Friday, 31 July 2009

Hyper-femine Feminine or Gamine

I'm going through one of my periodic "women aren't female enough" phases. This is when I look at women and they seem too like men, in as far as they have legs, shoulders, noses and all the other bodily parts of the human species. I'm yet to figure out quite what I want them to be, quite what kind of bodies they should have. Obviously something ab-human or meta-human.

It's odd really because most of the rest of the time I prefer gamine women, women with a slightly asexual, even boyish look, small breasted but with full hips. The width of the hips is more important than the presence of a waist, although a small waist and full hips and thighs is best. In fact the gene-hackers could do away with breasts and I wouldn't be bothered.

I'm mad you know.

It's A Good Thing My Parents Are Dead

Most people, in Britain and the USA at least, become restive and at odds with their parents in their teens, and leave home at 16 or 18 or 20 - this is the normal start to adult life, and usually leads to confidence, independence, a career, a partner, a family of one's own.

I never did, having been robbed of my confidence by my father's extraordinary combination of furious bullying combined with his needy insistence that I forgive him for his anger, which left me in the position of not being allowed  to be angry with him, yet still subject to his fury. Indeed, it meant that I became morally responsible for the outcome of his fury. I also became responsible for protecting my mother psychologically from the realisation that she had thrown her life away on my father and that his influence on both our lives had been malign. I think that had he realised what he was doing he would have been very sad and sorry, but he never did.

I never left home.

Given that I never left home, I suspect I needed my parents to die for me to get to a place where I can move forward. Sadly for me this happened very late in life, when I am ill from the effects of incorporating my father's negativity and the self-hate his treatment engendered in me.

Nevertheless, it is a good thing that my parents are dead. At least now at 50 I have a bit of a chance, even if it's a limited chance, for a little contentment and an end to loneliness, for a little abbreviated experience of life before the end of my time.

Mam and Dad, I am weeping, and my tears are as much for your wasted lives as for my own. At least I have a little chance now, but you never will have the chance to put things right for yourselves, not ever throughout all the long aeons to come unto the end of eternity.

Thursday, 30 July 2009

Americans. Hah!

I'm working through a book recommended nearly three years ago by my CBT therapist. It's called "the Feeling Good Handbook" by David Burns and is so thick and heavy that thrown with a good aim it could probably brain a police horse.

It's a well thought out book, easy to follow, and successfully designed to teach one to spot patterns of distorted thinking in oneself and others.

But it has one flaw - being american, the examples it gives of individuals with flawed thinking patterns are all on the following pattern:

"Courtney is a successful bond trader, who feels that whatever she achieves, whatever amount of money she earns for her company, it isn't enough"


"David is Senior Partner in a New York Law Firm, and as soon as he enters his office in the morning he feels overwhelmed and anxious at the amount of work he has to do"

Not a single "Don used to be a tool maker for a car manufacturer just outside Detroit, but since the company relocated to Mexico six years ago he's been unable to find work and feels hopeless about his and his family's future"

Or "Lateesha is a young widow working a twelve hour night-shift as a grocery clerk in a small store in a violent and run down ghetto of Baltimore. She is anxious that she has neither the time nor the money to raise her two young daughters well, and fears for what might happen to them should she be shot dead during a robbery".

American psychologists seem unable to recognise that there are more people out there than the wealthy and professional classes. I wonder whether it's because American senior medics work almost entirely in private medicine where they almost never meet anyone even as ordinary as a school teacher or dental nurse, never mind a crack whore or HIV+ rent boy.

Down to Hell

Turns out that every - EVERY - woman I know was motivated to be in touch with me because she felt sorry for me, not because she particularly liked me.

I had thought that even though I was clearly unable to attract women, being fat, bald, and poor, women at least liked me as a person enough to choose me as a friend for that reason.

I've spent three days checking back over my friendships with women and in every one, pity was their major motivating force, and at some point in the friendship women were remaining in touch with me despite their reluctance to do so, or even broke contact because they couldn't bear me any more.

I had not realised I was so hard to be around, or was estimated so lowly.

In this depression, this mental illness, I keep thinking I am feeling as bad as I ever could, only for something to pull me lower.

I actually chose to step on this particular trap-door by asking a woman directly about pity.

I have a will to self-destruction.

I have no idea what to do now.

Wednesday, 29 July 2009

Thanks for Nothing

A woman thought this man was a suitable boyfriend - he murdered her.
Ricardo Morrison
No woman ever thought I was a suitable boyfriend

A woman thought this man was a suitable potential father - he threw their child off a cliff
Cameron Brown
No woman ever thought I was a suitable potential father

Bald at 18, fat, and poor as fuck I was.

Thanks for the votes of no confidence, womankind, you bunch of shallow greedy blinkered cunts.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

Love seeketh not Itself to please

The myth of the love-vow had a lasting influence on Western culture. [...] Other societies have viewed love, desire and marriage in other terms, and the idea of marriage as rooted in a personal choice is as foreign to oriental traditions as the love of counterpoint, the belief in the Incarnation or a taste for confit d'oie.

It is hard to disagree with all that. Yet there is something that it overlooks, something which is at the heart of the medieval conception of the love vow, and of the marital practices that it has been used to authorize. This thing is the peculiar intentionality of human sexual emotion. Sexual desire is not a desire for sensations. It is a desire for a person: and I mean a person, not his or her body, conceived as an object in the physical world, but the person conceived as an incarnate subject, in whom the light of self-consciousness shines and who confronts me eye to eye, and I to I. True desire is a kind of petition: it demands reciprocity, mutuality and a shared surrender. It is, therefore, compromising, and also threatening. No pursuit of a mere sensation could be compromising or threatening in this way.

These are not claims about culture, nor are they claims about the way in which desire has been rationalised, idealized or constrained by institutions. They are claims about a particular state of mind, one that only rational beings can experience, and which, nevertheless, has its roots in our embodiment as members of the human species.

Roger Scruton "The Meaning of Marriage" 2006

Love is a matter of desiring the persona of the loved one as it is. It is most emphatically not a matter of selfishly manipulating the persona of the other to match one's demands, needs and preconceptions; that is merely a subtle kind of rape.

Roberta Holzmann "A Sceptical Feminism" 1987

Monday, 27 July 2009

Leszek Kolakowski is Dead

Leszek Kolakowski, the polish philosopher and scourge of Marxism, is dead.

Sunday, 26 July 2009

The Daemon of Royce Road

We were Mandeans.Yes, I’m a pretentious cunt, my saving grace is that I know it. Through pretending we become.

We were Mandeans. After the Old Prophets  but before Yeshua,  came Yuhannan.

After the heavy metal idiots, the bacofoiled hod-carriers, the closet queen showtunesmiths manque, after the exciting abortion of punk, but before the perpetual now, we were.

A foretelling.                                

A bridge.

After the Electric Circus but before the Hacienda came the Factory Nights.

The Factory was not a place like the Hacienda was a place. The Factory was a transformation, an occupying force, a portal.

In the ulcerated colon of Hulme, on a bend in Royce Road slumped a characterless one and a half-story council-built cack-brick sixties building. Lost amongst the limbo of crescents and vandalised rows of maisonettes, amid the confusion of planned tangle and narcotecture, driven past unnoticed by South Manchester’s post-hippy Dimtelligencia on their way to enjoy (read: doze through) a season of Yugoslavian Agitprop Animation at the Aaben Arthouse cinema a few hundred yards nearer to Trafford, and maybe “score” some “Leb Red” at a “shebeen” on their way home.


Oh, just a social club. The Russell Club. AKA the PSV, the Public Sevice Vehicle Club, because it was opened as a club for Jamaican Bus Drivers and Conductors

(children, in these olden days a bus conductor conducted the sale of tickets and the behaviour of passengers on buses, and was a Very Good Thing).

I don’t think I ever saw a Driver or Conductor in the Russell, Jamaican or not: Black punks – yes, there were black punks;  Alan Erasmus, Tony Wilson’s co-founder of the Factory Nights was black, but he looked very early seventies, not punk at all; Rastamen who sat crowded on the main stairs to the mezzanine, coz after all, we were in their club, not they in ours;  dealers; an impressively efficient bouncer. No Jamaican Drivers or Conductors. I think they must have been long bought out.

You entered the Russell by a door down the side of the building that faced back along Royce Road toward South Manchester. Inside the narrow reception a ticket booth to your left, then through the door into the Auditorium. The whole of the club was situated right of that door. There was a long bar immediately right, and facing the bar across the sticky floor of the audience space, a low, not very broad, stage and the DJs station. In between in the early, quiet days were tables where you could drink and talk before the DJ or the Band came on.  Our drugs of choice were beer, speed, cigs, and ganja a distant fourth. Above the bar, looming into the auditorium, was a mezzanine café that served fast food, mainly trays of chips in tomato sauce. If you were determined to be sick you could try the curried goat. That low looming mezzanine provided a low ceiling to the downstairs bar which forced the tallest regular[A1] , a giant of about  7’6”, into an uncomfortable hunch. To either side of  the bar were stairs to the mezzanine, the leftmost narrow and winding, the rightmost broader but crowded by those rastas in their haze of sickly-sweet smoke, some of them very deftly dipping the dozier white boys and girls who climbed past them.


Tony Wilson

Posthumously “Mr Manchester”.

Half Middleclass Wanker Pseud. All genius.

Professional Salfordian. Spent most of his childhood in the poverty-stricken Salford slum district of Marple, where gaunt and hungry accountants are worked all the late afternoons God sends, counting money. It’s south-east of Salford Town Hall, just a twenty mile walk. His granddad sold me Nana spuds, his other granddad pierced me mam’s ears.

In the earliest days of the Factory Tony would be on the door, taking your money.

“Who’s on tonight, Tony?”

“Vini …The Durutti Column”.

Failing all else, Tony would have his mate Vini’s band – a band in the very loosest of terms – on at the Factory. The Durutti Column was – and is – nothing punk or post punk. The Durutti Column was and is Vini Reilly and his melodic minimal ambient guitar.

We had no enthusiasm for the Durutti Column, but the Durutti Column can stand for every reason why the Factory, why the Russelll Club, was important, was great, was vital. As were the awful A Certain Ratio, who deserve a lot of credit for introducing funk to punk although their first musical babies were excruciatingly ugly, the poor little things.

The Factory was vital because the Factory mob learnt the lessons of punk then threw away its inessentials. Like most punk music. 

Looking back from three decades later, the whole punkpostpunk thing has become a cartoon, or worse, a Carnaby Street postcard. At least a cartoon has some wit and art about it.

To the then-unborn and the born-stupid, punk is mohawks (aka “mohicans”), fast dumb riffing and spitting. To Johnny-Come-Lately punks it was about food-dyed hair and bum-flapped bondage trousers bought from a classified ad in the back of SOUNDS. Food dye because they could wash it out for work or more likely school the next day.  To the marginally brighter it was about dole cue rock and half-arsed leftwing or anarchist politics – these had the worst long-tem effect, and are almost entirely due to the influence of the Clash. The attraction of the Clash baffled me and my friends at the time and still does. The core bands of Punk were the Sex Pistols, the Damned, the Clash, and the Buzzcocks. The Damned were an entertaining and harmless Status Quo comedy band at heart. That leaves the other three, from which you could choose two bands that sounded like they had been beamed straight from the future, or some blokes who used to be in a pub band led by a public school ex-hippy tosser with a phoney Lahndan accent. I’ll leave you to figure out which was the Clash. But from the Clash, who had two or three OK songs, came the half-baked political WankPunks like Crass, the Anti-Nowhere League and all the other crap that led eventually to the Crusties and Travellers, deluded hippy parasites in late Punk kit.

Find yourself some early photos of punks, punks from late 75 to 77. You won’t see a single bumflap or mohawk. The London punks, be they male or female, chose either a puritanical uniform of  short brightly dyed hair, be it bleached blond or electric blue or any unnatural-looking colour, deliberately overdone pissholes-in-snow eye-makeup, drainpipe jeans, fluffy mohair[A2]  pullovers, and narrow-lapelled box jackets or they dressed like they had lost their way to the Rocky Horror Show, like the much mythologised Bromley Contingent.

The Manchester Scene, the only UK punk scene independent of London, had a similar bifurcation of style, one tine of which was roundheads going out of their way to wear ordinary day clothes that weren’t the flared, wide-lapelled abominations of tamed hippie that had become the default style of the day, and the other tine the cavaliers of the Roxy Room at Pip’s, who were essentially sixth formers and art student posers ripping off the look of Roxy Music and David Bowie. The roundhead tine were generally the ones with some musical ability, and the ones most likely to affect not to have heard of the prog bands and hard rock bands they had idolised only months earlier.

All considered, the main fashion impact of punk was on male wear – it cleared out a decade of truly ugly shite. It allowed women to look more androgynous and wear tight trousers, but women’s styles are rarely utterly contemptible, and there’s a lot to be said even for a mid-70s Laura Ashley frock or a flared trouser suit. No, it was male fashion that punk revolutionised. Or more properly, re-set back to the simplicity and purity of Beau Brummel.


Back to the Factory. The Factory wasn’t a first generation Punk club. The first generation was the Electric Circus, Foo-foo Lamarr’s Ranch and perhaps the Squat, but these were just venues. They were rundown and/or small, and they became punk venues because they would let punk bands play, either because they were failing, or – like the Squat – they had a misplaced egalitarian commitment to allowing any old noise on. There were other venues like Rafters, and the various university auditoria, but these were incidental and could have been any club any time,

The Factory was different. It was intended. It was deliberate. It was designed. It occupied the Russell Club but it wasn’t the Russell Club. The Russell Club, with its brutal, ugly, barely functional post-industrial Manchester architecture suited the Factory, it had the right ambience.


The Factory was separate from the club it inhabited.

The Factory/Factory Records had an ethos you probably know about, or have seen in 24 Hour Party People, an ethos of being Magnetic North rather than Plughole London, of not binding its acts and workers to contracts, of taking a risk.

The Factory had a consistent look provided by Peter Saville, and its records had a recognisable sound  provided by Martin “Zero” Hannett, a curious blend of dub reggae mixing and string quartet attitude, where each instrument had the space to be heard on its own. This expansive open sound and the simple but memorable melodic basslines of Peter Hook were the real genius behind Joy Division, not the maudlin self-pity and adolescent poetry of Ian Curtis,  a hollow voiced Baron Knights Jim Morrison who couldn’t hold a note, although he did have that vital thing, Stage Presence - and unlike most adolescent self-pitiers, he had good reasons to feel sorry for himself and it showed.

Too many seventies music scenes were almost exclusively male and you saw a girl, she was there because she was a girlfriend. That was a large part of why going to gigs never appealed to me and my friends before Punk. And obsessive pop fans were and are usually female. Indeed. the word “Fan” was originally used to mock female followers of Popular Singers of the Fifties and is a diminutive of “Fanny”: as the dictionary would put it, “taboo slang: the external female genitals”).

The Factory wasn’t a club for boys. The Factory, like the Whole Punk Thing was a 50-50 Male Female scene, and as such, fitted the forgotten rule of thumb that if something is usually of overwhelming interest to one sex only, it will likely be toss, if it appeals to both sexes equally it will likely be boss. Consequently people danced at the Factory Nights, both vertically and horizontally, though the horizontal dancing was perforce usually on the vertical as well, consummated in the biting ammoniacal stench of  the club toilets.

Like any true scene, the Movers and Faces of the scene remained in the scene. Upstairs in the Mezzanine Chip Bar of the Russell on Factory Nights, the likes of the Buzzcocks and other bands would sit around comfortably enjoying their chip barms along with the ordinary punters, unhassled and uninterested in grandstanding. (Contrary to the claims of Buzzcocks and punk bores, nobody except Buzzcocks themselves ever called them Buzzcocks. They were always the Buzzcocks back then.

The Factory had punk bands on, but you were as likely to see Sheffield Electroniks like Cabaret Voltaire, and the Human League before they were remodelled into BadABBA and had a couple of tolerable pop hits as a front band for Jo Callis. And many of the faces from the Liverpool Scene came to the Factory. Merging these two streams, people forget that almost-scouse electronikers Orchestral Manouvres in the Dark were originally a Factory band.

The Factory wasn’t a punk club. It was the First Club of the Lessons Learned.

The lessons learned were these:

  • Two minutes of inspiration should be packed into two minutes. Or less. Not stretched to half an hour.
  • Doing the job earns the time. The point of dance music is to be danced to. There was nothing wrong with disco and funk at the Factory. If something can keep people dancing for ten minutes it deserves to be ten minutes long and it deserves to be played.
  • Sing in your own voice, you aren’t a black man from the missisippi delta, and you aren’t Jim Morrison, you’re an Electrician from Wigan and there’s nothing wrong with your own accent.
  • Punk is ded. Whatever the propaganda, punk wasn’t going to change the world, start the revolution, politicise the poor misguided proles, or even kill the Dinosaurs of Rawk. It changed the cut of trousers and imposed the discipline of brevity, and that is enough. The Factory was the first public sign that punk was, whatever the T-Shirts said, Ded. This is a lesson that some still haven’t learned three decades later, when many of the original learners of the lesson are grandparents, or on my council estate, great grandparents.

So, with the Factory we had a club committed to chance-taking, a club for punks who had realised that Punk wasn’t the future and wasn’t the end of Rawk, but had taught them useful lessons and a we-can-do-it attitude, a club with a deliberately designed industrial look and a club that knew and didn’t dismiss the pleasure of dance music. It did not wish death to disco.

According to the New Testament, John the Baptist was the cousin and foreteller of Jesus. He was the bridge between Old Testament Judaism and the Christian and Post-Christian World in which we have lived these last two thousand years. He is almost forgotten, except by a small and endlessly persecuted minority in Iraq - every analogy eventually breaks down - who see him as the true Messiah. They are the Mandeans.


The Hacienda was the venue in which punk attitude and Chicago house fused  and then inflated into the dance universe that we inhabit in our perpetual now. But the seed of this universe was the Factory.

Hacienda. >From Spanish, from Latin Facienda “Things to be done”. 1) a large ranch or estate. 2) a substantial stock-raising establishment, mining operation, or factory in the country.


 [A1]In hindsight I think this was Richard Creme, later to be Manchester’s hippest bespoke tailor, and the younger brother of  10CC’s Lol Creme, but I never spoke to him because he had no business being taller than me, the cunt.

 [A2]I think I mean mohair, but it was half a lifetime ago. Although in my head I still feel nineteen.

Welcome to the Harem

It's now exactly one week since I learnt the final lesson of my life, the lesson I should have learned the moment the first hair sprouted in my crotch. The lesson that other men tried to instil in me but to which I closed my ears out of a misplaced over-estimation of women.

I valued and priortised the wrong qualities, I listened to the bien pensant propaganda.

As if culture and sensitivity and education were important to prehistoric men and women, as if they are of any deep importance now.

I was expecting some generic Adonis - what I found was a knock-off of my former self.

I can hear the Gods laughing.

And my lesson learned? That to women a man's status is all. That women will overlook anything for that status, with its implication of security, which in modern terms means they crave money and dominance in their men, even if their men make them otherwise miserable.

Want to know why men are violent, unstable, overcompetitive? Because the greed of countless generations of women for high-status males has shaped men to be like that.

Goethe said "the eternal feminine draws us upward". Sentimental bollocks - the eternal feminine holds us down. Women are a sex so shackled to conformity that put enough of them together in a room and they'll even menstruate in tandem.

The eternal masculine drives us upwards. The desire of countless generations of men shaped women to be beautiful, fecund, and nurturing. Men have the focus to build the Cities but women have shaped men to burn the Cities down. The desire of women shaped men to be the very bastards women affect to hate.

Lesson learned.

Perhaps too late.

Or perhaps not.


From "Maud"
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Perhaps the smile and tender tone
Came out of her pitying womanhood,
For am I not, am I not, here alone
So many a summer since she died,
My mother, who was so gentle and good?
Living alone in an empty house,
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood,
Where I hear the dead at midday moan,
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse,
And my own sad name in corners cried,
When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown
About its echoing chambers wide,
Till a morbid hate and horror have grown
Of a world in which I have hardly mixed,
And a morbid eating lichen fixed
On a heart half-turned to stone.

O let the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet
Before my life has found
What some have found so sweet;
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,
I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close and darken above me
Before I am quite sure
That there is one to love me;
Then let come what come may
To a life that has been so sad,
I shall have had my day.

Birds in the high Hall-garden
Were crying and calling to her,
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud?
One is come to woo her.

Look, a horse at the door,
And little King Charles is snarling,
Go back, my lord, across the moor,
You are not her darling.

So dark a mind within me dwells,
And I make myself such evil cheer,
That if I be dear to some one else
Then some one else may have much to fear;
But if I be dear to some one else,
Then I should be to myself more dear.
Shall I not take care of all that I think,
Yea even of wretched meat and drink,
If I be dear,
If I be dear to some one else.

Saturday, 25 July 2009

Some Entries toward a Dictionary of Received Opinion and a Glossary of Marxist Obfuscation

Politically Aware: Indoctrinated with marxism

Anti-Racist: Self-hater

Anti-imperialist: Supporter of third world tyrants

Islam: the Religion of Peace

Jihad: Inner spiritual striving

Christianity: The root of all evil

Worker: When used in conjunction with Party or Committee, this word indicates that the organisation so named is made up exclusively of students, academics, and actors.

Jesus: "The first Palestinian freedom fighter"

Actually: Word used by all trotskyists to introduce party propaganda as truth, as in "actually Israel is an imperialist american apartheid puppet state"

Multiculturalism: Privileging of islam and other barbarous religio-political ideologies over superior european culture in order to further the Gramscian project of overthrowing western hegemony by stealth.

False Consciousness: Resistance to indoctrination

Anti-war: Pro-war as long as the war is against us.

Hate Women? Who? Me?

I can't imagine what would give anyone the idea that I'm feeling misogynistic. Just because I am.

All Grown Up

I walked down to Morrison's in the hot afternoon sun feeling increasingly pissed off at Her, and the dodgy sexuality of women in general, only to recognise on the till Naomi, Debbie and Tariq's girl, who I haven't seen since she was a tiny of about eight. She's grown up into a strongly built good looking 19 year old. I asked was she Adam's sister, just to make sure, and she said yes and recognised me too. I was very pleased to see her and told her she's grown up into a looker to which she said an enthusiastic "thanks". She has a strong look of her aunties, who are half north-african, all good looking, all tall and strong striking looking women.

It took all the sourness about women out of me.

God of the Quays

The pseudo-crystalline superstructure being constructed around the Quays. Just after dawn and just before dusk, and sometimes in heavy rain, the slanting light or a void in the falling droplets reveals the outline of a vast figure squatting in the centre of the structure, hundreds of feet high, otherwise invisible, and only vaguely human in shape.

Fuck and Shag and Get Involved

Ian Hough wrote:

"even when you were thin you found reasons not to fuck and shag and get involved"

Dead right - I must have been a complete fuckwit. I still am, given that I'm still doing it while the human insects that surround me live more fulfilled lives than me.

Dirty Old Town

Salford. A shit hole, dirty like a tramp's unwiped arse.

Wish I hadn't been born here, wish I'd been able to find a way out.

Not a place to live in, a place to leave - so kudos to you, our Ian.

Former main industries - docks and prostitution

Present main industries - dealing, thieving, and signing on.

Function of Public Services - to facilitate jihad and divert resources from the indigenous poor to sleek greedy incomers.

Public Services controlled by: the usual coven of troskiist entryists and Gramscian Whores of the Caliphate.

The only help the Poor ever found was from themselves, and the Socialists destroyed that culture of mutual self-help and self-improvement more thoroughly than the Right ever did. The Right acted from self-interest and was happy to cream talent from the Poor, but bourgeois socialists simply stripped out mutuality, pride in self and culture, and aspiration, and replaced it with self-hate, "relevance", and dependency - dependency on an administration staffed and run by they themselves for their own resentful egomaniacal ends.

Bunch of turds.

Friday, 24 July 2009

There Will Not Be a Pop Quiz at the End of Your Life

"You might sometimes...wonder why all those newspapers which have books pages review exactly the same books in the same week. Wouldn't you think, in a competitive market, it would be in their interests to attract readers by offering something different?

One answer I think is that broadsheet readers do not tend to be people of an independent set of mind. They are the type who believe that there is in life a kind of national curriculum for adults, a set of things - "issues", as they tend to call them - which they need to know about, in art, politics, books, cinema, ideas, food, fashions. One paper may suit them better than another, but this is just a minor matter of flavouring, or more likely of habit. The Telegraph reader wants, or thinks he needs , to be superficially aware of precisely the same set of "issues" as does the Guardian or Independent reader

The real meat in life is hidden in nooks and crannies, that's why you have to read like an archaeologist, not like a newsreader"

Mat Coward "Success   ...and how to avoid it"

Why I Am Not a Socialist

A couple of socialists earlier this afternoon

Socialism has achieved nothing except to appropriate opportunity and economic resources to middle class women from the poor of both sexes - who always had to work - thus doubling the wealth of the bourgeoisie and condemning the poor of both sexes to empty third world lives out of view in the middle of first world cities.

Socialists were and are the enemy of the poor and are usually drawn from the resentful spoilt bastards of the young middle class, who have almost everything and want still more, from Trotsky and Lenin to Mussolini and Hitler.

On Not Knowing What's Good For Her

Lovable as I find her, her repeated acting in contradiction of her own stated feelings is pissing me off something chronic.

It's a good feeling.

It's Time

It's time to be selfish.