The Fallacy Of Representative Government.

Who can say what the difference between a valid government and an invalid government is?
The 'real-politikers' would suggest that any group of people who could factually claim to speak for a geographical area would be a 'representative government'.

Hence they achieve the spectacle of allegedly valid, 'Western' governments actually sitting at table and talking with governments like the old Soviet Union, Saudi Arabia, Red China.

At other times there are governments which are declared 'outlaw', which is to say that they do not kow-tow to the majority views of other less harmful governments.
So Afghanistan and Iraq are invaded, and Iran and North Korea are (ineffectually) threatened.
Red China is always 'among the first to condemn'.
After all, they have a moral postulate to project.
Then they sell more arms and threaten more neighbours in the name of their oh, so sincerely held 'dreams' of reunification, ie victory by stealth.

But what is the consistency of these policies?
Why some and not others?
Well, the evil of Afghanistan was such that thousands of New Yorkers were murdered one morning in 2001.
Iraq had previously invaded Kuwait; the opponents of the Iraq attack took the 'causus belli' pretence as a decider for foreign policy, saying, as the 'West' had failed to do, that one 'needs to be in hot pursuit' to invade.

They did this, because, as they have for the past 75 years, they look for the apparent weakness in the intellectual positions of the defenders of civilisation.
That is to say, the nay-sayers have no actual position to project;like all parasites, they exist solely on the reflected energies and invention of other people, having no essential truth of their own, but simply a system of devices, devices which are supposed to act in the psyche of other people who really are trying to make a difference.

They await the day that they can feel their faggot hegemony made real by the surrender of millions, at which time they will finally try to get a life, fail, and take up killing sans-pretence.

But how did these people get a foot in the door?

Through the fallacy of 'representative government'.

The essential fiction that the creeps worked hard to feed(and it worked very well until 1980) was that a nation should be left to its own devices as long as somebody could claim to speak for it.
If there were a few problems, these would soon be ironed out if we welcomed Herr Hitler and Mister Stalin into the fold of nations.
And this is what led to the 1939-45 war.
This should have put an end to them, but they are there, like pus oozing from under the scab of an old wound.
And they will go on reappearing until we finally determine for once and for all to eliminate woolly thinking from our position on the status of government.

Government is secondary.
It doesn't speak for anybody; individuals speak, other individuals agree or not.
Government is not validated by the destruction of alternatives.
Government is singular, and every replacement should represent a revolution in the sense that there is no ship of state with alternative captains, but a new ship after every vote.

And until it is safely docked and can't take any of us to places we don't want to go, it isn't representative of any kind of peace or consent.

Out And Down In Cardiff And Bristol.

I've been to another job interview.
I thought my cousin had given me an Advil(Paracetomol) when I awoke in his Cardiff mansion this morning after a grand night of beery sleep.
By the time I got to Bristol(after buying some ridiculously cheap and smart shoes, an emergency pair, from Tesco)the goldfish-bowl effects of driving in heavy traffic, heavy rain and thick spray with clouds down to 100 feet, left me feeling physically dizzy.

I drove up the hill(or so it seemed) to Bristol, feeling as though it was getting ever steeper.

I got there in good time, studied the literature and tried to put up a good effort.
At least they gave me coffee.

God only knows what the pill really was.
Could it have been the 'Mystery Pill' from The Briefs' song?

Anyway, when I got to the forest of Dean on the way back, I parked up, ate some food, drank some spring water, and caught some shut-eye.

Back in Yorkshire by five.

Back with the giant rat upstairs, who immediately set to work to prevent me from sleeping.
Not that I was.

Incidentally-the picture is of a new arts building in one of Cardiff's disused docks.
Apparently all the steel is recycled from the Splott steelworks, and all the slate is recycled from various neighbourhoods that were previously redeveloped.
These things seem to be a risk of being a 'Capital City'.
Some people like the new areas.
Some more people only like them ironically.
As is the style in the UK.
Pathetic.

The Toohey Machine

Well.
After being woken for the fourth time in five hours by the life-form upstairs, I have decided to have another go at writing a planned article about an insight that flashed by while I was bathing; the 'chicken and egg' question.

Is the behaviour of these unfortunate creatures a consequence of the obliteration of self, or is it the chief agent in obliterating the self?

The creep tried the fatted calf approach by leaving me alone for a couple of days; then tonight.
Obviously it didn't work, but when you are on your guard for a behavioural violation which is more or less chronic, will the removal of the creature, or your own removal to another place of dwelling leave you with an inability to believe in whatever peace and privacy you then regain?

Or will you remain traumatised into alert, unable to exist in any moral sense?

The fact is, that these otherwise stupid creatures behave with a complication which is, on the surface, close to the brilliance of the savant, but only in the field of sadism.

They are the sword of Damocles, hanging over us in eternal threat, permitted and encouraged by the idiocy of law that forbids physical intervention.

Yet, in this country, after that fact, many paths to forgiveness are permitted, even allowing for the extermination of the object.
Sure.
But I'd only go to gaol for five years.
And of course, I'd be excluded from Canada.

Wouldn't it be a terrible country, this Britain, if there were people who exploited the abilities of bastards, even bigger bastards behind the scene, betting their Quatloo's on the outcome of a conflict that would serve to keep everybody down?

Can't have too much ambition, because ambition and knowledge are surely the arch enemies of good governance; and perhaps that is what goes on.

Progress Has Been Made.

David Cameron after 1 year as Conservative 'Leader':
"Substance is knowing what you believe."

Soreheaduk after his first sip of Tetleys:
"Substance is believing what you know."

Soreheaduk after his second sip:
"Knowing what you believe is the same as remembering what you said."

Soreheaduk after his third sip:
"Which is necessary for liars."

Hat Tip To SAMIZDATA.NET!

See this!
The use of violence to protest against violence at the expense of pacifists.

Red Wedge, The Death Of Music, And How They Tried To Murder The 80s

Back in the early eighties in Britain, a bunch of less important musicians got together and formed an umbrella group called 'Red Wedge'.
They tried to characterise the populist libertarian revolution of Margaret Thatcher's Conservative Party as some sort of old-fashioned reactionary backlash, and thus kill argument by defrauding people of the correct terms of reference.
What was honest about Red Wedge, however, was it's desire to adopt and promote the Soviet Union's cross-cultural samizdata techniques.
To these people, Maggy and her government were a threat which had sprung upon a hitherto defenceless society like some sort of unstoppable monster from the 'Unthinkable Zone'.

She really did cause dry throats among the reactionary clique to which these musicians belonged.
So they declared, openly, that they would politicise music by declaring it the fiefdom of communism.
The usual techniques were used; puff-jobs to create the illusion of fame and fortune; sheer bloody stubbornness to filibuster their tunes into the public awareness(how many songs were released and re-released until the public surrendered?)

The new twist was that when they saw their monolith disintegrate in the face and force of the gusting eighties optimism, confidence and material progress, they kept quiet about their roots but kept on preserving their commercial positions so that they would be in a position to 'mentor' those among the up and coming who might be open to influence; and ultimately navigate the culture away from those who weren't.

So people like Nik Kershaw, Kate Bush, Chris Isaacs and others were gradually left behind to become 'of a time' specifically of the eighties; bands like Duran Duran resisted heroically, but have now become a rather forlorn spectacle, bootlegging their undoubtedly accomplished pop into the modern day under cover of middle-aged attempts to appear youthful.

There are many, many people who still, rightly, cannot accept that the eighties were murdered by the virulent efforts of malfeisant demagogues, spluttering out in the early nineties(the last time that black and white people shared common popular culture within society as a whole), and finally fragmenting and destroying music itself to the stage where banality, mediocrity and a general absence of actual, unbridled talent are causing the industry to implode.

Still, if that's the price of halting progress, they're determined that we will pay it-and be grateful when these bastards deign to honour us with their previously second-rate abilities, now defaulted to apparent prodigy.

And commentators tell the young that the eighties were 'tacky' and 'brassy', while obscuring the culture of joy that existed and hiding the good stuff from the historically-minded public.


In other words, if everybody is faggotised, the real faggots look like he-men.

Yeah,the bad guys know us and they leave us alone....

Working through Harrogate these past three weeks, I've kept passing a Commonwealth War Grave.
The locals tell me that the headquarters of the Royal Canadian Air Force in Britain was at nearby Allerton Castle; a thousand Canadians made it to England only to die on take-off, or on landing(especially after being shot up and crashing in England).
Apparently they are buried in a central location(when and where possible) at Harrogate.
This is the picture from the gate.
You can tell they aren't US, because the wrought iron says '1939/1945'.
And I guess you can tell they aren't British because the workmen's van parked outside is marked 'Commonwealth' War Graves.
The gate isn't locked.
If you're ever up there the garden is very peaceful, and not far from the Yorkshire Showground.

Who Likes Gun-Guns?

Gun control.
Sensible.
Sensible if you believe that the passions of man should be divorced from consequence.
Sensible if you want to see your happier neighbours taken from their self-defended contentment and placed into the eternal discontent of fear that the coward feels.
Sensible if you want to remove the boundaries that govern your own evil impulses and replace them with boundaries preventing the establishment of boundaries.

I live in England, that is to say, I attempt to build my own hill of beans in a country that exists for the amusement of those that like to kick sand in faces and beans into sand.
Violence happens, is even forgiven, but just so long as it is without consequence.
When a man capable of consequence appears before the inmates of this place, they gather like dogs around a bear to begin the medieval sport of 'baiting'.
Except that we don't practise this on animals anymore, only humans, since this country is supposed to aspire to some form of civility or other.

Guns would put an end to this monatonic decline in human standards; but guns are banned due to the demands of civility.
In an ideal world, guns would not be necessary. The Utopian Cretins have said that the ideal will come about if we declare guns unnecessary; and enforce this lunatic inversion-at the point of a gun.

The next time you, who may live in free countries, hear someone demanding that you relinquish your guns for some reason or other, just remember this:
they are only interested in creating a society of thugs, in which it is safe to inflict any from of chronic violation and torture, while laughing at the alleged physical protection of the law, so that you may be reduced to the role of undefended, un-saveable victim, for all your years on the Earth they defile.

Don't give up your guns.
Remain the arsenal of freedom.
And give the chronically fearful something to fear.

A Grand Day Out

We drove back from the coast over the Yorkshire Wolds, the undulating plateau to the South.
In a village called Wetwang we stopped for refreshment.
The village pub was flying the rebel flag of Yorkshire, which used to be illegal.
It is, of course, the White Rose.

The weather ws perfect for the time of year, as my shadow shows.
A duck came out to see who was there and experience the honeyed 70 degree air away from the Village Pond. We continued through the Vale of York and through Leeds to:
the original Harry Ramsden restaurant in Guiseley.
It was dark by then.
Harry does the best Cod in Yorkshire, with the possible exception of one or two Whitby restaurants.
Guiseley also used to be famous for Silver Cross Perambulators, the Rolls-Royce of prams; the factory closed last year and has already been demolished.
I expect they'll build more houses.
And people will buy them, with what, I don't know.

But we don't have to let that spoil a grand day out.

Double Take

So I get back today from my triple shift, and lay down my head for a bit of shut-eye.
Naturally the moron upstairs realises this and starts shouting-as if to imply that other people were also getting sick of him.
I sleep.
When I awake, I feel so refreshed that I go and get ready to go out.
Now, this guy has developed a new irritant.
He whistles. On and on, tunelessly.He was even whistling along to a baby crying.

First take:

I go to the stairs on my way out.
There is another resident going down. We reach the bottom, and while I go to my car he goes to his.
A couple more people come out and join him.

Double Take: I go to the stairs.I hear a whistling from the upper landing which I have no time for.
The large, blond fellow on the stairs is looking at me, bearing down.
I ignore him and move briskly downwards.
Briskly so that if he imagines he has something to do with me, he has to keep up.
I hear a spluttering.
At the bottom in the ante chamber of the fire escape I look back.
The young, spotty, large fellow is reluctant to follow me in.
I walk out the other side.As I get to the main door, another guy is coming in.
I must have some sort of expression because he gets right out of my way.
The creep behind comes out and goes to his vehicle.
I see in a car mirror that his is a rental van.
Two more people join him- a very large, muscle-bound guy, and a tart.
They get in.And drive off.

So what does it mean?
Well, I've been around, and I've got quite an instinct.
Two large men-fake anger and provocation-an attempt to make me pay attention by bringing the genuine provocation out when I don't know what's up there-a rental van that nobody has been filling.

These would add up to a serious attempt(in their terms)to remove me entirely.
They botched it, I instinctively saw to that.
But this little bleeder upstairs really has gone too far.
I'm going to make a few calls and take out some insurance, and wait for him to lose it completely.
Maybe I'll get a 'Face' from some other part of the country to attend to him and his amateur pals.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors.

What do you do if David Beckham throws a pin at you?




Run like Hell!

He's got a grenade in his mouth.

Under A Co-Dependent Sun.

Why did so many people leave Britain to start countries in South Africa, Canada, America, Australasia etc?

Well, very simply, they wanted to escape from Britain.
Politics in Britain has been good, it has been bad.
But what has gone on and on is the social environment of this hell-hole.
There are literally millions of people who have been mentally and morally 'gutted', great fillets of their mental territory divided up and eaten by the savages that rule the roost here.

Because it is all in the mind,or rather out of it, they aren't even aware of it. They go dumbly about their daily business without encountering any apparent resistance to their chosen courses, but they pursue courses which are governed by the maze-traps set up in their minds; still, they are also crippled by the uncertainty and doubt that is fostered by the cannibals probing and violating gratuitously just to establish that they are safe.

But there are some people who are aware and see and fight back.
These are the subjects of the most extreme and virulent hatred and persecution.
And in this age, the dumb and the evil unite culpably to establish an empire, a British empire which tolerates no escape from the tyranny of its disinterest.
Disinterest?
Certainly, for the technique of the repressor is ever to appear unconnected to the events and actions which achieve its purpose, the bloodless murder by mental asphyxiation that satisfies; forget Marlboro, the flavour that satisfies the British is sadism orchestrated to a fine whining background.
Don't believe me?
Where else in the world is there something called a 'semi-detached' house?
What other purpose can it have but to maintain a party-wall between individuals, that drum skin shelter for all the centuries-old techniques of oppression, ie a device to prevent us growing too large?
The new British empire is ever the land of Tim Henman, the tennis player who was bound to lose because the British made him a loser.
And he didn't even realise it.

The Bottom Line

There are as many different types of people in Britain as there are different people.
Not really.
There are several main types of people in Britain.
There is the exploited underclass, the people who are capable of and actually do everything.
Then there is a massive number of 'people' who exploit, govern and live off these.
And they are by no means connected with the government, so forget that little knee-jerk.
Over these are the arch-controllers, very dangerous, very powerful, but too disinterested to micro-manage every aspect of the lives of others.
They merely float above like a Zeppelin, dropping the occasional 'bomb' to encourage the masses not to look for them, cruising and bruising in the sure knowledge that they will go unchallenged.

They are not the thing against which all the unsuccessful British rebellions rebelled.
They merely turn every rebellion into one more trap, suborning where possible, expelling where convenient, and killing where necessary.
The vast body of repression in Britain is the second group; these are the useless, those who think that engineers and honest businessmen are 'no better than they ought to be', the little golf-club apparachniks who stab in the dark, and from behind, to keep the dangerous few down, to make the workers work, and for less, for as little as they can survive on; for to keep us poor is to keep us chained.
If we have no money, we can't influence.
If we have no organs, we can't organise.
Today, they try to keep us from even escaping, because even their weak brains have begun to twig that they need us, to keep their miserable roofs on, to keep them supplied with electricity, gadgets, and food.
But because we are needed, they won't trade honestly with us.
Instead they seek to control us. Regulations, laws, pressure groups, committees, all designed to entrap us into believing that we have lives, while forcing us to produce for them.
Fully 10% of the people in this country want to leave.
For Australia, Canada, America and so on.
So the myth of social superiority is perpetrated and perpetuated on these countries.
Time and again, the oppressed have rebelled.
They formed Unions;socialism took over, with a wink from the nascent oppressors.
The Labour Party mouthed platitudes about liberty, mis-identifying the enemies of the productive, crudely believing that their interventions would sweep away the layers of stultifying repression, but actually becoming the repressors and destroying what legal framework of guarantees still existed.

Now people don't believe enough of the rubbish that goes around any more to give a damn.
The deluded seek internal exile, limbo.
The honestly desperate reject the rubber-walled blandishments of their abusers and seek escape.
Those with no chance dig in and join the lawlessness of the nether world;and only then does fear protect them from the curtain-twitching, coughing, spluttering, falsely smiling bastards of the actual establishment, the second group, those people who have grown fat off the efforts of others and would sooner die than relinquish control.

I Like It.

"Lor' bless yer guvnor."
The Ratzenburger has spoken up, against Islam, in the mildest but most truthful possible way.
The result?
A surge of lunatic murderousness from the Moslems.
Whatever His Holiness the Pope said, he didn't say it with flames, screams and a distorted look of demented hatred on his face.
These vermin are trying to intimidate the Pope for god's sake.
They have bravely murdered a lone Nun in Africa.
A woman!Of peace!
These bastards are trying to run us off our land and out of our minds, so that we are the helpless, pin-stuck victims of their evil mentality and their evil so-called religion.

It is time to withhold absolutely any sanction of respect for this diabolical garbage.
Long live the Pope for speaking up!

This Just In...

TASS announced that with regret, the Russian Space Agency 'will not be launching Madonna into orbit'.

Pity.

The Anti-Social Contract.

The 'Social Contract' is supposed to be a notional document which defines the role of the state in the life of the country.
In fact, is was something which delineated the allowable level of individuality permitted to actual individuals within the geographical regions sold to the contractors for whatever was deemed a fair price, sometime back in the twentieth century.

I never agreed. I was too young. In fact I was never given a chance to agree or disagree, and was never asked to sign an actual contract.
Nobody was. The 'social' variety of contract is in fact a deadly serious concept, a contract even more important than one between two business entities.
It is supposed to bind an entire world to a promise, a promise that we already know to be unachievable, false even.

The only part that applies is the binding.
And the binding is applied at will, because the 'Social Contract' is a Carte-Blanche one, not set to paper, except for a few vague and grandiose promises about the immense prosperity which will surely follow if we just do as we are told.
Very quickly the people who could achieve prosperity made their presence (or lack of it) felt ,by not doing as they were told.
And when they shrugged and ignored this legally unenforceable contract, they were immediately blamed for the failure, so that they became scapegoats for resisting their own human sacrifice.

Meanwhile, how did, how could, anybody feel emboldened to the state where they could envision such a device?
I think of it this way.
A generation of children was grown in school.
Schooling was involuntary and inescapable.This was supposed to inculcate social cohesion in the group; if it didn't exactly succeed, it did at least lead to a large number of young people growing into the expectation of a 'place' in the 'world', supplied by the 'world', safe, comfortable, and from the cradle to the grave.
But when they finished school at sixteen, they would go out into the remnants of the real world, and this shit would be kicked out of them and into a remnant itself, a last, lost gasp of dependency on and honest promise, something to resent, cherish and long for hopelessly.

Of course, the intelligent kids who stayed on to university had to be corralled, so their universities were also taken over by the state and turned into Catch-22 intellectual torture zones, where the rivalries of the Cold War could be relegated to an exploitable belief in West Side Story-type gangs.

And our gang 'won'.
But they won a game run by the other gang.

You're Joking, Right?

A pretty sight on a sunny morning in September, in a newly-residential area of canal-side Leeds.



The smell of malted barley being brewed into Tetley's Bitter was delicious, blowing in across the small block from the brewery.
You could have cut the air with a knife and fork and eaten it.

This, on the other hand, was just stinking.
In the window of a gew-gaw shop in town was this poster, apparently taking for granted what everyone suspects, namely that the conclusion to any 'well-rounded' education today is the incorporation of copious amounts of the official religion, Marxism.
Without challenge, without criticism, and in an atmosphere of moral intimidation that punishes any subversion of statist religion.
This is the real Church of England.

Note the surveillance cameras reflected in the window.

Pride And Joy

This was a child's bicycle, a pink, girl's bike.
The picture was taken on a Council Estate in West Leeds.
The bike has been destroyed, trampled into a buckled wreck.

Children are taught very soon that it is no use having a pride and joy, no use having property, no use liking things-in short, they are taught that it is no use.

The bastards doing the teaching probably suffer from urges.
They contain a psychological response that amounts to a deep-seated belief that it is 'no use'; and so they teach the lesson.

What causes this response?

Well, we've seen it before.
Remember Atlas Shrugged?
Remember Starnesville?
Remember the old man, the one who couldn't buy any records because his money went to pay for a child's dentistry?

Do you remember what he did?

If you remember, and are not some sort of 'Libertarian', the sort that looks everywhere for theoretical oppression based on ideas of theoretical coercion, then you will understand that Ayn Rand was not proseletysing or idly adding colour to a 'jolly good yarn'.

The photo shows what happens in a world where 'pride comes before a fall', and we are actually having the pride kicked out of us on a daily basis.
And where we exist on rations.

If Only Reality Would Just Go Away....

The British 'news' teams- television, the 'media'-have been striving as hard as their little intellectual legs will carry them to deny, deny and deny the existence of any reality with which they disagree.

They were opposed to the War (on terror), so now that it is a long-established reality, they try very hard to induce by the power of delusion a 'reality' of peace.
Thus, when any British soldier is killed in the war, they scream with outrage and repeat the question(that nobody has asked),'when will it all end?',acting shocked and surprised that actual men and women from Britain are being killed.

Their stilletto sympathy reaches around the backs of the soldiers and tries to kill them with friendly concern;it is denied that soldiers go to war to kill or die.
No.
These people are 'victims', a word which is paired like European cities with the word 'blame', and we all know who will get the blame.
Their predictions of the end of Blair are only accurate because they made it happen. They want the socialists to mount a parliamentary putsch to steal the remaining four out of five years of this government, and install a bunch of tinpot activists to reverse the actions of the hated one, the woman, the Iron Lady.
But it is a risky strategy; because David Cameron and the Conservatives might force an election, or benefit long-term, and that would bring the Tories back to power.
But it's safe now.They have rejected the teachings of the evil one also.
Or have they?

Too bad I'm not bothered.
You can't sneak freedom into England.
You can only sneak it out.

Notes From An Underpass.

The subjects in this note include suicide and prostitutes.
I searched for images; all I got was a pile of sickness and bullshit.
All the prostitute pictures were of cliched 'glamour', and suicide was a subject google seemed to want to avoid at all costs.

Driving back from the coast at 2am last week, I saw quite a few of the people who had already spilled out of the clubs.
A fat girl in hotpants was staggering drunkenly down the street with her consort, staying determinedly upright despite her inebriation in her dogged walk towards her few moments of whatever they had planned.
She probably didn't love him. He probably didn't care for her.
But they had jolly well gone out to a club, met each other, and were now going to do something they would work at not regretting; for what is the English world but a place where even these stolen pleasures would be taken away from you by the bastards if you didn't seize them and hang on.
But it wasn't exactly a dream come true was it?

Cut back to a year ago.

The traffic was jammed up.
When I saw the dead body under the tarp I knew why.
A jumper.
A pair of cold, thin legs protruded;wearing those wedge-like sandals.
A prostitute.

You see this is what makes me sick to see the bollocks glamour photos; a prostitute in downtown England is someone who has been lured into a descent, kicked and nudged by drugs if necessary, necessary to kill self-respect and necessary to hide from it when catching sight in a stray mirror.

They have bare, bruised legs, the quicker to get naked and to inject.
They have those wedge-sandals, because they are told by their lying exploiters that they make them 'tall and long-legged'.
Also they can slip them off quicker when things get industrial.
Their faces are usually old.

Their hair usually hangs down to their waist, because the rule of thumb fetish for pimps is the 'beauty' of long hair.
Besides, how else could you tell they are women, let alone human?

Anyway, sometimes they see the truth.
Like the poor beggar on the road.

Just remember this; they are all somebody's daughter.
And no human born of woman starts out heading in the direction they end up taking.

So some bloody net curtain-twitching bastards declare them illegal, because they are a reminder that their rotten bloody garden gnomes don't really make the world laugh with you.

And in a socialist paradise like England, there can be no economic motive; so it must be sheer devillishness of living here then.