Jewish exceptionalism runs through the entire race, even to the extent that killing them en masse is somehow a worse crime than gassing Serbs, Byelorussians, and cripples. The emphasis on Jewish suffering is a tactic, and one expertly deployed. The Jews see themselves as the “chosen people”. Well, Hitler certainly chose them.

The publisher of The Other Holocaust, a gentleman named Michael Novak, writes an introduction in which he makes a familiar point exacerbated today, almost half a century after publication. “As I was growing up”, he writes, “the word ‘holocaust’ had usually been appropriated for the Jewish suffering”. And so it remains today, even more so. I will bet there are MSM journalists who are not even aware that many more gentiles were executed by the Nazis than Jews, or indeed that anyone other than Jews were killed in non-military action in World War 2. As noted, Jews themselves become very touchy when the Klieg-light of victimhood is not shining on them, center-stage, and Novak even gives a straightforward reason for this bias:

“Even despite the thorough scholarship applied to the millions of Jews killed under Nazi policies, debate about the most acceptable figure of Jewish victims continues. No perfect enumeration exists; no census; no total set of records. For the non-Jewish victims, far less scholarship has been applied”. [Italics added].

Even holocaust scholarship privileges the Jews, who were “condemned to the most desperate circle in the Nazi hell”. This, writes the author, is “undeniable”. Is it? Why are dead Jews of more value than dead gentiles? Hitler killed two-thirds of European Jewry, and obviously sought to wipe them out entirely. But the same goes for European gypsies, against whom Hitler had a particular animus and of whom he killed a third to a quarter in Europe. And, in national terms – Gypsies, like Jews, were stateless – Hitler went after Poles, Ukrainians, Byelorussians and Russians, as well as the mentally and physically handicapped. Criminals also went to the gas, but it is hard to see why that is not simply good housekeeping on the part of the Nazis. A similar policy in Britain would save a fortune in wasted tax money keeping sub-human prisoners in ping-pong tables and halal food.

What is true in this account is Hitler’s particular obsession with the Jew. This is plain from Mein Kampf, although it mentions Jews fewer times than the Koran. Mein Kampf, incidentally, remains a healthy best-seller across the Muslim world, another fact that the MSM are unlikely to announce any time soon. And the camps, the crematoria and the gas chambers, although not the sole preserve of Jews, were mostly dedicated to their slaughter. Far more non-Jews, percentage-wise, were worked or starved until they ceased to be “useless eaters”, as the Nazis termed them, or simply shot or beaten to death. So, Hitler was far more programmatic when it came to the Jew, there was far more process in this malevolent technocracy, and the author informs us that the Nazis had many willing helpers when it came to obliterating Jewry, collaborators who “seized the opportunity to give vent to their own anti-Semitism”.

“Anti-Semitism” is itself a part of that class of language so useful to modern Jewish elites; the trope. Jews love their “anti-Semitic tropes”, such as suggesting that they are somehow running the world, or that they are in collusion with Muslims to destroy Europe. Whenever “anti-Semitic tropes” are mentioned, it is a safe bet that these tropes accurately describe reality. And anti-Semitism – which includes any criticism of Jews whatsoever – has been specifically loaded by bracketing it implicitly with the holocaust. The Jews gave the first master-class in victimhood, a template followed in recent history by blacks and Muslims, and having been persecuted pays dividends. If you are critical of, say, the Jewish role in nefarious international banking practice, then what you are actually suggesting is stocking up on Zyklon-B. This is superbly illustrated today by the so-called “Pyramid of Hate” drummed up by the Jewish organization, the Anti-Defamation League (ADL). You can see this most mythical of pyramids here.

The pyramid works on a “gateway” principle, much along the same lines as the study of drug addiction. Thus, marijuana may be a gateway to cocaine use, which in turn becomes a portal to heroin use. The “Pyramid of Hate” is a staggering set of entirely bogus “inductive” leaps which give just five degrees of separation between an off-color remark about foreigners in the office, and Treblinka and Sachsenhausen. It works as a sort of Jewish talisman, to ward off evil. Let’s examine the first station of the cross on the road to Auschwitz:

“Biased attitudes: Stereotyping. Insensitive remarks. Fear of differences. Non-inclusive language. Microaggressions. Justifying biases by seeking-out like-minded people. Accepting negative or misinformation/Screening out positive information”.

Pick the bones out of that. Stereotypes are not randomly allocated, they are earned. What is an insensitive remark? If I tell a 300-pound guy he is a fat bastard, is that insensitive? If enough people said the same thing, the guy might lose 100 pounds and stop using the National Health Service so much, as fatties are wont to do. Non-inclusive language. What does that mean? Microaggressions have long been an absurd grift, and are what the aggrieved say they are. (I prefer macroaggressions). Justifying biases by seeking out like-minded people. Do you mean, in the same way Muslims, Jews, and every other ethnic or religious group is encouraged to do, bar whites? Misinformation we know all about. Again, it is calibrated not through the consensual common weal of language, but by those who have cultural hegemony. After this warm-up session for the holocaust, what is the nest dread phase?

“Acts of bias: Bullying. Ridicule. Name-calling. Slurs/epithets. Social avoidance. De-humanization. Biased/Belittling jokes”.

So, if I choose not to socialize with blacks – and I would rather spoon out my own eyes – I am on the road to Belsen. Up the pyramid we go, a pyramid built by a different type of slave.

“Economic, political, educational, employment, housing and criminal justice discrimination”.

This is an interesting one because this is the event horizon for the charge of racism. Discrimination is one of the most vital arts a human being can, indeed must learn. When the hunter-gather learns that one mushroom nourishes him and his family, while another is fatal, he has learned discrimination. If Irina Zarutska, the Ukrainian girl stabbed to death on an American train, had been more racially discriminatory, and had not sat with a big buck behind her, she might still be alive today, rather than having bled out in a carriage full of other blacks who made no move to help the dying girl. Let us continue to scale the fatal pyramid of hate.

“Bias-motivated Violence: Murder, rape, assault, arson, terrorism, vandalism, desecration, threats”.

That’s right, you go from being someone who has a problem with immigration, say, to being a Taliban commander. And now we have arrived, with a hop, skip, and jump, through perfectly natural responses familiar to any intelligent human, at the death-camps.

“Genocide: The act or intent to deliberately and systematically annihilate an entire people”.

And there you have it. ‘Tis but a short step from crossing the road rather than walk through a group of young blacks, and Treblinka. If you commit a microaggression, like asking a black where they are originally from, you are more less a concentration-camp commander.

Once we do arrive at both holocausts, the one openly promoted and the one we don’t mention in polite society, there is the very notion of suffering itself. The Jews who were gassed died relatively quickly. Compare this clinical method of disposing of a large number of people with the methods used to kill millions of Ukrainians:

“Whereas Ukrainians and others were dying of hunger, especially in Ukraine’s largest cities, the Nazis were confiscating hundreds of millions of tons of foodstuffs for their armies in the East and shipping even larger quantities of food back to Germany. Even when there was a surplus of food for shipment, it was not allowed to be distributed to the starving indigenous population”.

What must it be like to die of starvation? I imagine it takes a while, unlike death by Zyklon-B inhalation. And I don’t recall ever reading about an International Holodomor Day. Again, the Jewish caucus will have seen to that.

“When grappling with the Nazi holocaust, quandaries arise: Where does one begin in attempting to comprehend how some human beings could have been capable of subjecting their fellows to such pain, anguish and degradation that the living were made to envy the dead?”

There is something rather tiresome about all this incredulity. The first point is that the Nazis were not “subjecting their fellows” to anything. They did not see their victims as their “fellows”, but as inferior races. The author stresses the role of “dehumanization”, a slippery buzzword much in vogue today. “Dehumanization expels some category of people from the family of man”. Which “family of man” would that be? There is no such thing. Races are disparate and should remain so, which is what makes today’s program of European miscegenation so noisome. The elites don’t want a family of man, they want to weaken the white families that already existed, the same families that built a brilliant civilization out of nothing. It is very difficult not to view what is happening to Europe today in terms the Nazis would have understood. Take Somalians, for example. These are tremendously low-IQ people who really have little or nothing to offer a civilized society, and yet the miscegenation industry seems particularly keen to flood Europe with them.

As noted, Jews on social media become quite angry at any mention of the “other holocaust” of 9-10 million Slavs and Gypsies. The holocaust is theirs, they feel, and they don’t wish to share their eternal victim status with what they themselves see as inferior races. Jews feel themselves to be superior, the “chosen race”, in exactly the same way that the Nazis did in World War 2 and Muslims do today. And Jewish exceptionalism, for the Jews at least, extends to their ownership of a special category of suffering which is regularly mentioned but never really explained:

“Almost all accounts of the victims of the Nazi holocaust… have been organized around the topic of the experiences of specific ethnic groups. This is understandable. For example, the incredible experience of the Jews demanded special detailing in order that the full horror of their particular condition – as the most hunted, isolated and defenseless victims prey to the most savage and intense destructive impulses exercised by the Nazis – be documented accurately”.

Again, which “particular condition” is the author referring to? In the context of a book which documents the fact that many more gentiles were exterminated than Jews, it is still somehow the Jews who are the “most hunted”. That doesn’t stack up even by the internal logic of this book. “Anti-Semitism”, the author writes, “cannot be left to become of concern solely to Jews”. Why not? What is the compunction that gentiles look out for a race which has hardly shown much concern to other races? If the Jews can’t save themselves from death camps, then it is solely their concern. It is in the Jewish nature to co-opt and requisition the conscience of other races, races they themselves hold in contempt. The lesson of both holocausts is that Germans are a deeply unpleasant people who will go to barbaric extremes if allowed to do so. Their idea of themselves as a “master race” looks comical in the wake of two defeats in world wars, and the state of modern Germany gives great pleasure to some of us. Hitler was little more than a buffoon, and he has so tainted fascism that it is no longer tenable today as a political ideology, just when we need it most. Fascism now means Zyklon-B, Josef Mengele, and clowns such as Sir Oswald Mosley. It was strangled in its crib.

We are all aware now, those of us who are white and are not immersed in today’s pathetic culture of Netflix, sportsball and mandatory guilt, that we are not allowed to have our in-group. Other groups are, of course, be they Jews, blacks, cross-dressers, queers, or any non-white caucus. But not us. Jews are the most protected in-group at the card-table, and they lead every hand with the holocaust card. The fact that there was another holocaust, which killed many more people for the same reason their people were killed, Hitler’s insanity and basic stupidity, is not admissible as evidence. Hitler was not an intelligent man. He was scientifically illiterate – see the “Jewish science” argument – and although he claimed to be an avid reader of Nietzsche, undergraduates understand the great German philosopher far better than a dunce like the failed Austrian artist ever could. Even the pompous, narcissistic womanizer Mussolini was better read then Hitler. But Hitler is one of history’s most useful figures for the Jew, because by extension, whites are all Hitler. The “Hate Pyramid” – itself a Jewish confection – shows this. The ADL were even started by B’nai B’rith. In the Jewish moral equation, all white people were somehow responsible for the holocaust. At least, the holocaust it’s okay to like. And the Jewish mythos of ultimate victimhood also requires its amateur dramatics, as the epilogue to The Other Holocaust shows:

“Outrage is the initial response to evidence of mass bestiality. Extended exposure then gradually bludgeons the mind until it becomes limp in stunned silence. After the helplessness of shock follows a long period of painful reflection; and, slowly, acceptance of the fact that one must come terms with reality. The fragile trappings of civilized behavior are far more vulnerable to violent and evil forces than we are usually able to imagine. Yet we must so imagine, in the hope that the likelihood of recurrence can be reduced”.

Good grief. It’s like a student production of Ibsen. What is this idea that we somehow “can’t fathom” the horrors of Nazism? Of course we can, because we are not acting a part. Hitler, an idiot promoted beyond his worth, hated Jews and various other Untermensch, rose to such a position of power that he could have them all killed in large number, and so he did. There. Wasn’t too hard in the end, was it? Many of history’s more deranged dictators have done the same, including Mohammed. Here is a little secret you need to be let into, if you don’t know it already. The Jews adore the holocaust, they love it and they need it. It is the ultimate weapon in an age of suicidal empathy. But it is not a weapon that those slaughtered in the other holocaust are able to draw. So, millions of Ukrainians were also killed by the Nazis, asks the Jew? And so? They are not Jewish. They are our Untermensch.

The final paragraph of The Other Holocaust is a sort of cross between a Church of England sermon from about 1950 and the lyrics to John Lennon’s Imagine:

“If the holocaust teaches anything, it teaches that we must join hands in moral undertaking. If we do not rise high to love one another, then we must at least come together in a refusal to tolerate contempt, hatred and loathing, and prejudice and racism of any kind. The victims of the Nazi holocaust cry out to us to make a shared commitment to work towards extinguishing all seeds of irrational animosity. Their sacrifice demands it”.

From atop their “Pyramid of Hatred”, holding a full deck of holocaust cards, does anyone believe for a moment that any Jew anywhere feels anything for the victims of the “other holocaust” than a mild contempt? This is their show, and they need no other actors. The “other holocaust” should be shouted about from every white rooftop, and this book, flawed as it is, at least goes some way to addressing that.

Pythagoras of Samos, earlier today

Having written a bit of a paean to British YouTubers yestr’een, I noticed an epistemological slip by one of the big guns while he was discussing ethnicity. I won’t name him, because his category error is repeated daily in a vast amount of public discourse in our expanded Athenian square. It is exemplary of a confusion between truth functions which goes back at least as far as Plato’s Meno, and doubtless back to Pythagoras, about whom I know little. I refer to the West, of course. I gather the Chinese, at least, were winning the mathematical version of the arms race long before the West became hyper-numerate.

The YouTuber in question was discussing ethnic nationalism, always the hottest of potatoes. I have an angle on it – my two bobs’ worth, as we used to say – but we will return to that. He is baffled by the fact that someone who is not ethnically English can be described as “English”. Well, they can. Firstly, because ethnicity by bloodline is not the aspect of ethnicity which obtains. White ethno-nationalists can bleat all day long, but it won’t do them much good in a courtroom. Someone is not legally English, or British, because of their DNA, they have that status via official recognition and registration. Nationality and citizenship are a matter of legislation, not genetics. You may feel this to be wrong, but what do you expect those of us who understand modern nationhood to do, bake a cake? Opinions are like buttocks; we all have them, but it is not necessarily a good idea to air them in public, particularly if you are politically illiterate. Ethno-nationalists are people who have never been to a British football match and seen the low-IQ menagerie on display. But back to the category error made by this content creator.

He states that being English is like being a geometric figure, “a trapezoid or a rhomboid”. It really isn’t. Geometric truths are hermetically sealed and non-contingent, as are mathematical certainties. Descartes understood this, although even that great thinker attempted to apply mathematical certainty to the external world. As noted, this is a widespread malaise among the commentariat. One often hears people who disagree with their views on some point or other, and accuse them of “thinking illogically”. Logic has nothing to do with everyday, quotidian experience. It does not present truths which extend beyond the terms of logic itself. Logic teaches us how signs interact, not how the world works. Geometrical truths are true a priori. Truths concerning ethnicity, and much else, are true a posteriori, and commentators would do well to remember that.

Granger: Death and the Printers

The rise and rise of the internet has not simply coincided with the acceleration of meta-media, it has more or less produced it. Meta-media is just that, media about the media. Or, viewed in a certain light, news about the news. Content providers, on both sides of the political divide, often comment on one another’s work, usually to complement, sometimes to criticize. That is a modern equivalent to Platonic debate, and so can only be healthy for a threatened civilization. A good deal of Platonic – or Socratic – discourse was politeness, compliment, and social niceties. Some of what is said is praise, mixed with occasional light scolding. A return to the Athenian market-square has always seemed beyond we (post-) modernes, but perhaps it is already here.

In the process of online debate and the transmission of media stories (with can be forensically checked), certain facts – or, at least, alleged facts – emerge, as in the Platonic Dialogues. So too they may both thrashed out and threshed out, as discrete ideas. They are the things that will travel memetically. It is worth remembering that the “meme” was not initially pictorial, but rather a linguistic unit of meaning transmitted between people. So, in that threshing process, as information spins around faster than any print-press, small details can be found, and it is easier to build a coherent picture of the state of reality, or “reality”, by watching dissident media than watching such scandalously biased outlets as the BBC. They are often referred to in the Uk as the “state broadcaster”. How long until – and this is forensic meta-media happening for your pleasure – that becomes, “State Broadcaster?

Before today’s political YouTubers, no newspaper would write an attack or even a comment on, another newspaper. It was like mobsters having an Appalachian, agreeing no drugs sold near schools, and no one shoots anyone in this room’s kid. There were private spats between journalists in private, and doubtless pugilistic bouts have broken out in bars between rival gentlemen of the press, but journalism was, in the main, a gentlemen’s game, at one time. Outside of purely satirical publications such as Private Eye and Punch, no one attacked anyone in print. That gentlemanly conduct may have vanished like the penny-farthing bicycle and the anti-Macassar. And that may be a good thing.

I am using both British and American YouTubers for this glimpse at the evolution of meta-media this century, this millennium. There are many articulate, well-informed, rational YouTubers geared to run a highlighter pen over a particular news piece which the media would rather smother. To extend the metaphor, take story X. If the editor of a MSM outlet runs a highlighter through a piece, or an inconvenient fact lurking in a paragraph in that piece, it means strike it out. If one of the growing dissident platoons of informationally armed keyboard warriors runs a hiughlighter over a stoiry or a sentence, it means, “Here’s the story”.

A few notes. I’m sure I haven’t invented “meta-media”, but I’ve yet to look it up. When I look up “meta-media”, it will be at another level of media, extending it to meta-media-media, no? You don’t have to answer that.

Firstly, “two-tier policing” - a phrase first used by Suella Braverman, and which led to her defenestration by the Conservative Party - is demonstrably present in the UK. Hampshire Police, the force responsible for the mismanagement which led to Henry’s death, have been wriggling and writhing, but their website explicitly states that itis operational policy to treat ethnic minorities preferentially over white people. In effect, and in the case of henry Nowak, this means that officers will unquestioningly believe the word of a non-white over a white person.

Secondly, Henry Nowak may be the white George Floyd. There has been a simmering anger among British people since the Southport murders, and the pot may be boiling over. The police will find out if they are able to ride this tiger, and politicians will find their range of options curtailed.

Thirdly, the white public now realise that the police are their enemies. When Sir Robert Peel formed the police force in the 19th century, he stipulated that they must police “without fear or favour”. Now, the police favour ethnic minorities over whites, and they do it through fear.

There will be blood.