One of the joys of working from home is taking unlimited smoking breaks in my garden and spending a little time observing the majestic nature of the squirrel – that hanging feeder cage had been a grand a priceless investment. It was perfectly positioned in the garden, just towards the end of the garden on the right-hand fence, with enough space between the back fence and the overgrown trees where I assume the squirrel lived.

Every day the squirrel would hop over and I’d get the pleasure of watching it swing into an upside-down hanging position, peck away and gather some nuts, then swing back up with acrobatic prowess and munch with its tail curled and shimmering – all done with heart-melting grace. Observing this delightful little nut nibbler seamlessly achieve this manoeuvre again and again was a daily dose of mindfulness that ought to have been prescribed by the NHS. All my unwanted, retarded, filthy thoughts melted away. It was one such moment you could be trapped in forever. Until the day I decided to start thinking again.

I hated that fucking squirrel.

The squirrel had such a simple, wonderful life. Its only mission in the world was to live. Sleep, get up, go get food, eat the food, go back, rinse and repeat, fantastic. Why can’t my life by like a squirrels? Why can’t I just have a simple existence of going out and grabbing food, then just coming back? The squirrel doesn’t have anything real to worry about apart from finding food – and it will find food and just take it. No questions asked mate.

When we have to get food, we can get it, but there’s this whole in-between process that’s some sickening, fucked-up, annoying-as-cack-in-hell, merry-unmerry dance we must perform in order to get the bloody bare-necessities in life. The stuff that keeps us alive: food water.

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We have food in shops, and food is in abundance, but that’s what pisses me off – it’s in shops! The squirrel has a ‘shop’ right there, dangling on the fence and it just goes and gets it. No queue, no cash, no credit. But what about me? I can’t just walk into the shop and start grabbing shit and eating it and bust a move out, because, obviously, that’s theft. I need to pay for the food first, with money – that’s the part that annoys me. It’s an additional step to getting the food, which is fine, but that’s not the only step: there’s dozens steps in order to get the food. Dozens of micro-unmerry-merry dances to be done. Fuck you squirrel. It’s not like I have to go into one garden where the money cage hangs, get the money, then take the money to the feeding cage in the next garden.

Like money trees, there are no money cages – there is only the merry-unmerry dance, and all the little dances that make up the whole. I have to sacrifice my time in exchange for money before I can even think about popping out to get food. And I hate that part so much. Sacrificing the most precious commodity we have, time, for currency, and it’s not even like every persons time is valued the same, apparently some time is worth more than others (God! This is why I flirted with being a filthy communist hippy when I started working as a kid). But it’s not even like I go sacrifice some time, get paid, then go get food; I have to wait weeks or a month first. I suppose with most of society being cashless now I am blessed to have the option of not having to make one of the steps in this stinking unmerry-merry dance of finding and queuing at a cash machine (thanks overlords). Once the money’s in, then I can go to the shop. If that was just it, maybe I’d only be a quarter as pissed off as I am, but there’s a whole bunch of putrid steps before even getting the work that gives you the food tokens.

Getting a job that undervalues your precious commodity is, well, fucking shit.

I have arms. I have legs. I have a mouth. I have a brain. I can do job. But no, that is not enough, there has to be another unmerry-merry dance to just get the bloody privilege of possibly, maybe, getting to sacrifice your time for food tokens. Writing CVs, cover letters, or proposals, sending them all 126 of them, getting crickets for weeks, and finally, if God is feeling kind, you get invited somewhere you really didn’t want to go to, and have to perform the most toxic and gargantuanly fucked unmerry-merry dance of them all: job interviews.

There you are, sat in front of some greasy fuck-pug who dangles the prospect of food tokens in front of your face whilst they ask questions dreamed up by the worst members of society.

what can you offer this shit company?

are you sure that stacking shelves in Lidl is something you’re capable of doing?

can you tell me about a time when you solved a work-based problem and really excelled?

No, no I can’t. I can’t tell you about any of these things because they’re preposterous. I am human. I need food. You have the tokens that gives me the food. Just give me the tokens that give me the food. I will sacrifice my life for fuck all money because I need the food.

we here at Lidl want people who are proud to serve the Lidl brand

yeah but where do you see yourself in five years?

Dead at this rate. Just need food tokens. Give me food tokens.

but could you describe yourself in three words?

Suck your mum. Those are my three words.

tell me about your previous KPI at your last job?

why did you stop working at your last job?

I’ll kill you for food. Do you understand I’ll kill you for food unless you just give me job for food tokens?

The squirrel deals with none of these things. Just these dances alone would fry its tiny, nut-marinated grey matter. I despise it for not knowing even 0.05% of the unmerry-merry dances we endure. Rental agreements. Mortgages. Applying for credit. Updating a banking app. Having to talk to someone before they decide to fuck you. The squirrel doesn’t even realise that I have to hand over 20% of my nuts to some other squirrels who apparently do stuff for my own good whilst shitting on me like it’s the world’s unfunniest-funny joke.

They say the human mind is too intelligent and that’s why we think too much and end up killing ourselves. I don’t think so. The squirrel would top itself after just hearing about step 1 in the unmerry-merry dance of my life. My hatred for the squirrel is a player-hating type of hate. Green and envious and oh-so sad.

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Having a two-tier attitude towards life can save lives. You’re walking late at night – what’s that you see? A large gathering of black youths in hoodies. Should you walk up and greet them, then ask what their grandmother’s best jollof rice recipe is? No. Don’t do that. That’s the behaviour of mugs. I’ve never cruised around New Cross on a match day and seen a marauding group of stella-swigging white boys, chanting “we’re Millwall, no-one likes us” and felt the urge to applaud the diversity, run over, join in with their cultural song and smile inside because I’m such a good, non-judgemental person. That’s also for mugs.

Exercising a clear mental filter based on stereotypes is what keeps us from the grave. You don’t put your hands in fire, you don’t antagonise a lion, and you don’t stick your tongue in a hot toaster.

There is always one rule for thee and another for ye. The Police know this, and, when done correctly, it works out just fine. It also works out just fine for those of us who choose not to be offended and pissed off by it, but exploit it. If you’re on the neurodivergent spectrum, it’s a bloody beautiful, bountiful gift. Those who lean into the autistic end of this spectrum get special cards – with a little instructions booklet – to carry around. When Police approach them for a random stop, they hand over this card and the Police have to read it.

“Do you understand why we have stopped you?”

“No!”

“Oh right, on you go then.”

That’s almost literally how it works.

That may piss you right off, but for me, that’s part of the game. We have to make certain allowances for certain people, otherwise we’re constantly fighting needless, losing battles (and life’s hard enough). Your racist gran, your sexist cousin, your neighbour with Tourette’s, disabled drivers who can park bloody anywhere they please because they’re armed with a Blue Badge.

If Police see a group of hooded youths in the ends, searching them is usually a good idea based on the law of averages. It makes sense. Some gangs are usually up to no good; this is why being selective can stop Police from wasting their time searching a gang of Girl Guides hanging around town (That’s a top tip for your drug running empire, by the way). What doesn’t work is when it doesn’t make sense.

When Police see one group of hooded Lithuanians and one group of hooded Tamils, why would they only choose to search the Lithuanians unless they had a reputation for criminality and violence? Two-tier policing is what Angela from Grimsby will be bashing into her smart phone keypad. Angela is most likely a moron, but she’s right. Most young men are up to some sort of criminality and violence, this is Britain for fuck sake. Do you think all the mothers of young black boys who’ve been stabbed and shot over the decades give a shit about targeting their precious little darlings on the streets for a quick stop and search?

Two-tiers can work when done right, but they’re so often done wrong.

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One time I was listening to rantings of a young man who had been told to remove his hood whilst inside a shopping centre by security. He made a point to the security, “what if I was wearing a burka?” This is a valid point to a degree, aside from the fact he was in the group of 14-23 year-old males (the most likely to be naughty demographic in Britain). This gets lost on people. What also gets lost is that covering your face in a shop is also a strong red flag for criminality.

Allowing Muslim women to wear face coverings is a silly idea; unless your actively encouraging security guards and police to grab their crotch to make sure, you don’t really know who the fuck is under there. And, as mentioned before, exploiting the system is the gift we must use in our daily gratitude practice. There is nothing stopping anyone from exploiting the burka and niqab exemption. Hell, I use to work in a call centre as a young man where you were forbidden from using your mobile phone during working hours, except Muslim girls in full covering – they could get away with it because of their religiously-exempt disguise. These cultural and religious exemptions are – quite frankly my dear – silly. This is why Sikh men can walk around your neighbourhoods and high streets with actual-fucking-swords.

The Sikhs have always been a success story of integration in multicultural Britain. They rarely cause news-worthy problems, and they’re generally lovely. But they do legally carry swords. I always thought two-tier-type policing was for Muslims as they had such a reputation for being overly sensitive. It made sense. You don’t want to be picking on people – and allowing other groups to antagonise a group of humans – who have tendencies to behead people, blow up children, and shoot up crowds over amusing limericks, toilet graffiti, and memes found in builder’s WhatsApp group chats. But I was wrong about that.

Exemptions and two-tier policies are bloody everywhere, and it pisses people off. One group can cover their face, one group can have separate hospital wards to others, one group can carry murder weapons. I often feel I shouldn’t have to explain the problem with one particular group being allowed to carry a sword when all other groups can receive mandatory multiple-year sentences for the same practice – but apparently I do.

The general unwashed public must have had all critical thinking kicked and punched out of their bodies by the crumbing education system. They may say it’s about intent, but who knows or can prove intent half the time? I carried weapons due to fear. Some carry weapons to commit crime. Some just think it goes with their outfit. Do I feel safe seeing some who is clearly a Sikh carrying a sword as opposed to old Dave from Wetherspoons? I don’t like police being allowed guns that are illegal for us to even own. If you say “but that’s the police and…” Shut up. You too suffer from the crippling affliction of lack of thinking.

When the one rule of them and another for us is done due to reasons that don’t make sense, everything tears apart, and your average citizen refuses to even question it.

“Incest is disgusting, except for Pakistani Muslims because it’s their culture.”

“Telling women how to dress is coercive abuse, and should be a crime, except for that lot from the hot country because it’s part of their culture.”

And on it goes. Apparently as long as your culture demands it, it’s ok. Or is it? Do Filipino immigrants have kids at 12 like they do back home? Do you think the Ayoreo people of Paraguay would be allowed to practice their ancient tradition of infanticide if they relocated to Basildon? Would Indonesian Toraja people be allowed to dig up their dead relatives every three years and give them a makeover? If kissing your cousin gets you banged up, bang everyone up. If coercive abuse is telling your wife what to wear, bang them up. If carrying a knife or sword without a valid reason gets you 4 years in the slammer, bang them up. Just because your religion or culture says it’s a valid reason doesn’t fly in most countries, their people won’t put up with it and their governments agree. And that’s part of our problem.

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The UK is so incredibly liberal when it comes to foreign cultures and yet so incredibly socially conservative when it comes to their own – and we’re also condescending tossers.

“It’s fine for a savage from a nutter country to kiss their underage cousin as they don’t know any better, we best let them do as they wish, poor things.”

My conspiracy brain says this is by design to keep us divided and never united to overthrow the idiots in charge. My other brain – the one that doesn’t think I should throw the Alexa device in the river – thinks our lawmakers are incompetent, low-quality batty-bandits with zero backbone. Both brains are correct to a degree, but it doesn’t matter why: something just needs to be done.

Right now the middle classes – the ones who historically lead the charge for violent uprisings – have had enough of this crap. They shouldn’t care about intentions when intentions are silly. They will vote for Farage. He will win. They will then see he’s too wishy-washy. Then the streets will burn and a figure who makes Tommy Robinson look like Gary Linekar will emerge, and then we’re really fucked – two-tier policing will evolve into something even nastier.

The hardline is popular in other countries: ‘respect our culture and abide by our rules or fuck off’ is perfectly acceptable in many countries I have lived in and visited – they look at us like we’re the nutters.

I like that we’re welcoming, but not that we’ve turned into incredibly naïve mugs. That’s not the wave.

If I had my way, we’d become honest anarchists. We would admit that hard segregation is a good idea: there have been areas you just shouldn’t go to for hundreds of years in this nation, so just build a big wall around them and quit the embarrassing denial. It’s not nice, but it makes sense. If you want cousin kissing to be left alone because one community is well into it, then let them do it away from those who find it icky. You do you, I’ll do me. But don’t go around thinking one rule them and another for us creates a harmonious society when one side doesn’t get it or it doesn’t make sense.

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I didn’t bother looking into it on the usual socials – I’ve bloody had enough. I can predict their rhetoric and confirm my predictions without even bothering to find evidence; this is our current reality. Instead of being humbled and astounded by taking in how small our world really is, putting things into perspective, and letting go of our petty squabbles and worries, we are adamant to live in a state dictated by perpetual brain sludge. This is why I don’t join any group, and this is why I am sad; I could do with being part of some clan that has one, united higher purpose.

Having spent almost two decades in the dirt of hard drugs, criminality and whoring, I found peace with the divine mysticism of the universe, a place I inhabit alone. I’ve tried to get down with ideologies and religions to find some common cause that could help bring balance and discipline into my world, but I’ve always found they – one way or another – funnel you into abject lunacy.

In my childhood I was into spiritualism and witchcraft and paganism. When I decided to stop drug dealing and try out being a working man, I found myself so disgusted by the life and how I was treated by the spunk-guzzlers in charge that I turned to communism. Silly idea. It only took one night spent high as hell thinking it through to realise how silly it was and why it just can’t work. As I dug into understanding the communist mindset, it became clear: they’re just a cult of player haters – the world’s most popular loser squad. They hated innovators, artists, and, as always, Jews. They murdered their way to gaining, and maintaining, power. They also starved people to death and executed people who wore glasses because, you know, the chess club kids were a threat to all hard-working, working men. I binned that off.

Later in life, as I navigated away from my life of grime, I saw some of my fellow grimers turning to Christianity. Some found it in jail (how stereotypical do you want to be?), and many others found it through Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. Good for them.

As an ever-curious soul, I dug deep into the benefits of being devoutly religious, and it was like looking at the best self-help coaching business model of all time. Longer life spans, better rates of fighting disease, lower rates of mental health problems, less drug abuse, lower divorce rates, and higher states of happiness. The list goes on and on. Fantastic.

I would speak to those former grimers about their new religion and way of life. It would be inspiring until I found my head pounding with pain from the relentless beatings of preaching it received. They were all obsessed with me giving myself to god and that all other gods, religions and ideas were straight-up lies and nonsense. I just ain’t down with that, cupcake. These lot weren’t your average Sunday-church-going lot, with their hymns and bake sales; they were hardline Christian nutters in the ilk of Nick Griffin; eventually all conversations about the problems of the world would lead to our old pork-dodging pals, the Jews. I didn’t fancy joining a funnel into antisemitic hatred.

I thought about Islam for 6 minutes and then remembered I didn’t want to become a ginger man with a weird accent and blow up little girls at a shit concert – sorry, how tasteless and divisive. But in all seriousness, I’ve often found that Islam funnels you into the dark side more so than Christianity does. Yes, they didn’t have a Hitler or a Mao, but they have plenty of wannabe contenders, so no thanks.

Now I have travelled and lived all over this spinning village in space; I have observed and immersed myself in many different cultural and religious ways. I’ve adopted Eastern philosophy whilst ignoring the retarded parts. I’ve got down with Latin America’s mixture of indigenous wonder and Catholicism without becoming a lunatic. But what I have found is peace and motivation in what I can only describe as the spiritual, clean-living and enlightened community – sort of.

It’s hard to define the correct label for this way of life. I do hate labelling, but it can help people understand what something is, so that’s how it goes. It’s about the universal laws (power of the universe), paganism, clean eating, meditation, rituals, mindfulness, raising vibrations, yoga, tai chi, and taking hallucinogens for self-help reasons rather than getting off your tits and giggling like a madman in your local boozer.

Unlike other clans, it’s filled with all sorts of different people. Woke (I hate the term, but it’s a word that just won’t go away), red-pilled, content creators, digital nomads, traders, hippies, sex tourists, reformed drug addicts and even the worst of the worst: teachers. If you’re familiar with places like Koh Pha Ngan or Tulum or Bali, then you’ll know who I’m talking about: cringey motherfuckers, but I like the shit they’re into – to an extent, which is the problem and why I don’t hang out with them.

I love meditation and being all enlightened. I love full moons and cacao rituals. I love wondering in nature. I love vibrating to the universe and spreading joy. I’d be quite down with a group meditation but not a free-dance day party of expressive movement whilst a soap-dodger blows his didgeridoo. But this world, this wonderful way of life that’s given me so much, is full of shitheads who funnel you into nonsense just like all the others.

You have those who talk about letting go of ego yet spend their time competing with others, trying to win the game of “Who’s the most enlightened?” and expecting you to play. You have wokies who, even if they aren’t communists, spout off communist clap-trap and demand that you should too. You have performative arse-slammers who are only interested in showing a life on TikTok so they can sell you their 4-step social media funnel system course so you too can live by the beach and lick a toad’s backside in order to meet the god of your preference. And you have the red-pilled types. I like them. They hate governments and overlord-corporations. Everyone should hate and mistrust their government far more than they already do, but they’ve gone full retard. Even though they will tell you that organised religion is false and that the true god is within you and rejected all organised religions and said that no government should be trusted, they have still bought into the bullshit manufactured by these religions and governments they hate.

I noticed this from a post by someone whom I admire for how they have turned their world around, which made me realise how alone I am. They too were a grimer, snorting, shotting, fighting and fucking their way through life. They even did prison time and rehab and avoided becoming a hardline Christian nutter. Fantastic. But this post was their full-retard moment: the divine truth that the earth is flat. In this long post they had outlined the lie of organised religion and how God isn’t found in organised religion – fair – but went on to expose the biggest scam on earth: the round earth lie. Though organised religion isn’t 100% behind the flat earth theory, it does come from their book and hardline Christians; therefore, buying into this idea is just another hardline Christian conspiracy theory and old wives’ tale. And who is behind the flat earth lie? Probably the Jews, because it’s 2026 and that’s the default for all who have seen the light. Fuck this bollocks.

I want people to find something that guides them better in life. I don’t want people being stuck in the grime, but there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to turn without someone trying to groom you into their warped vision of the world and sell you some shit.

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In the ever-expanding competition of who the most racist motherfuckers on planet Earth are, I’ve always wondered why the Thais aren’t thrown into the conversation more often. We’re not just talking about flat-out, blind racism. You know the kind: the people who refuse to eat curry because it’s cooked by Indians. Or, the hardcore racists I came to know during my time on Earth, such as the guys from Birmingham whose Friday night consisted of going out for a curry and then beating the crap out of the people that cooked the curry for them. They still paid though, so they told me.

I’m not talking about that kind of racism; I’m talking about old-school racial purity and superiority—racial supremacy! How delicious.

Racial supremacy, at least feels, is a very popular topic these days, and the Thais are incredibly self-assured when it comes to racial superiority—or is it national superiority? It’s probably a bit of both; the Thais believe everything they do is fucking amazing. They take pride in everything they do, whether done with precision or retardation, and one of those things is shitting on Indians.

Why do they shit on Indians, and why do they love it? Well, if you ask a Thai their opinion on Indians, they’ll say, “Oh, they smell!” Yes, that’s one of their top gripes, apparently: the Indians smell.

But the Thais are like a broken clock—they lie most of the time; the frugality of the Indians is what fuels the hate. This tickles my titter-buds; the thing I admire about them is the thing the Thais really hate about them most. The one thing the Thais love—when it comes to foreigners and their huge reliance on tourism—is money. Spend money, you filthy heathen foreign fuck!

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This is why backpackers—who sit around their filthy hostels, sipping on water, playing card games with their stupid unwashed mitts—are probably worse than Indians in the eyes of Thais; these motherfuckers don’t spend a thing. With that said, it’s the Indians’ refusal to spend money, not their inability to spend money, that really pisses the Thais off. If you go into an Indian club in somewhere like Pattaya or Bangkok, you will notice the prices are incredibly high compared to other clubs. It’s not like they can’t afford it, and, besides, India is one of the biggest economies in the world right now. These motherfuckers aren’t exactly coming over on boats, trying to steal Thai people’s jobs—even if they were, it’d be bloody hard, because they’d be all like, “Is this even a real job? Can I even steal it?”

These are middle class and upper middle class Indians. They’ve got money. This place is cheap for them. So why aren’t they spending like big baller bosses? Because they’re frugal. Beautiful, frugal heathens.

I first witnessed the finesse of Indian frugalness on a Baht-bus in Pattaya. I boarded the bus and was greeted by around eight to ten Indian men and one small, quite scared-looking Thai lady.

She’d clearly been bar-fined from some grotty establishment and was accompanying these fine gentlemen to their hotel.

“Hey, what you boys up to then?” I enquired with my world-renowned charm.

“We’re going to our hotel!” one of them replied.

“Are you going to the hotel too?” I asked the little Thai lady.

“Yes!” she, with more glee than I anticipated, replied.

“Oh!”

And then it hit me: she’s getting shared! “Would you like to join us?” another one asked. Hell no, bro! I ain’t coming to your filthy hotel room gang bang for some sloppy ninths (or elevenths, depending on how many there actually were).

“No thanks, my good man,” I, possibly, replied.

Wow! This girl had agreed to do this, which, for one, was definite proof that the tourist economy was slowing down, and two, was definite proof these Indians don’t give a fuck—they just love bargains. They didn’t care about the disgusting ramifications that tag-teaming a Thai bar girl would have. No, no, no, no, no. All they saw was money, and all she saw was money; it was a beautiful exchange of ideas about, and the value of, money. Marvellous. I was disgusted and in awe all at the same time.

You wouldn’t catch me doing that, but you could probably convince me to do that based on the fact I just love being frugal. From that day on, I consistently witnessed the frugal behaviour of Indian men in Thailand, and I consistently saw the annoyance this caused—mostly amongst the ladies. You could walk down Beach Road of Pattaya—the prime spot for all the hookers across the world of all shapes and sizes come to ply their trade—on any given night and see Indian men bartering like they’re buying rugs.

“Hmm, so how much for this? What if I buy two of you? What if me and my friend share you? We have the same hotel room. Is it still the same one-hour price if we’re both boom-booming you?”

Often, I would stand or sit nearby and absorb everything they said and did, analysing the beauty of the art of the deal. Fantastic.

It was this type of behaviour that really pisses off the Thai girls when Indian men would approach the bars. Most other foreigners are going in there and getting rinsed for drinks until they’re so drunk they forget that they’ve spent too much money and their kids are starving back home. They don’t give a shit about this. They’ll buy all these ladies drinks and bar fine them and bang them for about five minutes until they throw up everywhere. This is standard procedure.

But the Indians are like, “Why the fuck am I going to do that? I don’t want to sit with this broad, talking to her in broken English and getting asked the same questions over and over again. ‘Where are you from? Where’s your hotel? How long are you on holiday? Is this your first time in Thailand?’ Why the hell do I want to put up with all that shit when I can just walk up and say, ‘Oi, that one, I’ll bang that one. How much?’” Now of course, for the Thai lady, this is no good, “Man must buy lady drink and have fun conversation before he take lady!” But the Indians are like, “Fuck that, what’s the point? I’m clearly here just to bang!” There are these weirdos who like to go there and have these conversations about absolutely fucking nothing, which is just ridiculous. I mean, sure, I’ve spent many times having fun and taking the piss out of people, but I’m an absolute lunatic. So why the fuck would you follow what I do? The Indians are just straight to the point: I’m clearly here for sex, so is everyone else. Why do we have to lie about it and pretend I’m here to have some lady drinks with you and enjoy ourselves?

And this pisses the Thai bar ‘professionals’ off; they don’t get their drink quotas up. They don’t get men spending money in the bar. They’re just getting dipped out on a transaction.

It seems we entered a new era of Asian hate post-COVID: it’s no longer aimed at East Asians; it’s heavily geared towards Indians! There’s so much content out there slagging off Indians: saying how disgusting and vile their country is, how their food gives you the shits, how they’re all gropey and shit like that. Give them a break.

Every country’s like that. I’ve had the shits in many countries. I’ve seen people groped in many countries. I’ve been in many different countries where people fucking stink. The only queer things I’ve found about the Indian men are their habit of walking along holding each other’s hands! Oh, and a couple of times when I’ve seen them slap each other’s dicks whilst sat opposite me on a bus. This is very odd behaviour. But all the frugalness? It’s alright. No! It’s more than alright; it’s bloody awesome. If you want to mock Indians, be my guest, but don’t be hating.

Quite often you bump into Indians in Thailand, and they’re always asking the same question: Where can we find the ladies? This is the funniest and most ridiculous thing I find about them. You could be standing in the middle of Pattaya—literally the world’s largest open-air sex market—and an Indian group will walk up to you and ask, “Where can I find some girls to have sex with?” What? You could just sit on the side of the road and get sucked off by accident. Are you fucking mental? You could go into a lawyer’s office, and the lawyer will probably bang you for commission. It’s one of the hardest places on earth to find non-transactional sex. Although it can be done. People who tell you that it can’t be done are complete idiots, but I digress too much. Indians are hilarious, but a source of racial vitriol? Just stop it.

This Indian hate goes far and beyond. I don’t know where it quite started, but I do know for a fact: when it comes to being racist towards and hating Indians like a default mode, the Thais are top of the pile; they really are leading the world in this new age of Indian hate.

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Why am I lonely? Because I can’t talk to anybody anymore. Nobody has any sense. It seems that everybody lost their fucking minds a long time ago, mostly during the Kung-Flu season.

But it’s not just that; I’ve had a recent epiphany.

There’s this idea that as you get older the world seems to get more stupid, more crazy. You get tired of things. It’s true, but I don’t think it’s because the world, and the snotty simpletons that mostly inhabit it, are getting stupider and crazier, because some of us consistently pursue knowledge to grow, yet some people hit a certain peak and stop growing altogether. For those of us who keep growing, keep developing, keep being sceptical, and keep learning, we become baffled and sad by the loop of behaviour exhibited by the majority of our species.

I saw the social media video footage of that skiing chalet nightclub in the Swiss Alps that set on fire and killed around 40-plus people. Before seeing this video I was moved by the tragedy; however, after seeing it, I feel nothing. When you have watched the video footage, which was taken by one of the patrons that night, you will notice that as the ceiling engulfs in flames, all of the patrons are either just videoing or watching it, and nobody is performing the basic survival manoeuvre of getting the fuck out of there. What does that say about us as a species? Well, some have commented that all these years of evolution have been pushed to the side for our addiction to social media clout and everything else that comes along with that. Yes, I agree with that observation. Yes, you can say we got stupider. But have we actually gotten stupider? I’ve been unable to answer this question, and I’m so sad.

If we have become a stupider species, what is the point in history where our intelligence peaked? I can’t see it! Because the more I listen to people, and the more I learn about history, the more I realise that everyone’s got the same stupid regurgitated idea that people have had for hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of years.

Our species are incapable of not repeating the same bullshit over and over again and repeating the same mistakes over and over again; when exactly was this peak of intelligence? Was there a special week in history when we stopped being flat-out eejits and became oh-so enlightened? I fucking doubt it, Sherlock!

I look back to the 19th century, when the Industrial Revolution reached its peak. During this time we went from below 10% literacy rates to over 90% literacy rates within a hundred years. Mix that up with the rapid innovations of printing press technology, and we are able to consume more information in one day than we had done in a lifetime before that. Roll on to today, where we get so much information bombarded at us—whether it’s true, half true, completely false or slightly false. It makes sense to believe that our access to information that was fuelled by the industrial revolution would have made us much more intelligent because of how much more information we have been able to access. But I don’t think it’s made us any more intelligent; I think it’s only made us crazier rather than cleverer. If we were getting smarter, we’d reject silly old ideas because we’d spend time thinking, and gathering, and observing, and coming to better conclusions. But most don’t. Most spend their time regurgitating bonkers and debunked ideas that have been around for decades or centuries or millennia: climate change, flat earth, the Illuminati.

Just look at the other latest international news incident: the audacious seizure of Nicholas Maduro—Donald Trump does love to begin his new year with a proper bang! Within minutes on various social platforms, the obvious conclusion by the most obvious people in the most obvious way, because everything is so obvious and predictable, is that this is because of the Jews. But of course it is. The Jews have now replaced the previous culprit of climate change. Are you scoffing at that idea? Don’t be so rash—you know that some lunatic would blame climate change for Maduro’s current predicament somehow, and it’d be convincing enough for enough eejits to take to the streets and demand we destroy all oil refineries.

It doesn’t help that Maduro, and his lunatic predecessor Chavez, have often babbled on about the same Jewish conspiracies in the past, so their unenlightened champions would draw that conclusion. But everyone else? That’s just where people are at right now—the ancient blame game for those who don’t like taking any responsibility for their own miserable mistakes. The Jewish bogeyman is as old as it gets, and all the wannabe conspiracy heads all follow the same road, and that road always leads to Rome, where everything is closed on a Friday night. It feels new and daring for many people, but it’s really out-of-date. But we’ve not made any progress from having access to information; we’re all stuck spouting the same shite they did in one hundred and two hundred and three hundred and… you get it. So when was it we peaked? We didn’t. We, as I mentioned earlier, just mutated.

And this is what depresses me. I can’t have a conversation with anybody anymore because they just say exactly the same things. In fact, I know what they’re going to say before they’ve even opened their mouth. Maybe I’m in the wrong profession. Maybe I should pursue a career in being a psychic.

Not being able to have a sensible, unpredictable conversation is ruining everything. We’ve reached the point now where just any conversation about any international event, such as the most recent one, just goes in one or two predictable directions. None of these conspiracy theories or ideas are new. It’s just all the idiots think they’re new because they’ve all got access to too much stuff. And that’s the only thing I can take away from a whole year, just 5 days in!

I think we fooled ourselves into believing we’re more advanced. More people have access to bigger words, and therefore suddenly we’re an intelligent species. I don’t think we are. And it depresses me.

It depresses me because I travel a lot. I know that the guy who’s in charge of weighing all the luggage and making sure that it doesn’t go above the correct weight to keep us safe from flying watches Candace Owens and considers her to be a very enlightened human being. Yeah, I know the pilot, the man that flies the plane, has been watching a lot of TikTok videos and thinks there are 92 genders and that a man can have a baby, and he never questions that. I know that the stewardess, who’s heating up the food that I’m going to get served, which should be served at the correct temperature in order for me to not get a bit sick, believes General Pinochet was taken out under the orders of the Jewish cabal. I know that the person who’s going to be sat next to me and has to share this long-haul flight with me is reposting social media reports on Amazon having secret compartments at their warehouses that hold children to be used for adrenochrome extraction. I know this.

The only thing I can say in summary of 2025 is the same thing I’m going to say about 2026. Because I can predict the future. I’m a psychic now. It’s going to just be a load of fucking nonsense. And I’ve got to put up with these people.

I don’t even know where to go, who to talk to, or what to do anymore. And here I am, all alone.

Countless men, usually old and horny, would be found at the feet of high-rise buildings, their faces smashed into the badly maintained pavements and roads. What was behind this phenomenon? Well, one guy laid it out as clear as he could after consuming six Valium: their sexy younger girlfriends push them off of balconies. This made sense to me. These ladies hook up with an older man for a long-term payday. After a few months they grow increasingly disgusted by having to get mildly drilled by a drunken, babbling fool and decide to encourage them to leave them something in their will; once the deed is done, the day will come where they say, “Baby! Come look at beautiful night sky with me on balcony,” and away he goes. Bang. Crash. Fucking dead. The problem with this whole murder theory is that there were rarely any reports of arrests or convictions: was it corruption? Bad policing? Are Thai bar girls criminal masterminds? The latter is definitely a shit theory.

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But once I’d experienced Pattaya for myself for a while, I noticed there were other theories that had been overlooked:

1. A lot of the balcony partitions are poorly designed. I stayed at a number of accommodations where I’d lean against the glass partition separating me from life and immortality as another embarrassing statistic, and they’d start to bend and wobble. This gave me the idea that drunken old men probably leaned against these shitty partitions and simply fell off.

2. Sometimes, especially during monsoon season, the wind is very strong, some balconies are far too thin, and the partitions are far too low. Perhaps these old horny buzzards were simply getting blown off!

3. The best theory: suicide. When you fall into the trap of having one hobby – drinking all day – and falling in love with a farm girl who thinks you’re JD Rockefeller and end up spunking your entire pension on her lust for fake Balenciaga bags and bottle service at shit clubs, it’s a good idea to jump off a tall building.

I remember such a suicide case on the very block where I lived with my girlfriend. She showed me a news clip video on her phone and explained what had happened right on our doorstep.

“Farang kill himself because he lose all his money.”

“How did he lose all his money?”

“I not know.”

She bloody knew! They all know. Some chick with a preposterous nickname had bled the poor fucker dry, and he decided to swan dive into the afterlife and be received by the spirits of all his deceased relatives and friends shaking their heads in unison.

Then she dropped some of her unique wisdom: “I don’t understand why people be sad when someone kill themself. It’s what they want to do. They want to be dead, so we should be happy for them doing what they want to do.”

My response? I don’t even remember, but it went along the lines of explaining mental health, and I do recall this going so far over her head the concept swan dived off of our balcony to its undeserved death.

This is what I was always thinking about, the 50-50 thing. One half says, ‘Yes, I get it.’ They wanted to die, and they succeeded in their wish. If you’re totally broke and have invested everything in a nightmare relationship in Sin City, then what else can you do? You can’t fly home, but you can fly off a balcony. Then the other half says, what the fuck are you on about?

There were many observations like this during our relationship. She would often say things that I found profound and thought-provoking. I believed I was learning to view the world from a unique perspective, thus opening my mind and expanding my potential to reach true enlightenment—until we watched the Peter Jackson remake of King Kong on TV.

“He look like black man.”

“Yo! You can’t say that!”

“Why not?”

“It’s mad racist!”

“Why you think the people who make film are racist?”

This threw me for a second. Obviously they wouldn’t design the look of King Kong to resemble a Black person, and is it really racist to say a gorilla looks like a Black person? We are all—allegedly—descended from apes. There aren’t really any proper Caucasian-looking apes because of the evolution of people in colder climates. We look at apes as beneath us, and therefore comparing someone to an ape is an insult. But let’s face facts, there are way more shitty people than shitty apes on earth, so maybe we need to re-evaluate our association with labelling people as apes. If someone looks like an animal, then they do. I used to know a short Pakistani girl who wore a hijab, and she looked like a turtle. When I said to anyone she looked like a turtle, not once was I told I was racist. And then I think of how we as humans have an inflated sense of superiority. If someone compared Diane Abbott to a gorilla, that would be an insult to the gorilla, because gorillas make sense when they communicate.

Wow. What a mental journey she sent me on that day—I never once thought a remake of King Kong could inspire such deep thought. By the end of the film, after groping her backside for most of the duration, it was time to bust my nuts.

We banged doggy style, our mutually favourite position. I was lasting well, but as her backside wobbled around, I found myself on the cusp of busting too quick, so I sent my mind into a place of deep thought and back to the whole issue surrounding her comment on King Kong, and this helped keep me going until I’d had enough and unleashed millions of potential world leaders into a rubber tube—then came the post-nut-bust clarity: she’s fucking retarded.

Of course it’s racist to compare King Kong to a Black person—years of monkey chanting, throwing bananas, and the warped ideology of the KKK saying the Bible states Black people are beasts. Animals are animals, and the reason we call people an animal is to insult and point something out—you’re not being very human, are you, pal? Animals are murderous rapists, for fuck’s sake. They don’t ask permission to have sex; they just grab a bitch and fuck them. They eat the kids of loving parents without remorse. They shit and piss in public. They whack off in public!

You don’t need to be educated to reach the conclusions that suicide isn’t positive and comparing Black people to monkeys isn’t some simple observation—you need to think a little deeper. I learnt nothing from her except that I needed to keep thinking better and not just when I bust my nut.

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I knew Cambodia was way more third-worldly than Thailand, but I was not expecting Cambodia to be like the 90s—a period where certain things were perfectly normal and acceptable that now make people want to firebomb their neighbours.

I was young in the 90s, but I remember what they were like. There were countdowns for Charlotte Church and Linzie Dawn McKenzie turning 16. Linzie’s countdown was particularly odd through a 2020s lens: a girl of 15 with enormous breasts had been discovered, and tabloid newspapers like the Daily Sport had teased the reveal of those enormous breasts until one day they were exposed. The 90s were like that.

But I was in Cambodia in the 2020s, and therefore the only people who wish it was still like the 90s are old-school hip-hop heads who think that all hip-hop should sound like it was made in 1994. But most of us have moved on and realised it’s the 2020s and things are different.

I’m not saying Cambodia is just like the 1990s; Cambodia is more like the 1600s—during the 1600s you probably had to get married and have children by the time you hit puberty because you were going to be dead at 35. Well, we live a lot longer now. But there were definitely some Romeo and Juliet-looking type situations going on, if you catch my drift.

Cambodia had some sort of filthy underbelly that apparently a lot of different countries have. Colombia apparently has it, Thailand apparently has it, Vietnam apparently has it, and Gambia apparently has it. But it was only in Cambodia where I actually properly noticed it, although later on in Thailand I started to look around a bit more and think, Hmm, maybe this is going on here too? This is the QAnon fever dream.

There appear to be elements of child trafficking going on, and this is enough for boomer-aged internet nutters to lose their shit and yap on about how they are correct. What did I see? First thing I saw was inside a girly bar.

I was enjoying the experience in the beginning—Khmer girls are awesome, and some of them were showing off a lot of their awesomeness—but then my eyes began to wander, and I spotted something. On the other side of the bar from me, there was a large western gentleman being entertained by a small lady. The lighting inside the bar was a dim red, so it took a while, and way too much staring, to piece together what I saw—the girl looked like a young girl who had tried on her mother’s makeup for the first time. It reminded me of those creepy little girl pageants they have in silly countries like the USA, the ones where they dress up in gowns and have heavily applied make-up. The more I took this in, the clearer it seemed—this girl was a girl, not a woman.

I couldn’t be 100% sure. Some SoutheastAsian women can look very young even when they’re 40, but on closer inspection you can tell—I didn’t get close enough to truly know, but my gut told me to get the fuck out of there, and get the fuck out of there I did.

A few days later I was exploring Phnom Penh and took a much-needed aircon break in a large shopping mall. I found a little bench opposite the lifts and took some time to cool down and hydrate. There was some old buzzard next to me who was clearly from Europe—you just know—who seemed to be there for the same reason as me, until it became clear he was not!

Two schoolgirls approached the lift and pressed the button; how did I know they were schoolgirls this time? Well, they were wearing school uniforms. Their presence activated the old buzzard, and he proceeded to exert some odd behaviour—he made smoochy, kissy noises and gestures towards the schoolgirls. He was oblivious to my presence and continued this wooing tactic for enough time for me to stare at him for what seemed like a week. And what happened? Nothing; he kept going until the two schoolgirls had “escaped” into the elevator.

Did I say anything to him? No. Did I knock him out? No. I didn’t really want to deal with the consequences of committing acts of aggression in a third-world country that had no issue with murdering millions of its own people because they didn’t want to become poor farmers. Self-preservation is a must, and it’s never a good look to go around punching old people, as they too are quite vulnerable. What a tricky landscape we live in.

What happened to my brain was curious, though, because now I seemed to be in tune, like when you manifest the colour green and suddenly you see green everywhere, and I was seeing noncing everywhere I looked. In the streets, in the cafes, in the bars, in the markets, on the walkway by the river, sometimes even in cloud formations. The tricky thing about these memories is that, well, they are memories, and memories can become distorted, and perception can be heavily influenced by things that aren’t always stone-cold reality. The old buzzard making weird kissy sounds at schoolgirls was clear-cut, but everything else I cannot be 100% about, and that makes me very different from most people.

If I were easily sucked into the many lunatic trends of the internet, like there are 300 genders, people who like going to the gym are Nazis, and QAnon, and I’d been to Cambodia in the post-pandemic age, I would have knocked that old man out and randomly attacked men on the street. I wouldn’t question my perception and what influenced it. People were ignorant enough before the pandemic. I heard many people give the same reason for not going to Thailand over the years—it’s a pedo-paradise. This was just plain ignorance, as they had gotten a bunch of countries mixed up: Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam and the Philippines are all the same to them, and most likely they heard about stories from the Philippines, where the age of consent is 12! In fact, the age of consent in Thailand, like a huge number of countries across the world, is 14. Does that mean you can go bang a 14-year-old? I have no idea, but what I do know is in countries where being a hooker is legal, you have to be 18, and therefore it’s a crime if you hand over money. In Thailand, which confuses many people, there is no age limit on prostitution because it’s actually illegal. Yes, despite it arguably being the number one sex-tourism destination in the world, due to pressure from the UN back in the 1960s, Thailand outlawed it—but mostly on paper. In Colombia, where it’s legal, you will find that establishments operating as brothels are mostly hidden, but in Thailand you will literally have bars called Sex Bar, Blow Job Mouth Bar, and Finger My Pussy Lounge—it is quite bonkers. But there is a rule that you cannot work in a bar under the age of 20, the legal drinking age, and most bar girls are selling themselves. These are nuances and details that elude most people, because most people now view the world through a handful of universal lenses. The QAnon and QAnon-adjacent lens is heavily influenced by American culture, a culture where you can’t bang until you’re 18 or drink until you’re 21. This lens doesn’t have the scope to see or understand different cultural differences and laws, and therefore even UK men banging 16-year-olds, which is legal, are now sweety-men. My advice: don’t travel to foreign countries where the laws and culture are different from yours; you won’t be able to handle it. My advice to the other side who love to think all cultures are equal: educate yourself on different cultures before welcoming them in because some of them bang 12-year-olds and marry toddlers.

I am one who does not assimilate in foreign lands. I respect the culture, but I don’t adopt it. I don’t drive around on a motorbike like a twat. I don’t eat raw pork. I don’t date school kids. I live my life by my values, and one key one is not to abuse or take advantage of people, and especially the vulnerable. This is mostly why I didn’t knock out the old man. I consider old people, little kids and the disabled—both mentally and physically—to be the most vulnerable in society. I consider kids in care to be the most vulnerable in British society, and that’s why the grooming gang scandal is so awful—the authorities let the vulnerable get fucked, literally and figuratively. I don’t like to judge too much; just get out of face with it. I also like to understand my perception of reality and memories of reality. Perhaps the girl in the bar was 38 years old; perhaps those schoolgirls in the shopping mall were cosplaying. I don’t know, but when I don’t know, I shut my mouth and don’t get involved. And that is the lesson for today.

That wouldn’t be the United Kingdom; that would be a hell of a lot of countries that I’ve been to that aren’t the United Kingdom: Thailand and Vietnam, for example.

In these countries, you will often see such discriminative policies, and this is perfectly fine. This sort of open discrimination is encouraged, and why not? Dirty foreigners need to be reminded of how dirty they are.

There are many aspects of discrimination to encounter in these nations. In Thailand, for example, you can never become a citizen. You could get married, start a business, have 10 kids, and still, every three months, you’ve got to go through a horrendous grilling from the miserable, schlubby fucks that couldn’t be bothered to do anything better with their lives than work immigration.

“Oh, mister, why are you here, mister? Why you stay Thailand, mister?”

“Because I fucking got married here. I’ve set up a business. I employ 400 people. I contribute more to the economy than the entire lineage of your fucking family. What more do you fucking want?”

“Oh, mister, why are you here?”

It is retarded. But that’s the way it is. You will never be considered one of them, ever. You can’t even buy your fucking way into citizenship.

So what else do they do in these countries? Oh, if there’s a crime being committed by a local, blame it on some Burmese migrants. Fuck it.

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Look at China.

“Oh, see that experimental fucking disease control centre over there where we’re making wacky viruses just for the hell of it. Oh, no, it’s leaked. Oh, dear. Those people died in the streets. Who do we blame? Africans. Fucking Africans! It was definitely Africans. Oh, and probably some British people and Americans. Because, you know, we’re going to say it came from wet markets. And there’s one thing that the British and the Americans are well known for: these stinking, disgusting, sloppy wet markets. Oh, yeah, that’ll do.

And what about places like Korea and Japan? If you’re mixed race, you’re basically a fucking alien. You’re not 100 per cent. You can never be one of them. You were born in Japan; you’ve got a German mother and a Japanese father; you say, “I’m Japanese. I have a Japanese passport.”

“No, no, no, you’re not Japanese.”

You’re not Japanese. You’re some hybrid. You’re some new species that has to have its own new identity.

This is the reality of the rest of the world, and unfortunately for most of us in the West, we’ve become so fucking welcoming, so tolerant, so flipping liberal, so blind that we have no perception of what the rest of the world is really like.

Which brings me to flag waving. Why is this so controversial?

“Oh, God, Britain, you need to calm it down with their flags. Those flags. Leave the flags alone.”

I could not imagine being in Thailand or Vietnam or any other country for that matter, where you would go around saying, “Hey, you want to calm it down with all them flags, you know.” Jesus Christ. The mere concept is as alien as good driving in Southeast Asia. It’s as alien as eating raw pork being a bad idea. It’s just not done, mate!

I remember being in Vietnam during the Covid outbreak, and the first thing they did was fly flags, and fly them absolutely everywhere. Flags, flags, flags. For a minute I was thinking, “Hey, maybe it’s the flags. Maybe the flags are the secret weapon to getting rid of not-so-deadly diseases?” As soon as Covid sees a communist flag, it turns around and runs away. Which doesn’t make any sense, considering it was created by communist nutcases in the first place. But no, that’s not the point.

The point was about national solidarity. One flag, one people, all in it together. Because in those kinds of countries, they didn’t have the sort of resources that the UK does. They have just as much incompetence in the government, but resources they do not. So everyone had to do their bit, united under one flag. Waving flags is no crime.

What I see around me online when I’m looking at people arguing about flags—about the UK flags—I just think it’s completely retarded. All the people who get up in arms about flags being around just have the same mentality: it represents racism.

But not once have they ever sat down and thought. Not once have they ever sat down and looked at the rest of the world. Not once have they taken any time to consider why their flags are such a problem. No.

But it doesn’t surprise me; let’s not forget, most of these people will stand in line and get injected with an experimental vaccine and then start complaining about heart problems, saying, “Well, it must be Brexit.” That’s right. It’s Brexit. Brexit gives you myocarditis.

I have no time to get into arguments with these flipping douchebags, because they are not well-travelled. They have not enjoyed the delights of retardation that I have in countries like Thailand and Vietnam—the wonders of retardation. The retardation is the best part, and we can learn a lot from it. We can learn good things, but what I have mostly learnt from other cultures outside the UK is how un-retarded the UK is. We’re not that racist. We’re not that homophobic. We’re not that xenophobic. Jesus Christ, we’re not that sexist.

My God! The cluelessness of the people, and the cluelessness when it comes to things related to the flag, is preposterous. There are many reasons why the flag has these negative connotations, but a lot of it is probably down to subversion. Some of it is down to football hooliganism and probably down to the behaviours of the skinheads in the 60s, 70s and 80s, or whenever the fuck skinheads were around. Anyway, I guess in Europe as a whole, we just see nationalism as quite horrendously dirty because of the dirty Germans. That’s right. The dirty Germans gave nationalism a bad name. So why the fuck are we taking on board the guilt and self-hatred of the fucking Germans? Let’s remember something, and let’s remember it clearly: we fucking won. We won twice. We’re two-time champions of the world war. Two times. There are two wars, two fucking championships. The trophy is ours.

No one’s taking that fucking trophy.

Jesus Christ.

Why the hell are we adopting the self-hatred of the losers? Because what? Are we supposed to become losers? Is it because Qatar is pumping the internet full of distorted propaganda to make us hate ourselves? Is it because of the Chinese? Is it communists? Is it Keir Starmer? Who the fuck is it? Billy Bragg? Some motherfucker’s responsible for this bullshit!

You need to sit down and ask yourself, why the hell do I think this flag is racist? Somebody might think, “Oh, because of colonialism.” You mean because of the way the world bloody worked. Everybody colonised.

We got colonised. We got invaded countless times. We’ve got people living in the United Kingdom who say, “Oh, I’m Anglo-Saxon.” You’re a fucking invader, you fuck!

What are we supposed to do? Apologise for greatness? Do you think we were better off before the Romans came, when we were fucking animals, worshipping trees, and not wiping our arses and taking baths? Do you think we were cool? The Romans came over and slapped us around the face and said, “You need to fucking sort your life out, mate. You ever heard of a bath?”

“No?”

“Jesus Christ. What’s the matter with you? Where are your teeth? Christ, why are you sacrificing your children? What’s the matter with you? Why the hell are you fucking that goat?”

“I don’t know. This is what we do around here.”

I am eternally grateful for the invasion of the Romans and their colonisation and imperialism, because we wouldn’t even have London without that—one of the greatest cities in the world. Well, it was one of the greatest cities in the world. Now, according to who you listen to, it’s just a diverse mix of shit. I think many nations should be grateful for invasion.

Spain got spices.

Colombia has hot women.

America got fucking America!

As for the British, we rolled up in Africa. We rolled up into Asia. We rolled up into Ireland. We rolled up, saw people acting like absolute buggers, doing weird shit, and not getting things done, and said, “Hey, do you have stuff?”

“No, we have no stuff.”

“Well, can we build some stuff?”

“Well, by all means.”

And then we went and built stuff. Have you ever been to a country that hasn’t been colonised? No, you probably haven’t. Have you been to a country that’s been colonised by the French? Terrible. They were never as good as us. You’re going to have to face facts: when we colonise, we colonise like a fucking boss.

We gave so much to the world. Without what we gave them, they’d be shitter than they already are now. That’s just the cold hard truth. I thank the Romans for invading and pillaging us. And people should thank us for invading and pillaging them, because what we left behind was some fucking cool shit like common law and trains and cool buildings and a fucking sense of decency to say hello and open a door for a lady instead of eating her face during sacrifice month. Can you not be proud of a nation that ended a culture of face eating?

You tell anyone from Thailand or from Vietnam or from any of the 98% of world nations that they shouldn’t be so nationalist, and they just won’t even have a clue what the hell you’re talking about. Not that their national pride is wholly valid: their nationalism is a little bit much. It’s a little bit retarded. They love their country a bit too much. Because let’s face facts, they’re not like the Japanese.

The Japanese: you look at them and go, “Fuck me, we need to be more Japanese.” But not once have I looked at the Thais and gone, “Fuck me, we need to be more Thai.” No, they need to be more like us. They think everything they do is the best when they rarely do anything that great at all—apart from their food and blowjob bars.

But on the other hand, in Europe, and in particular, Britain, we’ve gone the other way. We need some more nationalism. There doesn’t seem to be any happy balance in the world: they’re too nationalistic; we’re not nationalistic at all, unless it’s football.

And apparently then it’s acceptable, because it’s only a game. Only a game? Tell that to a fucking Millwall supporter, you stupid fuck!

I’m tired of it. I’m tired of it. I’ve been warning people for years. This is why I left the UK a long time ago. The more and more you push back against these people—who just want to have national pride and not want their streets to be swamped with weirdos from little villages in a country you can’t even spell, doing weird shit: sacrificing babies, leaving them in canals (oh yeah, that’s happened)—the more they will go further right.

Now Nigel Farage is a wishy-washy left winger. Now Tommy Robinson is a centrist. This is where we’re at. Tommy Robinson will get into power in 10 years’ time, and by then he’ll be too. By then the people will choose some kind of Mecca Hitler. Then Mecca Hitler’s going to come and fuck everything up. And whose fault will it be? It’ll be all the people who go around saying, ‘Don’t wave a flag.’ Because these clueless folks don’t know anything.

Do I go around waving flags? No. Do I think there’s anything wrong with it? No. You get what you deserve, and you get what you ask for.

This is what they asked for.

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I do get it. Starting a family is a really good idea—it's a wonderful thing. When producing something from almost nothing you are in the ultimate creator mode. You become a god. Fantastic. But at the same time, what happens if you come from a shitty family? Is blood thicker than water then? Are you supposed to hang around and justify everything they do simply because you share the same DNA? I'm sure Fred would have told people that. This brings me back to a time when there was one lady who had an incredibly blessed set of assets, front and back, which I found alluring and appealing. Therefore, I made her my side chick. It was the only right thing to do. This girl was a gift, and not just because of physical assets I could use as stress relievers, but also a gift because her English was fantastic—she could even do impressions of British people. Wonderful. But of course, like all gifts, there is a curse. And the curse being, she could clearly explain to me all of her problems in perfect English. And this became quite tiring.

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She had a baby—well, like a two-year-old or something—and like many girls from her region, Isan, she had left the baby with the parents while she pursued her new career in the glorious land of Pattaya: The Hollywood for selling holes.

One night we dived into a conversations about the what and why over what she was doing. She said she was doing it for her daughter, which was fair enough. This is why she never appeared in any of the bars social media pictures or videos, because she didn't want her daughter to grow up and find out what she had done for her. This girl was wise in that respect, a true rarity. That's cool. Then she got into the subject of her family, her parents—the parents who were supposed to be taking care of her child, and this is where things began to get a little... “oh dear!”

Every month she would send money home to her family with the explicit instructions on how to use that money. One, the priority, take care of her daughter. Priority number two, take care of her beloved dog. Two respectable priorities. She was sending about 20,000 Baht a month, and what she was learning something hideous about her family fast—the majority of this money was not being spent on her daughter to buy her essentials and nice things, and a lot of the time it wasn't being spent on the dog neither. In fact, the dog was a dishevelled, raggedy-looking fucking mess. What her beloved parents decided to do with the money sent home from their daughter who was flogging her pussy was to, well, drink it! Drink it, drink it, drink it. Every day, hop down the shop, buy a few bottles, get fucking smashed and black out in the blazing sun. This was what they did with their lives every day.

They didn't work, they didn't do anything useful, but they were fully semi-functional alcoholics, which is some sort of achievement—after all, her daughter and dog weren’t dead, so they had some level of functional competence.

Upon telling me this news, she said, “I don't know what to do about it.” And I just said, “well, is there anyone else that can take care of your daughter and your dog?”

“Possibly some friends,” she replied.

“Well, send them to your friends and bin these motherfuckers off!” This seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do. At the end of the day, the two most precious things in your world—and dogs are precious, trust me on that one—shouldn’t be left in the incapable hands of a couple of absolute fucking booze hounds. However, her response was so typically Thai, it made gave me intense nausea.

“I cannot do that. I don't have a black heart!”

In my brain I was like, “what the hell is a black heart?” Then it made sense once I thought about it for two and a half seconds. She expressed how important family was, and that family was number one, family was everything, and you don't abandon family like that. I should have gone deeper on that and said, “fuck that bullshit!” but by that time my primal brain was yearning for kissing and squeezing, so I skipped the in depth lecture and just said the “fuck that” part a couple of times.

After trying to explain in less words than were suitable to the person who cannot be explained to why she should she say fuck that, I found we were just going to go round in circles. The bottom line was family above everything, regardless of how shitty their family were. Oh, Fred West would have loved this girl. But obviously, only if she was his actual daughter, because he, as I mentioned, he was a practitioner of utmost weirdness. Once I realised I was wasting precious minutes of time and needed some quality bedroom fighting, I called it a day on that conversation.

Blind love of family, because it's cultural, is like a blind love of the country. Yes, your country can be great, and in fact, sometimes we need to take a little bit of that impressive Thai blind nationalism back to Britain with us, because we’ve become so blindly unpatriotic—it makes us look like we've totally lost the plot. But this blind love of family pisses me off, because the one thing I can say, when it comes to family, without exposing too much about my own experiences, families are shitty.

Life is a lottery of being imagined into existence into situations that are beyond your control. Fate decides to either plop you into privilege of downright horror. Some people are unlucky and get born in North Korea, Venezuela or Luton. Some people get born in Gloucester and are raised by Fred and Rose West.

Out you pop of your mother's womb, and then you've got to spend the rest of your life glued to some people who actually are complete fuck-nuggets—the most atrocious, worst people you can imagine. Unreliable, insecure, hateful, jumped-up fucks.

Hateful, jumped-up fucks that produce children of their own, who they teach to become hateful, jumped-up fucks themselves. And therefore, you're surrounded by even more hateful, jumped-up fucks than you fucking began with. And these hateful, jumped-up fucks have hatred towards you that has no real logical reason for it whatsoever. It's just based on pure emotion and jealousy. These jumped-up fucks then, somehow, have to be included in your life for eternity. My feeling on the matter was, in the end, fuck that shit. You can’t choose these situations at birth, but you can make decisions about them as adults, and that’s what I did and that’s what I wanted her to do. Why? Lust I suppose!

She shouldn’t waste so much of her time on two drunken wasters just because they decided one night to get drunk and smash. She should of taken a leaf out of my book: I'm not wasting any more of my time on jumped-up fuck-nuggets who have no respect. I'm not wasting any more time on jumped-up fuck-nuggets who can't get over things that are beyond my control, who can't escape the traumas of the past that have nothing to do with me, and yet, they want to take it all out on me. Fuck these fucks.

And these fucks I speak of aren't as bad as the fucks that were raising this beautiful-breasted lady's daughter and beloved dog. That's why I didn't understand it, because that's an instant bin-off. I’ve seen what alcohol and drug abusing parents do to their kids in my own country, and that’s bad enough, but in a country with less state intervention or common sense? Oh dear oh dear.

Maybe if my relatives were merely drunkards I'd want to stick around; try and help cure them of their alcoholism. But fuck that. Cure it yourself, you fucking jumped-up fuck.

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Social media is the wondrous gift of prosperity and the hideous curse of stupidity. You can create a multi-million-pound company using just one social media app, and that’s just dandy. You can also become an insufferable, self-obsessed lunatic, which is whatever word best represents the opposite of dandy.

And what curses has Instagram gifted us in particular? Ladies can force their far-too-obliging boyfriends into taking thousands of snaps of their mediocre physical form on the beach at sunset; this can occupy an hour or so of time—and for what? So someone can see one of those images in their colossal carousel for 0.233 milliseconds and accidentally give it a like because they have ghastly fat clunky thumbs. This is not the way to live.

I had a limit on how many pictures I would take of a girl at any location: 4. 4 is a sacred number to me, and anything beyond 4 is inviting Satan into my cosmic energy field—not today, you horned fucknut! This rule would extend as I grew in numbers—I only age in numbers; my spirit is forever a horny 14-year-old—to include the number of selfies, food snaps and story videos a girl was allowed to take in my presence. Had I become a controlling killjoy who just didn’t get it? No. What a fucking stupid conclusion! I came to realise I had to fight the good fight. I had to change the world, one airheaded bar girl at a time.

After my unconscious period of being in a relationship with such a girl, I had wisely vowed never to get involved again. I had discovered a higher purpose. I had discovered the wonders of the power of the universe. I had discovered my true self. Then I met Chubby Cheeks, and that all—well, mostly—went out the window for a couple of months.

Chubby Cheeks wasn’t exactly my type: she was blonde and quite skinny. Her hair was dyed blonde, of course, as there are no naturally blonde ladies from Southeast Asia, but unlike some people claim, I do see colour. There was something about Chubby Cheeks that made my heart glow, and it wasn’t her fantastic fake breasts. She had a funny, cute voice and a look in her eye that made me feel she was this innocent and cute lady who just wanted to cuddle. This is how your unconscious side fools you, as she worked in a bar on the most infamous road and clearly had at least ten different schlongs chucked up her a month. That never bothered me because I was an insatiable hound—I just always used extra-thick condoms and never banged girls' back doors, making me a responsible pervert.

The thing that should have bothered me, and was another major red flag, was her phone screensaver: an image of herself. My ex-girlfriend, despite her many faults and retardations, never had herself as a screensaver—she had a picture of her favourite popstar, a somewhat handsome man. This may bother some insecure men, but it ought not to; it’s natural and fine and not a red flag. Plus, you can counter this by having a screensaver image of her best friend or—even better, if she has one—her sister.

Thai women of this ilk often display what should be concerning traits of narcissism and, even worse, traits of sociopathy.

When Chubby Cheeks and I first met, we communicated via the Line app. I would come see her at her overpriced bar from time to time but never engaged with her sexually. She spoke good English, and I enjoyed her company. That changed one night when we were both drunk, and she ground her backside on my crotch, and suddenly I felt the need to take her to my house and show her just how an Englishman can dance.

As our “relations” grew, she invited me further into her world by following me on Instagram, and I followed her back. This is when I noticed some things I didn’t quite like. She had about 10,000 followers and a range of pictures that were just thirst traps. If she was actually someone I was genuinely going to get serious with, this, along with her being a glorified working girl, would be the ultimate red flags. But I had no interest in that, but it did show me a trend that was concerning: these girls were acting like they were influencers, and some of them genuinely are, except they don’t have business brains to exploit their influence correctly. The more bar girl Instagram accounts I observed, the more I realised that a new culture had formed that was selling a nightmare masquerading as a dream, wearing a glittering mask, and fucking all of their brains up.

Thai bar girls will display narcissism regularly, and over time, these traits have amplified due to Instagram. The key traits a lot of them have can be identified immediately by just asking them if they have a boyfriend or had a boyfriend. If they have a boyfriend, they won’t tell you, because you can potentially become their new boyfriend, or their 2nd, 3rd, 4th or 5th boyfriend simultaneously. If they had an ex-boyfriend, then you ask what happened; every time you ask what happened, you will get the first narcissistic red flag: none of it was their fault. There is not one single shred of personal accountability. Every single thing that went wrong was his fault:

“He break up with me because he think I cheat. I not cheat, I go with customer!”

“He butterfly, he sleep with many lady.”

“He not give me enough money.”

“He crazy, he not trust me.”

“He throw himself off of balcony because he not understand me.”

There are pieces of information missing from those quotes, but anyone with a quarter of a brain should be able to fill in the blanks correctly. This is enough to warn you away, but if you’re constantly thinking with your schlong rather than your enlightened brain, you will come to be familiar with their other common narcissistic traits:

Lack of empathy: “He stupid, that why he kill himself.”

Fragile self-esteem: “I not stupid; you stupid!”

Manipulativeness: “Give me money, and I won’t fuck customer.”

Projection: “Why you lie so much?”

Lack of boundaries: “Who send message to your phone?”

Emotional volatility: “You not buy teddy bear because you not love me.”

Entitlement: “You pay me 30,000 per month because I good lady.”

Preoccupation with wealth: “He make big money, he good for she.”

Grandiose self-importance: “4000 for long time!”

And it’s the last three that Instagram has amplified from 10 to 10,000.

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The old excuse for why a girl was out in the pussy-flogging trenches was this: I need to make money for my family. This family will range from grandparents, parents, younger siblings and, of course, their young children that were gifted by a now absent, drunk father. They were simply making money to put food on the table.

I remember hearing a radio interview with Ray Winstone back in the day. Ray was asked why he chose the Hollywood roles he had been offered, and Ray replied, like most working-class British actors, “You have to put food on the table.” This is fair enough, but we must always remember that the food on the table is foie gras, lobster and beluga. That’s what modern bar girls are doing.

Plenty of these girls, especially in notorious spots like Soi 6 in Pattaya, are raking in more a month than a painter and decorator in Basildon. They are not simply “doing for their family”. They are spunking money on very impressive boob jobs, not-so-impressive nose jobs, genuine-fake Gucci bags, bottle service in the club every night and lots of fucking gold. This is no longer a case of needing money to survive—it’s loving money so much they’ll get their backdoor filled in by a train of call centre operatives from New Delhi. And it’s Instagram that gifted them this lust for cash.

Instagram is littered with influencers who are just whores. Forget about OnlyFans ladies like Lilly Philips or Bonnie Blue; these Thai influencers don’t have as many followers but have taken as many dicks. They see girls who are from the same ends as them living a life that feels like it’s from another universe, but that universe and life are only a cheap 6-9 hour bus ride away. They are bedazzled by the life they see online, and they want it too. Once they get just a slight taste of it, it’s game over.

They become entitled, completely preoccupied with acquiring more and more wealth (which they piss up the wall), and develop a seismic level of self-importance.

You will meet solid 5s who will quote you the price of a solid 9 with no air of irony or any sign of self-awareness. How is this real? Well, it’s not hard for a reasonably looking lady using heavy make-up and filters to gain 8,000 followers on Instagram. Instagram is packed with drooling teenage hounds who will follow 1,000 semi-hot to hot chicks at a time. These girls have no idea how saturated the market is, and, unfortunately, too many drunken men who allow their little brain to dictate their actions will pay up; most will regret it in the morning, but the damage is already done.

These girls live in a tiny, self-contained universe where they are the sun—which reminds me of the origins of the Egyptian god Khepri, god of the morning sun. Khepri was depicted in the form of a scarab beetle and, more specifically, a dung beetle. Ancient Egyptians observed the actions of the dung beetle rolling a large ball of shit across the sand and came to believe a god was doing the same with the sun in the sky—that’s the sun these girls think they are.

There is no more “I’m doing it for my family”; this is just a new lie. When told this, I reinterpret it in my mind as, “I’m doing it for a Fucci handbag.” In a culture where narcissism is already prevalent, this mega-boost from Instagram has created thousands of intolerable monsters. How do you stop these monsters and stop more monsters from being created? It’s rather simple: you do nothing.

The socialists in Britain wanted change. They aimed to destroy the class system and liberate women, but all their actions and screeching were pointless—time and circumstances beyond their control made the changes that they couldn’t deliver: World War Two.

World War Two crushed the class system and forced women into the workforce by the millions, and it changed everything forever. The same is happening now with the advancement of AI and robotics. I have seen videos of the latest Japanese sex robots. I have seen people falling in love with ChatGPT. I have seen virtual super-hot AI Instagram influencers. It’s over for these girls, and no-one has told them.

Even somewhere like Soi 6 in Pattaya—a place exclusively managed by the scrapings of the rim of the cocaine bath of the business world—will embrace the inevitable future. A simple pros and cons list will decide the fate of these narcissists: robots won’t ever be late; robots won’t complain; robots won’t need feeding; robots won’t get diseased; robots won’t yap on about their problems; robots will speak perfect English; robots won’t need makeup; robots won’t need a bed to sleep in—except for sex; robots won’t need paying.

The bar girls will have to return to the farms and factories and spend their free time looking at robot and AI-made influencers living the life they no longer have any access to. It would be nice to think it would inspire them to revolt or change, but that requires effort, and who’s got time for that when there’s sleeping, eating and Instagram doom-scrolling to be done?

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It got the eyes rolling and got me thinking, and this gave me a simple conclusion: what the fuck is she, and other bargain-bin thinkers, prattling on about? It’s not just bags-of-spanners feminist bore-hounds like Caitlan who constantly yap about this topic; there are lukewarm takes from all over the ideological spectrum. The general consensus is Andrew Tate is a problem because there is a void for male role models and he filled it. No, there isn’t! Because last time I checked, all men weren’t dead from a massive war—that hasn’t happened for a very long time.

What they think is simple: we all need famous, celebrity role models to look up to in order to be decent people. When did this become an essential part of personal and social development exactly? Moran went on to demonstrate all the allegedly wonderful and abundant role models for women: writers, singers, actresses, and social media influencers old birds approve of. But us cock-swinging apes? We just have Andrew Tate and the Fresh n Fit numpties, apparently. Nonsense. If you make a pound-for-pound comparison of famous male and female role models, you will end up with a well-balanced spreadsheet of the equally good and shit, but hardly great.

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Take—fuck it—Moran herself. What has she inspired? This middling-aged, middle-of-the-road author and columnist who most likely prances around in her cringing floral pyjamas, singing along to The Buzzcocks whilst drinking fruit tea – is she the role model that the ladies of Gen Z and Alpha desperately need? If you read just three pages of one of her books in the toilet, you will only be inspired to jump up, run to the garden, and start a bonfire. Madonna is a pop-culture icon, but are young women supposed to look up to a granny who dry-humps electric guitars on stage and mouths off about sucking man-pipe before launching into some tirade about voting? Is Taylor Swift the role model our daughters—I don’t have one, but you get the point—should take a leaf of knowledge from? This is a woman who oozes so much corporate safety it makes a sleazy PR man from Pfizer look like a Woodstock attendee with flowers in his hair and constantly dives into bad relationships in order to get inspiration to make songs for Pilates class playlists; is she the one? Or how about Beyoncé? A woman who used the symbolism of Malcolm X to sell pickup trucks and napalm manufacturers at the Super Bowl – is she the inspiration for all little princesses? No! Hillary Clinton, the arch-priestess of corporate evil? Do I need to answer that one?

Caitlan Moran made some observations about how there isn’t a men’s section in bookshops and thought it was sad because they need it. It’s because if they did make one, some lunatic like Caitlan would most likely call for the shop to be firebombed! I know the apparent men’s march they organised one time was a bit of a troll, but still, look how they reacted to the mere idea of it. In the UK, men used to have men’s magazines, or Lads Mags, as they are known by the common people. They got rid of them because apparently it’s wrong to enjoy looking at tits and bums, unless you’re a simp, I suppose. I don’t really remember much advice that came from those magazines, but I do remember Lucy Pinder’s tits, and they were truly inspirational. To people of Caitlan’s ilk, Lads Mags were destructive for the minds of young boys, and I guess there is a slight point about objectification, but they were no way near as destructive as the magazines aimed at teenage girls, some of which Caitlan may have read as a Gen X teen herself.

I had older sisters; they read these magazines. Mizz, Just Seventeen, Bliss and Sugar. I would sneak a peek at these magazines, and my mind was blown wide open—they appeared to have the sole purpose of teaching girls how to be sluts.

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I am being a little hyperbolic, but not that much. From the pages of these teen girl rags, I learnt how to pleasure a man with hand, tongue and breasts. I learnt how to maintain good posture whilst in reverse cowgirl. I learnt how to not get pink-socked during anal sex. Looking back at the 90s and the age of satanic panic aimed at Marilyn Manson and the like, I am baffled that the moralising finger-waggers of the hardline Christian right didn’t call for these magazines to be burnt! There’s always been a double standard about men’s stuff, and there’s always been rhetoric about men not being given advice about how to conduct themselves with a lady and why they shouldn’t objectify them. So ban Lads Mags but don’t have age restrictions on Instagram girls shaking their backsides on every reel they can! Got it. Good one.

Women have fantastic role models on Instagram and beyond. Get your arse out, set up an OnlyFans, and tell yourself you're empowered. Oh, and gobble Sheikh dick for a free weekend in Dubai. This terrible advice from so-called role models for young girls has been around since I was a handsome small boy. This advice is given because men are horny creatures who are capable of incredible greatness but often get unstuck because of their penis. Women know this and have been taught to exploit this for all sorts of gains by these role models and pieces of literature, and it’s quite amusing to hear women complain about being treated like meat when they’ve marketed themselves as meat. Their shitty role models are the reason for that, not Andrew Tate.

Do you think young Black boys in council estates shoot and stab each other because of Andrew Tate? If you do, get in the bin. What’s the problem there? Do they not have suitable celebrity role models? In the 90s they didn’t have too many, but look at them now! The UK has an abundance of successful Black men doing all kinds of things. So why are these naughty little buggers still shooting and stabbing? Because Stormzy and Wiley told them to? No. They need role models in the family and the community; we all do.

We all need to stop looking to popular culture and celebrity for role models. We already have them; they are mothers and fathers. If you don’t have those, then find some in the community, and if you don’t have a good community, find one and take down the government for ruining them—a story for another time. Our culture is obsessed with celebrity idol worship, and it’s the reason why Kanye West feels empowered to spout off his nonsense at every opportunity. Fuck him and Caitlan Moran. I don’t need advice from cat ladies and mean feminists, and I don’t want advice from bald men with Mark Morrison-style transatlantic accents. You don’t need it, and neither do they, youngsters. These cat ladies didn’t have any good celebrity role models, and neither did I.

The war—because everything is a war now—over porn and sex work has been dominated by the topic of OnlyFans and its copycats and two 6-out-of-10s from England named Lilly Philips and Bonnie Blue. These broads' antics have gotten many hardline finger-waggers' knickers in a death twist. They are like the Ronaldo and Messi of ingesting man-snake, each trying to outdo each other on the scoreboard; at the rate they’re going, one of them will be banging 10,000 gipsies in 23 hours by Boxing Day 2025. How disgusting!

And it is pretty gross. I have tallied up a year’s body count before and been quite disgusted by myself. But why? Why am I disgusted? Is it what I think or what I’ve been told? If I was shut off from the online world, I would just have a smile on my face. But then again, I didn’t bang that many broads in a single day; that would be quite sloppy and icky. There is a balance to these things, you know!

What I think about Bonnie Blue and Lilly Philips is, er, hmm… I don’t really have much of an opinion, to be honest, but I’ve heard a fucking shit tonne of them! My initial thoughts are of pride because the two most talked-about porn stars on planet Earth are British, and a win is a fucking win. I don’t care or women’s football, but if they won the World Cup against Germany, I’d go on an all-week bender and finger blast 20 hookers with a crack pipe stuffed up my left nostril!

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The opinions of Bonnie Blue range from dimwit to child groomer—groomer is fast becoming the new Nazi and Fascist and quite devoid of real meaning now—and Lily Phillips is apparently damaged by childhood abuse and trauma or something. There are always opinions like this of women who choose porn and sex work as a means to an—and sometimes incredibly lucrative—end. These ideas get spewed out by hardline Christian types and blue-haired hardline leftist loons alike—they are the most unlikely bedfellows. Their worldview is simple: women don’t like sex! The loony right thinks women only want to produce baby after baby until they have enough kids to man a Chinese iPhone factory, and the loon-bag left thinks women only want to fill the void left in them by the absence of their childhood abuser or something like that. I’m so tired of these opinions that I want to donate money to both these broads out of pure spite.

It takes many types of folk to make a world, and there are many different types of women. Take the big money or prospect of big money, and there will definitely not be that many women partaking in sex work and porn, but we will be left with those who love sex, love exhibitionism and a few broken souls. That’s the world.

The way these finger waggers harp on is as if this is the end of days and nothing like this has been seen before. Bollocks! Annabel Chong set the record for getting railed by multiple dudes back in the late 90s. I believe the main issue the finger waggers have is Bonnie Blue and Lilly Philip’s—plus OnlyFans—has become way more adopted by the mainstream. Sort of. Annabel Chong’s record was widely publicised by certain newspapers, but the condemnation wasn’t as much—unlike today. The biggest reason Bonnie Blue and Lilly Phillips are so well known is because in today’s alleged marketplace of ideas, opinions of outrage are priceless. They know these finger waggers won’t be able to control themselves and jump on a hate and virtue bandwagon, thus propelling these ladies further into the centre of the limelight. They are mainstream because these doughnuts can’t help but blast their two-bit opinions about them—they have no self-restraint, which is incredibly ironic, as having self-restraint over sex is one of their core messages. If these commentators think these broads are a problem, then they need to stop talking about them—that’s how you kill the monster. But no, they won’t be doing that, because outrage pays their bills, much like ejaculating dicks pay for Lilly and Bonnie's electricity.

What finger waggers do is misunderstand how fun fun is! Sex is fun. Hookers are fun. Porn can be fun. Threesomes, tit-wanks, blowers, spanking and role-play (except that weird incest role-play, which belongs in Satan’s dumpster) are all great. I bloody love it. Before marriage and gods and all that lark, we were all just hunting, eating and fucking. Is sex with multiple people a problem? Yes, it can be, but also hardline religion can be a problem—ask the Jews, the New Yorkers, the Londoners and all the Christians in Syria. Sex has not done as much damage as hardline religion has. Sex has not done as much damage as hardline leftism has. And as a bonus point, sex with a Taylor Swift fan is nowhere near as boring as these finger waggers. There is a problem with porn, though, rather than sex work—it's the access, abundance and availability.

In Thailand there is a “city of sin” called Pattaya. If you have ever visited this place, you will understand; if you haven’t, it will be quite difficult to comprehend. Sex is on offer everywhere—and I do mean everywhere. If you wanted to stay celibate in Pattaya, you would have to lock your door and live like it was the harshest kind of Covid lockdown imaginable—like the one I endured in Vietnam. You can’t even walk to a local 7-Eleven without being offered a blow job, because almost every female and a fair few males are on the game. Teachers, estate agents, chimney sweeps, whoever you can think of, are all touting sex for cash—it’s beyond mental. One of the best things about countries like Thailand is the quality and affordability of deep tissue massage. In England this would cost you £60+ for an hour's session, whereas in Thailand £60 would get you about 6 hours! Yet in Pattaya, even in the most respectable-looking—and Google-rated—establishments, you find yourself having to push a hand away from your penis, regardless of how old the lady or even man is. The internet and social media such as Instagram have become Pattaya. Sex is everywhere and way too easy to consume. Hundreds of thousands of Instagram influencers follow the same sales funnel from Instagram to OnlyFans. And if you can’t pay for that, no problem, because there is an abundance of free pornography sites with slack age restriction protocols to choose from, and on these sites is every single imaginable “delight”. This is the real problem.

Internet porn, like Pattaya, has the local Chinese restaurant problem—too many fucking options—but unlike a local Chinese takeaway, it’s way easier to place an order. When I was a horny teenager, if you wanted mad-filthy porn, you’d have to go to a specific shop in a specific part of town to get it—and it cost a bloody fortune! But not only that, you’d have to count on either looking old enough to buy it or that the person working in there didn’t give a shit. It was a quest! I can recall entering a sex shop in Soho back in the day when I was 15. I was in search of big tits and bums, and that was it—hardcore porn has never interested me. I selected what I wanted, but the fat-bearded pudding cake of an owner tried to upsell. He told me he had some “really good stuff” in the back! I was intrigued, so I had a look. From a grubby locked cupboard he pulled out a blank VHS cassette, containing footage which couldn’t have been any longer than 20 minutes—you could tell by looking at the reels of tape back in case you are young and silly. He told me that this was from Europe and really extreme stuff—practically illegal—and it could be all mine for £30! Now adjust that for inflation! Now imagine that the extreme nature of the video probably pales in comparison with step-daddy strap-on porn you’ll find for free on Pornhub! Porn has no value, and it’s too easy, and that can warp your brain. But OnlyFans and Fansly and so on do have value, and that is part of the problem too: the simp culture. There is some weird new angle where men feel connected to these broads, which makes it exploitative for consumers. For that reason, I truly care not for the opinion of righteous finger waggers! I want someone else’s insight, insight that’s useful.

Marketing and behavioural scientists are who I want to hear from. They can provide useful knowledge about how this OnlyFans system works and how people can avoid blowing all their savings on used knickers from a half-wit living in Bolton. They know this stuff; finger waggers only know how to judge things they have no experience in—they only know how to read engagement metrics and keep on yapping. Religion, like Islam, for example, can be very useful for guidance in self-control. I know I need some self-control when it comes to wobbling female flesh! And that’s all I want from them: give me tips and insight; do not give me moral lectures so you can funnel me into your cults. Half the time all finger waggers want to do is blame the things they hate on their pre-determined list of enemies: the right, the left, the Jews, Islam, the Catholics, the atheists, whoever it is. I am not interested in your agenda, and I do not care about two broads banging loads of men.

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“Andrew Tate is a misogynist terrorist.”

Such fun times we live in! I have delved into the world of the manosphere before and said that it’s about as dangerous as a teenage girl posting eye-rolling inspirational quotes, but I’m not trying to sell a message or appease my voter base – what I believe doesn’t matter. This politician was playing the game with the tools everyone else plays the game with. The game is attention and conversion. The tools are keywords and hyperbole.

Most online discourse and news is just a splurge of SEO-friendly keywords. If you’re unfamiliar with SEO, a quick guide:

SEO is search engine optimisation. It’s a practice to get your content or website or whatever to rank on search engines and in social media platforms. There are many methods, but the key method has always been keywords. In the world of online discourse, these keywords are buzzwords, and they get overused without a single thought by every Tom, Dick and Harriet on this spinning ball of water, fire and gas. They are so overused that everyone sounds like a budget SEO copywriter from Bangladesh you’d hire off of Fiverr for £4.76 in 2017.

You see, SEO has changed. In the old days you’d just cram as many of the keywords as possible into your copy. Not to convey a clear message. Not to provide a good experience for the reader. No. It was done just to rank better and get more attention.

You probably know the keywords (buzzwords) that have been overused during the last decade, but fuck it, here’s a list of some top bangers because I love lists!

· Nazi

· Fascist

· Snowflake

· Woke

· Misogyny

· Far right

· Alt right

· Incel

· Diversity

This list alone might make this post rank higher than any post I ever wrote, and maybe that’s why I’m writing it, because I want my work to get attention as much as the next man/woman/it/they/them/thing.

These buzzwords are used by NPCs (another buzzword) and politicians without any self-awareness or critical thinking – or are they? NPCs just spout them off to get attention from the crowd they so desperately want to be accepted by, but politicians do it with the calculation of a marketing wizard—even if it seems like they have no idea what they’re talking about.

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Politicians are fed these buzzwords and spew them out again because their voter base uses them. It’s a simple echoing system. In order to sell the crap you’re selling, you need to speak in the voice of the target consumer, and they do this all the time. It doesn’t matter for piss if they know what they’re talking about or not, because they just need to grab attention. Some doughnut from some boring town hears some bloated gimp yell out a diatribe of SEO keyword soup:

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This, as they say, is not rocket science—it’s bloody easy. Sometimes on my X account I will simply write a keyword-soup post using the top 5 trending topics. There is no context, there is not coherence, but these posts get more impressions than anything poignant or entertaining I ever wrote ever has—sometimes they’ll even get likes!

That politician on BBC Question Time probably wasn’t even answering a question about Andrew Tate. He probably just said his name because it’s always a trending topic. He probably wasn’t even asked a question about misogyny or terrorism and was merely providing one of many pre-programmed responses to get a little clap from the audience—and he did. That’s the beauty of shows like BBC Question Time; you get instant feedback to show whether your keyword game is working. But the secret to a great keyword game is to combine it with the one technique that works the very best on the internet: hyperbole.

You need to get a strong emotional reaction in order to get engagement and sell your nonsense; hyperbole is great for this. You can’t sell sandwiches by telling people, “They taste alright!” No, idiot, you need to say, “This tastes so good that my balls swelled up and spat gunk out of my love tube all over my underpants!” That’s how you sell a bloody sandwich! You can’t sell a bill that essentially allows the government to monitor your every move through spying on your face through your phone camera whilst you do a toilet by telling people, “There are some terrorists in the world!” No, you bog-eyed half-wit, you tell them, “Every male between 14 and 18 is a misogynist terrorist who’ll murder your wives, mothers and daughters!”

People get very confused and all-so-very conspiratorial when politicians and media outlets push a narrative. They think it’s all a ruse! Covid is a prime example because it was touted as the new Black Death when, in reality, it was less dangerous than the effects of a Happy Meal. But, for example, the NHS can’t sell the idea they need extra funding by telling you, “We’ve got a few extra people coming in with the sniffles!” No, you silly goose, they needed to tell everyone, “Millions are dying. Four-year-olds are spewing up blood. The fittest, healthiest men and women and they/them/it/thing/what?’s are dropping dead from coughing too much!”

During that time I recall seeing what the NHS and media babbled on about—which was that it was so incredibly oh-so deadly—and comparing it to the advice on the government website: if you think you have covid-19, drink water, stay indoors, and take a nap! This did seem like a wild conspiracy where the truth was right there in your face, but actually it was just too many hyperbolic voices trying to sell something. Every fuckwit on earth jumped onto the trend to try and find an angle that worked for them, and it made the world an embarrassing mess.

The main reason we appear to be so divided is because of our overuse of hyperbole and need for attention.

Don’t like Brexit? Then say, “Brexit will conjure up Hitler’s ghost, and he’ll stalk your children in their dreams!”

Don’t like the Clintons? Then say, “Hilary drinks the blood of children with a chaser of their parents tears!”

Don’t like the new recipe for Dairy Milk chocolate? Then say, “Dairy Milk makes you spew up blood!”

Now these examples may look like flat-out lies, but there’s some truth in there, and that’s all you need. If it sounds just even mildly true, run with it. People are selling dreams and nightmares, and everyone buys them.

Andrew Tate could be considered a misogynist. He could be considered a terrorist if you are able to perform the mental gymnastics (another buzz term) to get there. Shall we try?

Terrorist as a noun or adjective is the use of unlawful violence and intimidation, especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political aims. In today’s world, words can be violence. Anyone’s words can offend and therefore be violent. I hate Red Bull, and even the mere mention of it offends me; thus, I am often the victim of violence. Andrew Tate says stuff in public spheres that people think is offensive and therefore violent. Andrew Tate often wades into political discourse. Andrew Tate can be a terrorist! It’s nonsense, it’s hyperbole, but it sells.

The average NPC type uses hyperbole to sell too. They’re selling themselves because in the internet age the need for attention is at an all-time high. This is why you get some bearded guy named Baz from Aldershot prancing around in a dress, shaking his willy at children in a park, and crying discrimination when some local men slap him round the face. “I’m a victim of discrimination!” Calm down, Baz! You got checked for being weird.

This isn’t exclusive to NPCs because we’ve all done it. The reason most people struggle to get NHS appointments and end up dead is because they didn’t utilise the power of hyperbole. You don’t have a mild stomach ache; you have daggers stabbing you from the inside out and think you just threw up an organ! Trust me, this does work.

Hyperbole, buzzwords and general sensationalism are nothing new; they’ve been around since we learnt how to get attention when we didn’t need it. Reality feels like everything is a lie and you can’t trust what anyone says, but that’s a negative attitude. Everything must be taken with a pinch of salt because everyone is selling something—once you accept that, you can be at peace and not worry. Hyperbole crashes stock prices, starts wars and gets people laid. It's how the world works. Just remember that and be at peace.

However, we must be mindful. We must not let it cloud judgement. One day there may actually be a super-killer-virus pandemic, and we’ll all ignore the warnings because we understand the game of keywords and hyperbole. This is where we enter the climax of The Boy Who Cried Wolf—we’ve been sold too much nonsense and won’t believe in it again, and that’s when it’s too late. However, we have a fail-safe mechanism that will save us from that—the NPCs of earth. They are incapable of learning anything new and especially learning from their mistakes; therefore, they will be compliant enough to make sure we all get locked down again and injected with weird poison.

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In Thailand, the difference between a classic working girl and a girl who just works is so blurred you start to think that the number one profession has to be prostitution. If this were true, it would mean Thailand would have the biggest illegal economy on this ball of confusion some call earth. Like it or loathe it, there’s a large number of Thai women who want money, and they want to get that money with the lowest levels of effort possible. They are like the millions of desperate people across the world who sign up for online courses that promise they can earn an extra $3000 per month by simply selling tat from China on Facebook. As you can imagine, this isn’t a great money-making move. But like those people who sell courses instead of buying them, a man who exploits this fact can have a lot of fun; unfortunately, this relationship is often a confused role reversal. The man is selling the course, but he is paying people to sign up for it! Worse than that is they forget this is supposed to be fun and jump off a balcony—or they get pushed!

The classic stereotype of men who get with younger, hot Thai girls is that they’re sad old men paying for sex. They are sad because it’s the best they can get from life. They are confused because they end up believing all of her bullshit sales hype and think they’re in a loving relationship. From time to time you may hear men say—who are paying for sex with a lady who is clearly slinging her lady-box for cash—“She was really into me!” What laughs and chuckles this brings to us who know better!

“Are you a smooth-brained spastic?” we might reply. You’ll also hear the criticisms of those who pursue sex and love for cash; they have equally fascinating lukewarm takes.

“They’re all victims of sex trafficking!” or, “They’re just doing it for money; they don’t enjoy being harpooned by a disgusting, sad old wrinkled ball-sack-wielding loser!”

All of these takes are true and false; some people cannot fathom reality and the existence of outliers that conflict with their precious worldview.

Some girls are just looking for money.

Some girls are just looking for love.

Some girls are looking for both.

The vast majority of girls like sex.

Some women enjoy being sex workers.

Not all sex workers are the victims of sex trafficking.

To the ignorant, a sex worker has to be controlled by a pimp or some sex-work trafficking cartel, but in Thailand this is rarely the case. Plenty of women simply bounce around from working in a coffee shop to a blowjob bar to being a checkout girl. That’s why that human was so confused about whether the girls he was meeting for dates were working girls or girls that work—they can be both!

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There’s no mack-daddy in a fur coat with their jewel-encrusted pimp cup making collections from them at the end of a mild day’s work and slapping the ho when she comes up short. These are independent ladies of commerce. These are the kind of girl bosses that are championed by one side of the political aisle and denounced by the other. These girls haven’t been trained. These girls haven’t been forced. These girls mostly see baht signs and opportunity: no more long, shitty hours in a low-paying filthy factory or milking a grumpy buffalo. Quite often the need to simply survive in such an impoverished environment gets replaced by greed and laziness once they start earning way more than they need. Fake Gucci handbags, endless barbecue buffets, and Fendi shoes become necessities—and all they have to do is lie down and think of their beloved kingdom of Thailand.

Some of these girls have a plan, and many of these girls say they have a plan but don’t. Some plan to snag a rich, old Farang from the west who will take care of them, their family, and their beloved buffalo. One problem they have is they choose to work in establishments that mostly attract sex tourists, who, in general, aren’t the best suitors! Or are they?

For that plan, they bloody are! Any man who decides to enter a relationship with a girl who sells herself for money is a perfect mark. This man can get rinsed for all the cash they like, and even better, sometimes they can get pushed off a balcony, and the girl can worry no more about having to feel his wrinkly, dusty balls slapping against her undercarriage. Perfect.

However, this can also be a misguided perception. Some of these girls enter a relationship with an older man where both parties are in full agreement about the situation. He will give money; she will take care of her family. This type of agreement can be the most beautiful. It’s beautiful because of its transparency. Most foreign men soon learn that when you’re in a relationship with a Thai lady, you will never be a first priority—in fact, you’ll be lucky to be fourth on her list of priorities.

Family, money, and national pride are all more important than you, so who actually gives a shit if she loves you for real or not? Even if she did, you’ll get binned off quicker than mouldy chicken for just making a passing negative remark about the King! A western man can’t come in fourth place behind the bloody king, let alone the stupid family buffalo! So fuck it! Make sure you find a hot one who isn’t too annoying. You’ll be dead soon, and she’ll be happy because the family is taken care of. Everyone wins; life is great when everyone wins.

“But what about the joys of sex? It’s gross having sex with someone who doesn’t enjoy it!”

This is what tends to blow people’s minds: not every free sex session was enjoyed by both parties, and some paid sex sessions are mutually enjoyed! This will hurt.

the feelings of both mega studs who plough through hundreds of girls they picked up at the club and fierce proponents of long-term monogamous relationships—but listen up, buster, it’s truth-telling time! Not all one-night stands and not all sex sessions within your committed relationship are enjoyed by both parties.

Most relationships don’t survive past the first six-month honeymoon period; you’re both all fucked out. You’re done with quickies in the public toilets and surprise morning blowjobs. Your girlfriend’s stopped shaving her legs and has conversations with you whilst taking a shit. Then you find yourself spending most of your time fantasising about any other woman who isn’t your girlfriend. You’ll even have a moment where you want to fuck her mother, and even worse, she’ll have a moment thinking about fucking your father! You’ll then force yourselves to have sex when you both would rather watch some crap film that you like. It could be worse, though; you could be in a relationship with someone who’s just waiting for something better to come along, or someone who can’t stand being alone, or someone who you make feel sexy and wanted but has no interest in you beyond how good you make them feel. Pay for companionship with the most valuable thing you possess: your mortal soul. That’s not cool. That’s not fun. That’s soul-destroying.

“Fuck that, I’m not falling into that trap!” screams the mega stud who’s all about the numbers chalked above their bedposts. Sorry, my friend, but most of those shags came from situations involving being drunk as hell and merely fucking anything that is available—and this happens to both men and women. They’ll pick up whatever was drooling enough, take them home, smash, wake up, regret, and finally throw up once the drunken mistake has left (or they’ve left the home of the drunken mistake). But maybe they aren’t just fucking drunkards from the club? Yes, maybe they’re not. They can also fuck girls with low self-esteem who are desperately seeking validation and fulfilment. Girls can also fuck boys who are too lazy to wear nice shoes and just want to bust their load into something that isn’t their hand. That’s fine, fill your boots! In fact, fill your boots some more by fucking someone who wants to get back at their current, or recently former, partner. Fuck someone who just wants to fuck you because you have a well-known face or reputation. Fuck someone who hasn’t had any action in a while and just needs something. Fine. Pay for sex with your self-respect and also your mortal soul. That’s not cool. That’s not fun. That’s soul-destroying.

A hooker will leave after sex excited about the food she’ll munch and the handbag she’ll buy from the market—or chemistry set, because not all women are that simple; some are destined to change the world. You get what you actually want without any façade, and she’ll get what she wants without having to lie. And sometimes she might have had sex with someone she was attracted to—because for every ugly man that somehow gets a really hot woman, so hot you can’t work out what his bloody secret is—there’s a hot man who pays for sex because he’s busy and can’t afford to trade his soul for busting nuts. This happens; get over it.

“It’s third-world exploitation!”

“So is your iPhone, you dipshit, except a working girl gets paid way more than the child who glued your screen together!”

But what about the girls who love it? There’s not a lot of these, but then there’s not a lot of girls who sleep with multiple partners that do so purely for joy. These are outliers, and these outliers drive people insane—they just need reality to exactly match their worldview, or they’ll feel silly! You can have sex with a hooker who enjoys it, and you can possibly even marry one and have a long-lasting and meaningful relationship! It has happened—every possibility has happened. If you’re a sex hound paying for fun time, then why would you have a problem with a girl who took money for sex but didn’t take money from you? This sounds crazy, and it mostly is, but I know I’m not exactly Mr. Regular, so why should I dismiss the idea? It’s preposterous to reject a woman who takes money for sex when you happily pay for it. Can you trust them? Maybe not. Can they trust you? Maybe not. So what’s the problem? You’re both as bad as each other, so why not spare everyone else the heartache you’ll bring to the relationship and marry each other? Take yourselves off the shelf and leave the supposedly high-value options to find other high-value partners. In my time, I’ve been with regular girls, working girls, drug addicts, and broken broads. I’ve paid with my soul, and I’ve paid with my wallet—and I know for a fact that it’s way easier to restore the balance of your wallet than it is your soul. This is what lets down those silly old men who forget to have fun in Thailand—they end up paying with their wallet and their soul! That’s just retarded. You can actually have a clear and transparent relationship with any type of girl, but transactional ones are usually more straightforward, so they’re actually better for the soul in the long run. It just depends on how long you want that run to last! Hell, you can even get into a relationship with a working girl who won’t even take your money! I have.

I’ve had plenty of relations with Thai women that were not transactional, and some of them were actually more transactional for me! There are three ladies in particular who worked in bars and sold their bodies for fun times with foreign men who I had flings with. These women did not ask for a penny from me, and they’d take me out, buy me food, make love to me, insist on cutting my toenails, and buy me medicine if I got sick! I barely spent a penny or cent on them. What did they want? Long-term commitment and love, I suppose. What did I want? A good time. I liked them, and I enjoyed spending time with them. Why did they get money from men at work and not from me? Because I’m special? Yes, my mummy says so! But I’m no more special than the next man who isn’t a total scumbag, I suppose—therefore, it’s not that uncommon.

Did I ever consider making this relationship a long-term, serious deal? Hell no! I’m a fucking hypocrite. I’d love to be able to say, “I don’t see sex work!” but I do, and I’m no better than most other people, so why go around pretending that I am? I am not interested in a long-term transactional relationship because I’m an idiot who believes I can find true, long-lasting love. I think I’ll find a woman who I’ll never get tired of sleeping with, and therefore, I’ll never stray and break her heart.

There is such a thing as a hound and a slag, but these are opinions that can be reshaped into he’s a fun-loving guy and she’s a girl who likes variety. This disgusts both the supposed liberal and conservative brains, but who gives a shit? You can have a fun time with whoever you want, and you can have a fun time without deception—just pay for it.

You can also be a man who sleeps comfortably at night, not worrying if his girlfriend loves him or not. He can sleep comfortably knowing that she won’t run off with a sexier, younger model—because you’ve paid for it. If she stops satisfying you, you can go out and find another one within a 24-hour period, and that should be enough incentive for her to make sure she never slacks. She won’t be forgetting to shave her legs, and she will remember to not call you into the toilet to discuss the shopping list while emptying her bowels.

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I have big, breaking-news: it’s not. The Manosphere are grooming men to become neo-1950s husbands.

The security services have been selling us this story for a long time—the far right is dangerous, and the far right is made up misogynist supremacists who are all going to stab us to death and blow us up, whilst spouting off quotes from Marcus Aurelius and yelling random SEO buzzwords phrases like “escape the matrix!”

The most fun angle of this rhetoric is the idea of incels and misogynists being terrorists, even though most people have no idea what an incel actually is. This modern bogeyman that’s supposed to replace the Islamic-bogeyman—who is also, conveniently, the bogeyman of choice for the far-right—is as hilarious as it preposterous.

You can test how hilarious and preposterous it is with the following experiment:

Go into your closest café, pub or place of chitchat and make the following statement out loud with a serious look on your face:

Andrew Tate is the 2020s equivalent of Osama bin Laden.

You will become the new village idiot. If this is a position you’ve desire for some time, then this is an ideal way to achieve it. I it’s not, prepare to tell everyone that what you did was an experiment, leave, and move on with your life.

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We must not forget that the online world—and the world manufactured by a legacy media that’s often in cahoots with spy agencies and government—is a hyperbolic fever-dream version of reality—we ought not to go around spouting off it’s wild ideas, this is how we end up looking like nutters.

If you enter the search term Manosphere into Substack itself, you will find yourself having to trawl through the hysterical and the sensational. Posts that drone on about the same nonsense as MI6 and the CIA, telling you that this is the biggest threat to mankind since Franklin D. Roosevelt’s physics experiment in the 1940s.

All these articles use the same buzz words—incel, misogyny, supremacy, patriarchy, danger. They all say the same thing written by the same people who are obsessed with the patriarchy and are intent on turning men to soft puss-oozing blobs .

These people, and the spy agencies, have no clue about the social media stars—and all their copycats—of The Manosphere; if they did, then they wouldn’t be saying such wild, hyperbole with such a straight face.

The truth about The Manosphere is they’ll spew the same, dull ideas and advice all day, every day:

• Build muscle

• Don’t watch porn

• Get married and have children

• Don’t have sex with slags

• Read the Bible

• Find a Christian virgin between the ages of 19 and 25 who can cook using exclusively paleo ingredients and wants twenty kids

• Disappear for a year and become a millionaire entrepreneur

• Don’t drink alcohol or do drugs

• Read the bible again whilst bench pressing all of your online course earnings

To summarise the goal of their alleged grooming, they basically want men to become a 1950s Conservative man, but one who owns a yacht, bulging biceps and sells online courses on how to be manly. How dangerous and radical!

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Last time I checked, 1950s men weren’t blowing up planes and kidnapping hot Israeli twenty-year olds in the name of their god—they were mostly telling teenagers that rock n roll was the music of the devil and making crude jokes about communists.

The only danger The Manosphere poses is to make young man stay a virgins forever—good luck finding a fun girl who hasn’t smashed in a few dudes in her time, lads! I personally have had the best fun with many hot slags. I love it—you got to break a few eggs to make a wife-shaped omelette, and I always thanked god after I blew my gunk out of my lust-hose.

The men in this space are no threat to humanity, unless you consider being an insufferable killjoy a threat, and, in turn, turning young men into equally insufferable killjoys. It’s very sexy to create a bogeyman movement—it gives idiots something to talk about and idiots an excuse to create laws to oppress us. This was easily sold after 9/11, because there were naughty nutters blowing up buildings and stuff.

But this movement is nothing more than inspirational Instagram quotes injected with synthetic testosterone. And that’s what many women—and men who act like women, and the idiots who cannot prevent terrorist attacks—misunderstand: men like to get hyped up; this is similar to the way girls get hyped up by meaningless quotes. You know the ones:

I, like many other men with penises, like to listen to songs by Cam’Ron and 50 Cent. They rap about very ignorant things, being mad disrespectful to their opposition, and it makes me want to shout “Fuck yeah!”

Hearing Cam’ron rap “Stallion of the year, medallions in my ear, whips on my fists, houses on my wrists, your budget on my next, your spouse on my dick!” makes me motivated and ready to smash out some cold-calls and lead-magnate emails! We are men, we are motivated by this kind of testosterone pumping rhetoric—we are not motivated by quotes that belong on a Pinterest mood board for girl-bosses and aspiring lesbians.

This is why the appeal of Andrew Tate is easy to understand. He’s like Eminem saying outrageous things most people wish they could say and it gets young men hyped. Difference is, Andrew Tate has the ability to also strike an emotional connection that Eminem could never master. I once saw a clip of Tate talking about strong truths about breakups, and it hit was quite profound and relatable. He tapped into the feeling men get when they’re dumped—they’re rock bottom, they’re unloved and their confidence is smashed into a pile of sad mush. The solution he gave was motivating and logical—work hard on yourself and become someone she will regret leaving! This is man is not to be underestimated. If you don’t like him, fine, do a better version of what he does—this man can be learned from.

There’s nothing dangerous about motivational speeches and music, unless of course you’re a bible thumping, Koran waving, killjoy. The Manosphere, and those who’re afraid of them, are no different to the hard line Christians who were terrified of Marilyn Manson fans when they put on eyeliner and said naughty words. The difference—obviously—is that MI5 and MI6 and the CIA weren’t tapping Marilyn Manson fans phone lines. The Manosphere is made up of many insufferable virtue signallers who get condemned by other virtue signallers. It’s a massive virtue signalling convention and I am glad I was never invited.

Most men don’t want to be some pussy whipped blob, because the ideal girlfriend or wife doesn’t want that, nor do they want to be a 1950s husband, because they’re not going to find many 1950s housewives. I am tired of the hysteria around it; it’s boring and dangerous for all of us who are also tired of these tiresome, invasive laws they keep coming up with to protect us from imaginary threats.

Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley, Trent Reznor, depressive drug addicts.

“I Hate Myself and I Want to Die!” they’d scream.

“Yes! I hate myself and I want to die too!” I’d cheer.

They were all class A drug addicts; they all desperately needed to escape a reality they couldn’t accept. Most of them died from an overdose or just pro-choiced themselves off the face of the earth.

It’s no wonder I became a drug-addled fuck-up who enjoyed wallowing in my misery. Sitting in the dark, headphones on, feeling elated by gloomy music. I strived to be the complicated, depressed, deep individual that a girl wanted to save and change—and those birds are the worst!

Girls who want to save and change you—they’re terrible girlfriends. I don’t know why exactly; I just know that’s what I got, and, to my shame, I got short-changed. But what should a gloomy, eternal teenager expect? A long line of keepers! Obviously not. But this is the kind of man who’s been celebrated and worshipped since I can remember—the fucked-up artistic idol is romantic and alluring, and a million and one girls have had their posters on the wall to ensure they wake up drooling. This is kind of why I remain as an anonymous persona: I don’t want to be an idol; I want my work to be appreciated. My beautiful, filthy work.

Is the celebration and propping up of the fuck-up artist a problem? Part of me thinks it is, and part of me has serious questions about why this happened. At night—after my thoughts have wandered away from bizarre threesome fantasies involving my various terrible ex-fixers (girlfriends)—I will think about why my friends and I remain childless, unmarried goofballs. Then my mind drifts into the murk of conspiracy, and before I drift into the land of nod, my brain tells me this is all by design!

Artistic industries are dominated by the power of the idol: it’s the idol that has the strongest selling power. This is why many bands are mostly synonymous with the front man. A drummer may love the drummer in a great band, but most of the rest of the regular schlubs love the frontman or lady or whatever is in between—like Brian Molko!

This type of fucked-up idol isn’t exclusive to men; there’s Courtney Love—oh, and Amy Winehouse—but also not exclusive to rock. I was a huge DMX fan, and DMX was the epitome of the troubled man. His tough upbringing—basically an impoverished orphan, like a growling thug version of Oliver Twist!—made him an incredible musical artist and entertaining persona.

To most regular folk, DMX would just be another aggressive rapper who made some floor-filling, thugged-out bangers like “Party Up In Here” and “X Gone Give it To Ya!”, but DMX was also a deep and troubled artist. This was a man who made songs about dealing with the temptation of the devil—perhaps a reference to his long-running battle with crack addiction. He performed prayers on stage, and he’d cry, then jump into a banger about shooting guns and drinking in clubs. In your face Bono! DMX was a phenomenon; he was rap's first fucked-up rock star, like Kurt and Lane, and Chris Cornell, and Scott Weiland.

In more recent times, the fuck-up rap star idol has become a much bigger selling point; even Drake has his moments. Artists like Mac Miller, Juice Wrld, Xxxtentacion, Lil Peep, and, to an extent, Future became superstars. And all of them—except Future, who’s alive, and Xxxtentacions, who got shot—are now dead because of drug abuse. Rap is the new rock, because rock is hell-a-gay now, and it has its very own 90s fuck-up idols, but hip hop is more interesting; hip hop has always embraced conspiracy more openly.

Artists from conspiracy-head Chuck D to prancing-plum Will.I.Am have openly expressed the idea of record companies conspiring against the Black community of America. They suggest record companies may promote and push the street, gangster—and all-round negative elements—lifestyle more than anything more positive in order to feed the profitable private prison system! This could also explain why the era of the rap-fuck-up rap idol has become the norm, and overdosing on Xanax and codeine is the coolest thing on earth—it’s not cool BTW, but it is fun.

Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe it’s because record companies see what resonates and makes the most money and just go with it. That’s what happened in the 90s, unless it’s all an orchestrated effort to reduce the population by turning impressionable young men into less-than-desirable potential mating partners and future fathers. I guess believing such a conspiracy is just another way to shirk personal responsibility, but you gotta wonder! These fucks—you know who you are—are always up to some dastardly shit!

But then again, hip hop does promote something rock music never promoted—the success story of the underdog—and many underdogs who become entrepreneurs. 50 Cent, Jay-Z, Master P, and the rest are incredibly successful beyond rap. They’re hustlers who came from nothing. Strong, confident, and competent men who overcome countless obstacles to reach the highest highs. They’re not as artistically sexy as Juice Wrld or DMX or whoever else is now dead, but they are people to aspire to and look up to. These are people I admire, but not who I wanted to be like. And there’s the problem I’ve always had.

There are some regular folk—something I’ve always secretly wanted to be—who go out of their way to become weird and messed up—or at least project an image of someone who is. These try-hards have always annoyed me.

“Who wants to be like me? An insecure, self-hating escape artist who’s hell-bent on destroying himself?”

But when I evaluate myself with objective depth, I realise that I too wanted to be that; I leaned into it with force and subconsciously perpetuated it. I strived to be more fucked up than the day before, instead of striving to be someone better—someone a good, balanced woman would want. What the hell is being with a good, balanced woman like? Is it good? With that said, these fixers I claim I regret being with were always my preferred physical type, so my deathbed wank bank is thoroughly stocked—so does it really matter?

Anyway…

The person I should have idolised was my father—idolised is wrong, though; emulate and aspire to be would be better. In spite of some significant flaws, my father was someone I could always turn to. I couldn’t always rely on him, but I could rely on him trying his fucking best. When he left his mortal reality, I lost a rock that was always there for me, and I’ve felt incredibly alone ever since. This could have triggered me into going back to being the troubled man who guzzles booze, smokes crack like it’s Pringle-popping contest, and fucks anything and everything that has dark hair, large breasts and bulbus behind. But it didn’t. Such progress!

Don’t get me wrong; I still dabble, but I’m a far cry from that old me; I learnt that I wanted to be someone’s rock, and, after all, I don’t have one anymore, so I need to be my own rock. On top of that, I also know how the universe works.

The energy I put out will come back to me. The rock I want will also be looking for a rock, and our two rocks will smash together into a cosmic reaction of joyous strength. It’ll also be nice to smash our private parts together with mutual joy on a regular basis too.

Writer’s note: The economy is dependent on spending money and spreading wealth… hint hint. Thanks

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Political Football!

What exactly is this issue, and why are politicians suddenly having to talk about it? In a nutshell, there have been multiple cases where groups of mostly Asian men, who’re mostly Pakistani men, the majority of whom are Muslim, have been grooming and raping teenage white girls. Many of the girls have apparently been underage (16 in the UK), and many were what I consider to be part of the most vulnerable group in society: kids in care. These gangs have been operating right across the country for decades, such as in Rotherham, Rochdale, Telford, Bristol, and Leeds.

This whole affair seemed to start when Elon Musk was tweeting (I can’t say X-ing; it’s too odd) about EDL founder and Muslim “sceptic” Tommy Robinson’s most recent arrest for libel. That arrest was centred on comments Robinson had made about a viral video from a few calendars back of a Syrian refugee boy getting attacked by white kids. Robinson was countering the narrative of the boy's victimhood by saying he was actually a naughty boy who was abusing teenage white girls at his school. It appears Elon went down the Tommy Robinson arrest rabbit hole and found out about his last arrest for contempt of court rules. This happened outside of a courthouse in Leeds where 29 defendants were on trial for sexual grooming. Their identities were hidden at the time, but Tommy decided he’d let everyone know the truth that everyone already knew: they were all, essentially, Muslim men. It seems Elon found out about one case, then found out about all the others, then about all the suppression and denial; this clearly fired Mr. Musk right up! So much so, he started going after “beloved” British politicians like Keir Starmer and Jess Phillips.

If you have the stomach and patience to go down the rabbit hole, then go ahead. Do not look to me to provide you with all the data. Do not look to me to confirm or debunk. But look to me to tell you that when you do, you will see patterns and shocking statistics, such as estimates on Asian grooming gangs targeting 20,000-80,000 young white girls. It’s quite sordid.

Will you find exaggeration? No doubt. Will you find downplaying? No doubt. Will you find flat-out denial? No doubt. Will it look like this is a huge open secret littered with cover-ups and incompetence? Oh yes. This isn’t the first time our nation has seen a cover-up of outrageous levels of sexual abuse scandals; our nation has consistent form in this arena. Just look up Operation Yew Tree and see the police’s response: we “got some things wrong.” Understatements have never been so understated.

The reactions to Elon’s mudslinging have been predictably tiresome and enraging. “It’s just political football!” many cried. Marvellous! The right wing of the UK has called for an inquiry, to which their haters have said, “Why didn’t you do something when you were in power? You’re just using this for political points.” Even the great bastion of truth, the BBC, weighed in by mostly jumping on the same train and saying, “Oi! Conservatives, why are you talking about this now and not before?” Well, BBC, why are YOU talking about this now and not before? Because apparently it takes a billionaire’s boredom to get people to discuss important things.

I have enjoyed seeing people play political football by calling out others for playing political football, all the while ignoring the crucial matter at hand: Is there a widespread child and women abuse problem that needs solving? To be fair to those labelled the left, their usual lukewarm takes have been a little more original than usual. The usual responses are the tried and tested whataboutisms that follow the lines like, “Look at this pedo rape gang; they’re all white; where’s the outrage from the far right?” This is always a cute response, and one that was heavily deployed during the summer riots in the UK, and I’m not sure why they’ve gone for the political football angle instead.

Perhaps it’s because they usually do a little Google search and find the first case that suits their narrative. Perhaps they googled the cases in Rotherham or Leeds or Telford to find a quick hot take that would debunk their political enemies, only to find way too many sordid truths about these rape gangs and their victims. This is all speculation, of course, but it does appear that the only ammunition they have right now is calling out the former government for not doing anything when they were in power. This infers that they know there’s truth to the claims and that they can only use the buzzphrase of the week, political football. Perhaps political football is the only way things get done in this once great nation of Great Britain, but if Sir Keir of Starmer says he won’t open or support an inquiry, I guarantee this is one statement he won’t backtrack on for once.

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Why The Government Won’t Call for an Inquiry.

Keir Starmer didn’t get to become the leader of the UK without understanding the laws of power. He cannot have some “wacky” foreign billionaire challenge him like that. He perhaps should’ve ignored Elon, but the rioting of last summer happened, and this is the last thing he needs—though it is peak winter and nobody is in the mood to be outside for prolonged periods of time smashing stuff!

What Keir Starmer, an experienced barrister and former head of the Criminal Prosecution Service (CPS), will know is that you don’t allow anything to mess with the polite society of Britain. The party line is simple: “Don’t mention the grooming gangs!”

You see, maintaining the polite British society has become a lot trickier since 9/11. The post-9/11 world forced a huge spotlight upon the Muslim world, which revealed many uncomfortable truths and, paradoxically, also proceeded to conceal them. The truths about extremism and vast numbers of potential Jihadi terrorists were blasted from every newspaper, TV station, and whatever else you can think of for years and years and years. The roll call of naughty Muslims doing naughty things was impressive in scale. And to make matters worse, we all started to notice that a lot of people in Muslim communities had thin skin and would get very upset over quite minor things. Plays about topics they didn’t like started riots; cartoons they found offensive caused riots and mass murders. Those that serve the state to keep the streets safe—allegedly, anyway—found they had a very sticky mess to deal with due to mass immigration and a serious lack of integration: these people get triggered a lot!

So what was the solution? Let’s try to avoid that at all costs! Unfortunately for the police, politicians, and national security agencies, they didn’t count on another side of Muslim communities to be illuminated so brightly, and that was the sex-grooming gang phenomenon, and this was, and still is, a huge stinking problem.

Before 9/11 we were in a national state of hysteria over paedophilia, a phenomenon that—according to people such as Jonathan Haidt—led to the creation of the snowflake generation we have today. Parents were whipped up into a frenzy of scary time because there were apparently millions of naughty, deviant adults out there trying to lure their kids into vans with sweets and cigarettes! For them to have that fear imbedded into their brains and then topped up with the fear of Islamic extremism was all too much, so when it comes out that those naught men who were trying to lure their kids into vans in the 90s and early 2000s are disproportionately Muslim, how do you think that sits with them? How do you think the police, the politicians, and the security services deal with that? What a hideous mess. It’s like being hungover and waking up to a huge stain on the carpet, a pile of washing up in the sink, and a novella-sized text message to your ex-girlfriend! Fuck it, I’ll just go back to sleep.

Keeping the peace also relates to another value we have as good humans, which is also a huge flaw: we don’t want to persecute groups of people. We are all actually capable of being decent humans. We all have flaws, and when someone just keeps pointing out our flaws and refusing to acknowledge our strengths, it’s just out of order. Those people need a slap. But this is a problem too.

We need self-awareness. We need to acknowledge our flaws; this is the only way we can grow. The left side of the aisle has insisted on never pointing out the flaws of minority groups—but is all too happy to do it to non-minority groups. They have done this to the extent where they now just deny everything, even when it’s right in front of them and, sometimes, actually affecting their own lives. I get that they may have strong beliefs—so strong they will do whatever is necessary to make sure certain groups of people don’t get persecuted. This is noble, but it’s also become very retarded and backfired. Every human has their flaws and strengths, and so do every culture and community. All cultures are equally beautiful and ugly.

The Harsh Truths of Different Cultural Flaws

British culture, and you could say British white culture in particular, has some deeply troubling flaws. We are the cocaine-snorting capital of the world. 80% of crime is alcohol-related. We have the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe. We have too many girls with awful fake tans.

I have travelled, and still do, the world. I have heard the opinions of some “filthy foreigners” about us, and, in particular, our women—they’re all slags and sluts. I’ve heard this from Swedes, Serbians, Greeks, Aussies, and other nationalities whose silly accents I couldn’t quite decipher. When I hear this, I am enraged and want to smash their faces in with a mug of tea whilst yelling, God Save The Queen (I am still unable to say King; it’s still too weird). But is there truth to this? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe our girls are just more fun. Do you think these groomers, who are Asian, who’re mostly Pakistani, who’re mostly Muslim, feel the same way? Apparently yes. And this is definitely a major flaw within their culture. They seem to think grooming and raping young white girls is fine because they’re all slags! “Where is the feminist outrage?” I hear them cry! These are thoroughly uncomfortable truths that lurk beneath all the far-right hyperbole, far-left whataboutisms, and egg-shell treading of the centre.

Are British people a little too horny? Yes. I am, and I’m old enough to know better, and I don’t care. Sex is fun; it’s perfectly natural. What isn’t fun or natural is raping and grooming vulnerable people in our society. That’s very uncool. If white girls are so up for it, then why on earth would you need to deploy despicable tactics to have sex with them? The most alarming and uncomfortable thing is that one specific group is targeting another specific group, and this makes things very messy. But, as always, because the left and the authorities have their own rules about targeting certain groups, it’s left to the apparent far-right to do something about it.

Considering everyone has been banging on about the threat of the far right for the last decade, it’s mind-bending that they’d allow them to have so much fuel and evidence to expand their influence. This is most likely due to them being completely out of touch with the modern world. They still think they can suppress information with the aid of their old friends, the mainstream media. This is an embarrassing mistake; this is not the 20^th century. Elon Musk understands the contemporary cultural landscape. He knows the media is dying; he’s helping to finish it off with death blow after death blow.

If there is an inquiry, will it change anything? Past enquiries, such as the Leveson Inquiry, possibly did more harm than good. It’s the culture that needs to change. The die-hard proponents of the polite British society need to accept that the information superhighway is too big to suppress, and they need to make a huge turn. They can’t keep trying to stop people from being upset and be more proactive with preventing the things that cause these problems, which means tackling the problems in other cultures who now call this nation home. And what’s the best way to tackle that exactly? I shudder to think.

There has to be a new approach to this situation, but no approach is going to be smooth—this is a huge mess, and one I think will only be cleaned up by a type of person most of us don’t really want. That person has not been revealed yet, but they are certainly developing somewhere. They could be a populist or a hardline Christian or maybe even from the far right—you know who they are, the 30 weirdos who did Nazi salutes in some little shitty British town 4 years ago or something.

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I kept seeing things I can only describe as clickbait gone crazy. Most of these posts featured blatant AI-generated images accompanied by somewhat blatant AI-generated copy, and with the same theme: fake movie and TV sequels and prequels.

The Mask 2

The Sopranos Prequel

The Godfather Part IV

In fact, name a sequel that you’d love to see happen, and there will be a post about it—promising that it’s happening in order to gain impressions on the filthy landscape of Facebook. Worse still is that the comments will be dominated by what are clearly AI bots saying such breeze,

“OMG! Can’t wait!”

“This is going to be epic!”

“Wow! A sequel to my favourite childhood movie. This is too good to be true!”

Clickbait has always been about hyperbole. A celebrity would say, “That new movie was OK,” which will then get turned into, “Celebrity X says the new Batman movie is the worst thing since polio!” Things being taken out of context, exaggerated, or skewed for clicks isn’t new, but these flat-out lies seem newer.

It’s disinformation but somewhat harmless as it serves no purpose other than to gain engagement. But that engagement leads to wealth generation, which in turn is kind of fraudulent. And I would argue that those who generate this content are the kind of people that AI content generation most appeals to: cash-grabbing fuckwits riding shitty trends. That’s why it’s depressing but also promising, because these feckless, faeces-spewing foolios may just help kill off the huge threat of AI, especially towards the arts, because people will inevitably grow sick of it and sick of looking stupid every time they’re trying to pre-order tickets to a movie that doesn’t exist, and so on.

AI is nothing new and shouldn’t have caught us by surprise. We have been slaves to algorithms and predicted text and chatbots for a very long time now—it’s the ChatGPT era that has gotten us all a little giddy and scared.

The last couple of years has seen the AI buzz infiltrate vast areas of our lives and stirred debate—or, more accurately, blazing arguments, because the internet and social media age has no room for debate. We speak of fear. We speak of unlimited advancement. We speak of making money from things we have no business making money from, and it’s this latter point that I think will restore balance to the universe.

Will AI take a lot of jobs? Yes. Look at what happened to the poor horsey’s when the car and the train came along. Will AI help us make more logical decisions and advance the human race to a place we perhaps don’t deserve to be? Likely. Humans are illogical because of their emotions. A bot can help us make a wiser decision, such as spending money on stocks and shares rather than hookers and blow (AI is a boring friend).

Will AI manipulate us? Maybe. And if so, I will join the movement that chants, “Death to Skynet!” But entertainment and the arts, the stuff that really inspires and helps us have a little deserved and needed escape from the everyday nonsense of this world, is the battleground where I believe AI will lose. Not because of government intervention or resistance fighters cosplaying as Jon Connor; we’ll reject AI-generated content because of three key reasons:

1. Our brains don’t like it.

2. Trends come and go—and a lot of AI services and business models are riding this wave until it crashes against the rocks of the shore.

3. Authenticity is winning—the so-called mainstream media, and the figures who rely on it to keep relevance and power, are dying mostly because of its lack of authenticity—Trump went on popular podcasts, Harris went on TV.

NOTE: This piece I write may age into putrid milk, but I’m putting it out there anyway because I have balls of titanium. Let’s go!

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Whenever I’m pondering about AI, I always recall how new, exciting technology just seems to go away or become terribly outdated, leaving a legacy of nothing, and in today's extremely narcissistic climate, a legacy of nothing just won’t cut it for most—except whores, of course, those money-grabbing, AI content-generating whores.

Look at 3D. Look at virtual reality. Look at CGI. Hell, look at Blockchain! It all either becomes terribly dated-looking or the trend fizzles out and dies.

3D comes and goes every generation. The 50s, the 80s, and two blips in the 90s (basically the sixth Nightmare On Elm Street film, Freddy’s Dead, and the Comic Relief special revival of Dr. Who) and then in the late 2000s.

The late 2000s 3D era felt like 3D was here to stay and nothing else could compete. Avatar was bigger than Black Rock; it made more money than the Saudi Royal Family, and suddenly every movie, shit or shitter, was in 3D. They even made sequels to movies no one cared about to cash in on 3D, and then before the 2010s could get into full swing, people didn’t give a shit anymore.

Since Avatar, there has been that silly Avengers movie that made more money than the entire Rothschild dynasty, and not a three-dimensional version in sight. 3D was fun at first, but like new sex, it becomes old sex, and then you pretend you have a headache.

Virtual Reality—aka VR—is another one. It had its moment in the early 90s. I remember VR rides and experiences in the Trocadero in the West End of London, some game where you were a huge fighting robot. I remember The Lawnmower Man movie that capitalised on this buzz. Did virtual reality enter the homes, and did movies become virtual reality experiences? No. Virtual reality went away, not entirely, but the lust and love of it were gone. Then it came back in the 2010s, and people were talking about VR.

“VR? What is this, the 90s?”

“No, it’s a new thing that people are getting into!”

“No, it’s not. Piss off!”

Then I saw VR experiences on the side of the street in busy tourist areas of Thailand. I would stop for a moment to watch a girl piss herself as she was held by a Thai man whilst she thought she was free-falling out of an aeroplane. That was before covid. Now, upon my return to Thailand, I do not see them anymore. Let’s also not forget the buzz around the VR world that was the Metaverse.

During 2020 and 2021, the Metaverse was everywhere. People were buying plots of virtual land inside it for millions. Where is the Metaverse now? If you told someone to invest in the Metaverse today, they’d laugh at you and make a disrespectful remark about your mother. People don’t give a shit about buying crap in the Metaverse; they’re buying dog currency and using that dog currency to buy yachts. You can certainly buy a yacht in the Metaverse, but who the fuck is impressed by a virtual yacht? Some twat that no one invites to social events, that’s who!

Then you have the Oculus headsets and other brands—a step into a completely virtual existence. This may have been cool when everyone believed that Bat-Flu was going to kill you, but now we’re all outside and smooching and drinking and fighting and snorting again; no one wants it—not even those mask enthusiasts who want the pandemic to last forever!

There was a huge buzz around VR headsets two years ago. There were countless videos of people being weird in public with their VR headsets. But have you seen any douchenugget wearing one with your own eyes in reality? I haven’t, and I’m always outside smooching and drinking and fighting and avoiding snorting. The fad seems to have passed. The fad didn’t impress the most important people in the equation: the masses.

Look at NFTs as well. I love the concept, but the digital art game has become a joke. There is no value in it. Nobody cares if you have the very first Crypto Punk; it’s very easy to just lie. Only coders will be able to verify it, and who the hell wants to lure one of those sun-dodgers into the sack? There is a huge flex with a piece of priceless art hanging on a real wall; there is no flex with your cartoon JPEG ape and your Metaverse yacht full of AI cam-girls.

Then there’s the CGI factor—more computer-generated fake reality. The issue with CGI is that it always ages a movie, the same way as green screen effects and bad miniature model sets did. Whereas practical effects and sets age with charm and character. CGI is no longer impressive. Now Tom Cruise is impressive! Tom Cruise is doing what Buster Keaton did a hundred years ago. We are craving real shit! He sells a movie by merely hanging onto the side of an aeroplane! We’ve seen that shit before; we saw it for decades. But clearly people want to be impressed by an industry that has been so fake for too long.

I remember watching Jurassic Park and not even being able to tell what was CGI and what was animatronics, which is far from the case now because CGI is in everything. That was inspiring and impressive. Now big blockbusters with CGI and overuse of colour correction look like cartoons. The only people it impresses are children (rightly so) and people who shouldn’t raise children, and judging by the box-office numbers, there’s a worrying amount of the latter.

Go watch The Lawnmower Man and the original King Kong back to back. One is charming and impressive when you let your brain think, whereas the more modern and supposedly advanced thing is a horrid, charmless, unwatchable nightmare. And that’s what we already have with AI creativity.

At first, AI art had some fucked-up charm by how odd it looked, but as it’s rapidly improved, it’s so devoid of the flaws of the human touch that it makes you sick. It’s soulless shit and, most importantly, unimpressive. Tom Cruise hanging from an aeroplane is impressive. An AI-generated video of Harry Potter set in a trailer park isn’t impressive, and it actually makes your brain feel sick. Yes! Our beautiful brains and their rogue subconscious make the wise decision that this is bad for you and you should empty your guts via your mouth into the nearest toilet as soon as possible.

They, our brains, just seem to reject the polish and sheen that technology spews onto art, and those that don’t are just NPCs anyway and are barely more sentient than a plastic brick. AI may improve, but improvement lacks the flaws that make human art interesting. It has no personality, because, like the NPC, it is influenced by many other personalities without its own take. It’s a shit friend!

My third point about authenticity is key to this. The reason someone like Trump is able to make such an impact is the idea of authenticity. I am not saying the man is authentic, but I am well aware that people believe he is authentic because of the wild shit he says. He is always out there in public without a prepared speech or a focus group note in sight—saying whatever comes into his head, whether factual or not. That’s what most people do. It appears to lack that level of calculation that turns people off. He also made a smart move by mostly rejecting mainstream media platforms and going on a press tour that didn’t involve the press! He knows the mainstream is dying. We see the mainstream dying. We love it because they’re so bloody phoney and insincere, and the podcast has become a way more authentic medium for us to consume. It is everything that the mainstream fails at, and Trump was wise to do the rounds of the top-performing podcasts as opposed to Harris doing the usual tired standard appearances. The old media model is too fake for us now. AI is adjacent to that. Its inauthentic nature reminds us of what we have recently rejected.

People appear to yearn for something more real, and I think a revolution that rejects the speed of technology and its perfections is always just around the corner, because we like to be impressed, and we also like to shit on people. AI-generated writing is crap and will remain so because, despite it getting better, it will be same-y. We will always have people who love what they do as creatives who will attack those that just cash in without much effort. We all need to be like 50 Cent!

50 Cent relentlessly went about crushing Ja Rule, and it worked. We must, and we will, because we can’t help ourselves. Crush these soulless twerps who have no personality and just pump out meaningless content over and over again for a swift payout. They don’t impress anyone, and they can only copy what others innovate, and they can’t even add a good spin onto what they copy, because most creatives get inspired and hacks just steal, and our brains know how to separate it.

The people have rejected globalism over and over again for the last 10 years or so, despite the machine and all its money and influence trying its very best to crush dissent. The humanity in us will do the same to a lot of AI, because those that want to wield it the most are a clear enemy to what we like about being human.

Globalism is a trend. 3D is a trend. AI is a trend. Being impressed by human ability and creativity is forever.

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I have been there around 5 times with different groups of people over the span of 15 years. The first time was as a teenager with a large group of friends, which wasn’t exactly memorable, nor was it terrible. It was during the last two times I went—about 2 years apart—that left long-lasting memories.

As a horny teenager and twenty-something—and I have news for you, I’m still just as horny—there was one simple objective: smash loose Lucys in whatever form you could find them. But these last two times revealed that this was a far more difficult goal to complete. Not because I had no game. Not because the place attracts ladies who keep their knickers on. Not because it wasn’t that busy—it was busy, but because the man-to-woman ratio had to have been 12-1!

The second to last time we stayed at a grotty campsite on the outskirts of town. There were four men and three girls (all single friends), and on our first night we boarded a bus service to take campers into New Quay for fun, frolics, and (no) fingering. This journey was when it hit me. As we boarded, the three girls in our group drew an unwarranted amount of attention from all the ‘lads’ on the bus. They were terribly excited to see soft-skinned, vagina owners embark on the same vehicle as them. It was like they had not seen any women for weeks, and this was not in fact a holiday campsite but a prison camp.

What the shitting turd was this all about?

My answer came when we sat in a busy bar along a busy strip and engaged in some good old-fashioned people-watching. Every British seaside town—from the run-down, smack-holes of Rhyl and Burnham-on-Sea to the allegedly glitzy locations of Bournemouth and Brighton (the official gayest seaside town in the UK)—is a hotbed for Hen and Stag parties. Dozens of large groups of idiots dressed, appropriately, like idiots smashing shots, screeching, and fighting their way through every bar in town. There were many of these groups in New Quay that night, but for every hen party, there were at least twelve stag parties.

Slop-faced townies and village imbeciles romping up and down dressed as Spiderman, Batman, sluts, and kangaroos. After the sixth group had staggered by, we all acknowledged to each other that this was a bonafide sausage fest.

And that’s what made it incredibly problematic. Instead of us men hunting for that sweet pussy juice infused with WK Blue and Smirnoff, we were defending our female friends from the consistently unwelcome advances of groups of drunk 5 out of 10s (not my words; I am very straight). It became relentless. Every minute some Gary or Dean would make a spastic moonwalk over and try to grind on one of the girls. Then one of us would have to get him away. Then they would ask if one of us were their boyfriend. Then we would be accused of being cock-blockers. Then we would debate whether women should just fend for themselves. Eventually we told the girls to carry knives and act like a man.

This was sausage city. This place had no clubs that I liked. No bars that impressed. No eating experiences that made me drool. No pussy to plough. So why did I go back two years later?

Well, a different group of friends thought it would be a huge laugh. And, to be fair, it was hilarious because of the extra layer of revelation that slapped us across our collective faces: it was like jail. It was such a sausage fest that it turned you gay; there was no other sensible choice.

Because my group of friends wanted to have a weekend of unlimited jokes, we decided to stay in a hostel in the heart of New Quay town. We booked our own room to share like we were at Colditz, except that the Nazis had the nerve to charge us for our imprisonment.

We went out from bar to club to shitter club to shit bar to terrible club. I drank one of the worst pints I’d ever tasted. I got into a fight with a fat woman who wanted to push to the front stage of a club to see a terrible tribute act—which turned out to not be a tribute act but the actual act that had clearly fallen on the hardest of times. It was inside these clubs that I, and my friends, noticed that the town was not only sausage-heavy but so heavy on sausage that they had made the decision to cosplay as gays.

And what exactly were they doing that was hella gay? Every time a song came on that they liked, these men would rip their tops off and hug and grope each other in some sort of sweaty, bare-chested glory. I’ve been to many raves and seen many men off their chops on MDMA with their tops off and engaging in sweaty, topless straight man love, but this wasn’t that.

Some were rolling around on the dance floor hugging, and some were even dry humping. This wasn’t exclusive to one group; there were countless groups of men who clearly had no association with the other groups doing this. And they were straight men. How do I know they were straight men? Because gay men don’t behave that gay.

This was a source of amusement for my group of friends. We laughed until our stomachs compressed so much we had to take a lie down. This seemed to occur in most of the clubs we went to, and once again, the ladies were vastly outnumbered by these swarms of straight-gay men, only this time they appeared to have completely given up on trying to score with any chick. They had accepted that it was men and only men, like a first-timer’s premier year in jail. But that was nothing. Outside of the clubs and inside the sanctity of our lodgings, this was ever present in a much more x-rated form.

It was on our second night at the dirt hostel that we discovered there was no return from what the sausage fest of New Quay could do to a man. One of my friends and I were smoking downstairs before embarking on another night of bizarre tops-off-for-our-favourite-song shenanigans. One ‘lad’ engaged with us, and the conversation turned to what he had witnessed at the hostel the previous night—something our group had been blissfully unaware of.

He said that a group of ‘lads’ were very drunk and carrying on their party at the hostel. He then said that two of these ‘lads’ decided to have some straight-man banter fun by one of them sucking the other one off! The ‘lad’ was bemused by this; he was like, “What the fuck!” And we were like, “What the fuck?” Then he dropped a clanger, “They didn’t even do it for a bet!” Oh. For a bet! That would be far more acceptable. It’s one thing to suck off your friend for a bet; for some drunken laugh, that’s crossing the line into gay town.

My friend and I realised at that moment that this was a special kind of town that did special kinds of things to the brain of a straight man—or that most of the male population of our nation were complete aliens to us. Nevertheless, we went back out, witnessed more gayness, went home on the Sunday, and never returned.

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Mr. Musk, the rocket man who owns X, is also deeply concerned. Should anyone be deeply concerned about the UK? Possibly yes, but possibly not. It’s nothing that new; it’s only just now that people decided to give a shit for whatever reason. You see, you have to understand that the UK authorities do things for specific reasons: to maintain the establishment and the polite society it controls.

Britain is the place of euphemism. Some cultures that travel or move to Britain believe that euphemisms are sly, hidden disses, when actually it’s just that we have to be polite. We will say your house is ‘cosy’ rather than small, because why offend someone? If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything, pal! It makes sense; it’s actually logical; most people don’t want to hear the truth.

This is why when we hear a 10-year-old boy say they are actually a lady, we will just say, “Of course you are, dear!” This is a polite society where we both apologise even when just one of us is in the wrong. This is why the police, MI5, MI6, and GCHQ deal with people in the manner that they do. Keep the peace. Maintain the system. Keep society polite.

I recall the Canadian journalist and activist Lauren Southern, along with some other hot right-wing chick, being denied entry into the UK from France or some other silly European country. The border guards refused her entry by using laws passed under the Terrorism Act—another delightful gift from the post-9/11 fear and control mindset. Lauren was gobsmacked and couldn’t believe she wasn’t allowed into the UK because of terrorism laws! What terrorism had she committed or been suspected of committing? I’ll tell you what! She was inciting terrorism; that’s what the police were concerned about.

Lauren had actually already been in the UK before exiting to that silly European country and trying to return. She spent most of her time in Luton—a town considered to be one of God’s greatest mistakes. Luton is the home of Tommy Robinson, the birthplace of the English Defence League (EDL), and also home to a number of very naughty Islamic terrorists, some of whom carried out some very naughty terrorist attacks. If the British government could get away with it, they’d flatten Luton with bulldozers and rockets and relocate all the opposing groups far, far away from each other. The Chinese would! And that’s why the British government has a little boner for China. Anyway, back to Lauren and her shenanigans.

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Lauren was conducting a ’social experiment'—which was also more like a dangerous troll—in Luton. Since there had been some fracas over leaflets handed out somewhere before stating, ’Jesus is gay!’ She thought she’d hold up a mirror to society and see how it reacted to flyers saying, ‘Mohammed is gay!’ This is all well and good, I suppose, but the problem is that she did it in Luton.

Luton is a dirty mark on polite society. The police do not want lunatic brown men from Islama-land running around town with explosive backpacks and Reebok trainers. That won’t do. They don’t want to be constantly ragging on the Muslim community, telling them to stop being bloody naughty, because the Muslim community tends to get very upset by very minor things. Riots are one thing, but the severed limbs of children at pop concerts are something else entirely. The police don’t want these nutters to be gifted with any excuse to act like a nutter. Persecuting someone like Lauren was a much easier and swifter action, so they did it. Simple as that.

It’s also worth noting that you can’t be letting any Johnny or Jenny foreigner flounce around British towns and upsetting the locals. That won’t do. You need to immigrate here to be allowed to do that. Lauren should have been more clued up on how bad it is in Luton and how the police react to any groups that upset the Muslims. This isn’t because they have a soft spot for the followers of Mohammed—it’s because they don’t want them acting a fool. This is why Tommy Robinson is constantly persecuted. This is why they do everything they can to prevent Britain First from gaining any legitimacy. This is why the media always call Nigel Farage a ‘bugger.’ It’s always about this and also about making sure anyone who messes with the establishment and their idea of a polite society gets clapped. And there’s a rich and long history of this.

Look at the Kray Twins. If you don’t know—maybe you have seen the Tom Hardy film Legend?—the Krays are Britain's most famous gangsters, but by far not our most successful or dangerous ones. The Krays got on the wrong side of the establishment because they were celebrities who were also folk heroes. They mixed with celebrities, they mixed with politicians (and Ronnie Kray even had sex with one apparently), and they were even on TV! It’s not the crimes they committed that mattered; it was their image and influence. They lead a life their way.

In Reggie Kray’s autobiography, he often spoke of his, his brother’s, and other gangsters’s ‘diversity.’ This diversity isn’t the modern kind where you have a think tank that looks like the United Colours of Benetton but has a shared robot brain. This was a diversity of culture, a totally different way of life compared to the average Briton. This was not playing by the rules of polite society. The Krays stood for something, and people liked it, and the establishment couldn’t be having that.

The Krays were in prison for far longer than their given sentences. If you know anything of UK prison sentences, you will know that a life sentence is 25 years, and most are out in 15. I know two people who’ve both killed a man. One was manslaughter, and he was out in two years. One was first-degree murder; he was out in less than 15. You can see many cases of killers serving these kinds of terms over the previous decades leading back to before the Krays glory days. The fact was this: they wanted them inside.

The Krays were already writing books and having films made, and the late 80s and early 90s gave birth to the age of the celebrity gangster, a thing that the Krays pioneered. They couldn’t have that. Both Krays were only released when they were incredibly old and ill. They rotted in prison because they were a threat to the idea of the polite society.

A hot talking point of late has been 'two-tier policing’ in the UK—the idea that there is one rule for one group of people and another for the other. This is fairly true, but because there is some logic to the madness, and the logic is dictated by what’s the easiest way to maintain the polite society.

There is a chain of events that lead up to the two-tier policing trending topic, and the perception of these events has gotten many people a little confused.

First there was the riot in the Harehills area of Leeds on the 18th of July. This was sparked off by social services removing four children from a local Romany family. The area is a diverse mix, with not just Romany people but, like many big Yorkshire towns and cities, also many Southwest Asians. Because Romani people are dark-skinned, many useless tools online assumed this was Muslims being naughty again. Some Asian men, along with Romani, were caught on camera burning stuff and one man trying to blow up a bus! It was lawless, dystopian-looking chaos. Not good for a polite society. But the usual reactions from the tools on the left and right were typically boring and unoriginal. The right getting the details wrong and the left defending the indefensible. How lovely.

Then, shortly after, there was the incident at Manchester Airport on the 23^rd of July where we all saw videos of police stomping on Muslim men. Then we got to see the full footage and realised that one of these Muslim men had smacked a female police officer. That just won’t do in a polite society! As usual in the modern age of clipped video, we only got to see what someone wanted us to see at first, and by the time the full footage had been released, the story someone wanted to be the truth was the only truth. This whole fiasco made many different groups of people a little pissed off for different reasons.

Following this, the term two-tier policing started doing the rounds, and by the 29th of July, three small children were fatally stabbed by a nutter from Wales in the northern hole of Southport. That’s the headline that is true, not the headlines we got from the opposing culture war armies. In a little over a week, a bunch of stuff happened that got everyone very upset and even more upset about the government’s response to these different events. The riots that followed the attack in Southport were nationwide and pretty destructive. We hadn’t had a nationwide riot of this nature since the summer of 2011, after the shooting of local East End naughty boy Mark Duggan (seriously, he was proper naughty; his godfather was one of the Noonan’s, a notorious crime family from Manchester; just think about that for a minute or two).

The reaction from the newly elected NPC bot dripped in flesh that is known to outsiders as Sir Kier Starmer (not a rejected Game of Thrones character, by the way) was concerning. He locked up so many rioters that he actually had to empty the jails to fit them all in! Think about that. That’s like something that happens in a silly country like Honduras, not a polite country that produced Shakespeare and Joan Collins.

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Regardless of whether there was a disproportionate number of arrests and lengths of sentencing for those involved in Manchester Airport, Harehills, and the Southport riots, it’s the messaging from the government and their media stooges and the useful idiots of the internet that matters. As far as we were told, those involved in the riots that were a reaction to the murder of little girls were scum and would feel the full force of the law. The reactions to men smacking women and bad parenting were treated with kid gloves. This was a clear two-tier approach. But that’s because most of the people who got arrested over the Southport-related rioting were not Islamic nutters; they were going after anyone who may be Islamic. Those of the Islamic faith don’t react too kindly to silly cartoons, let alone drunk men trying to burn down the hotel they’re sleeping in. They made an example of those who would ignite a fire that would lead to worse things in polite society. Also, they were challenging the decisions of the establishment, which was to let in millions of migrants with impunity. Don’t be naughty, Gary; we know what’s best!

Another small point that is overlooked is that these incidents happened during the height of summer, and Britain always has rioting and lunacy when it gets too hot. It’s Britain for goodness sake, not Dubai or central Vietnam. We’re not built for this heat. We lose our minds as soon as there is a mere hint of sunny weather. This is a climate issue! Which nicely leads to the other side of the response about two-tier policing—the sentences dished out to climate-cult fanatics.

Some of those climate change protesters who represented Just Stop Oil, Extinction Rebellion, and whatever the others decided to label themselves were given incredibly lengthy sentences for obstructing traffic and defacing art. Roger Hallam, for example, was sentenced to 5 years—in July, what a month that was!—for his role in obstructing the M25 motorway, the motorway immortalised in the Chris Rhea song Road to Hell. Whereas Thomas Birley, the painter and decorator who decided he’d burn down a hotel housing migrants for a giggle, was sentenced to 9 years in jail. Only an extra four years for a crime that potentially could lead to a far more serious offence.

The usual left-wing bots and blobs thoroughly enjoyed trolling the right-wingers for talking about two-tier policing when pointing out the sentences given to climate protestors—which is silly, because surely they should have acknowledged the existence of two-tier policing and joined forces with the right and brought down the government, and we’d all live happily ever after (what a bunch of useless twerps they are!). But all of them failed to see why the climate protestors were given such harsh sentencing.

Like upsetting Muslims who have a habit of blowing themselves up at teeny-bopper concerts, you can’t go around disrupting the polite society. Our society needs to function, and the M25 is cause for much annoyance and disruption to our polite society. We can’t have busy working people getting held up even more and getting angry and punching little drips with ‘stop the genocide of Mother Earth’ written in faeces across their bare chests. No, that just won’t do. You’re making people upset and holding up the transit of goods. The establishment wants to make it clear that some jumped-up pansy with a useless degree from a bog-town university of no merit glueing their face to a dual carriageway isn’t going to mess with our police society. People have bills and shit!

If you really paid attention, you would understand why certain people get penalised and others don’t. It’s not about intent; it’s about effect. Those poor schlubs who got arrested for even mentioning they were going to join in with the rioting in 2011 on Twitter got two years in jail. This has been going on during all my existence on earth. When the BLM riots reached Britain during the madness of Covid in 2020, they weren’t given the full force of the law treatment—unlike the anti-lockdown protestors—because they didn’t really present much of a threat to the polite society. That’s right, Tarquin, your marching and statue toppling weren’t taken seriously by the establishment; you were just silly to them and unworthy of deserving punishment.

This is unlike those from the hoods of Britain who rioted in 2011 and the working-class hoods of Britain in 2024—these are naughty people who fight, stab, and shoot, and we can’t have them being naughty in public in such large numbers—that’s not good for the polite society. The snotty students and their Black Power fists are very cute, but when they start disrupting the transport system that the polite society depends on, then they’re getting bottom-fisted as much as a Ghetto Boy from Lewisham and a painter and decorator from Sheffield.

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