There’s no doubt that the world’s going mad, not that it was ever a stronghold of sanity in the first place. In the West we watch the citizens of our once proud nations being blown to pieces, beheaded, shot, stabbed and smeared across pavements by braying Islamists who we invited here – and we bow our heads and shuffle away, shrugging, while our governments tell us there’s nothing to see here. They draw a sheet across it all, sparing our eyes, soothing us with TV and welfare and manufactured outrage and the cosy glow we feel bathed in the virtue of victimhood. We have men in dresses beating up women, denying biology, lipsticked cuckoos plundering the nests that others have fought for. We have yapping children on the left of the playground, shouting down anyone who dissents, sticking their jammy fingers in their ears and chanting ‘racist’,’facist’,’hater’ to drown out difficult logic. We have a political system that no longer even bothers with the courtesy of sleight of hand – they have one fist in our pocket and the other pulling our strings, and they couldn’t give a fuck that we can see them, that we know what they’re doing. Because what are we going to do? Really? They’re counting on us staying here in the shadows, consoling each other with the balm of cyber comradeship, talking endlessly of what we’re not going to go, grumbling that we’re not going to take it anymore while continuing to take it. Where do we go from here?
So, having developed a bit of a taste for Dr Peterson, I began poking around on YouTube, and this was where the journey really began. The next thing I watched was:
Jordan Peterson being interviewed by Joe Rogan.
Joe Rogan came across as affable and open minded so I hung around and got introduced to Brett Weinstein.
Brett Weinstein took me to Gad Saad, and I briefly ran away from Gad Saad talking to Tommy Robinson and ran back to Brett Weinstein, who introduced me to his wife, Heather Heying and his brother Eric.
Heather Heying led me to Helen Pluckrose and made me take a closer look at James Damore.
James Damore took me back to Joe Rogan and so onto Sam Harris, then to Douglas Murray, then a little closer to Tommy Robinson, but I ran away again.
After running away from Tommy Robinson I encountered Stefan Molyneux, watched Richard Spencer getting punched, then returned to Jordan Peterson.
From Jordan Peterson, on to Claire Lehmann, Jonathan Haidt then took me back to Tommy Robinson, then on to Majiid Nawaz and Ayaan Hirsi Ali then back to Douglas Murray again.
Quite a journey so far, though not at all unusual. I see the same names arranged into similar constellations everywhere I look these days. There are some I’ve forgotten, some I’ve yet to encounter, but I’m grateful to each and every one of them for taking my mind and giving it a vigorous shaking. The lion’s share of appreciation has to go to Jordan Peterson – listening to him talk made me question the corrosive nihilism that had sunk into my marrow; he seemed to present a case that the ‘catastrophe of life’ could be unflinchingly accepted and that purpose – rather than futility – could be wrestled from the horror and the hardship, that perhaps even a higher meaning could be divined if we constantly dig for truth, no matter how hard the digging. It’s terrifying that we live in an age where his message of personal responsibility and search for and commitment to the greater good is seen as somehow dangerous and controversial; it just goes to show how wilfully infantilised we’ve become when someone telling us to grow up can strike some absolute terror into our hearts…
I never intended this blog to become a day by day account of my descent into hell through the various circles of Twitter – maybe it’s a warning to myself that I’m tapping away at that little bell icon too often in search of a dopamine hit that when I sit back before bedtime and survey the day’s wreckage laid out before me, so much of it is Twitter related. Anyway. Misogyny.
I ditched Facebook for good about a year ago. I was sick of the selfies and the histrionics and the perpetual sub clinical exasperation with everyone on there and the whole pointless, echo chamber circle jerk bullshit, so venturing onto Twitter a few weeks ago was an attempt to get back some of the media and less of the social, to discuss things I felt uncertain of with people I didn’t know and to possibly build new alliances with people of common interest. The last few days have felt quite positive, it’s felt as though I’ve been part of a community that’s been building itself from the ground up – lots of people with some similar goals and interests; some JQ nonsense and a bit of low level, bacon waving and not-quite racism, but nothing too horrifying. But then today WAS quite horrifying.
It started this morning with an article about a Muslim woman who was going to compete in a beauty contest, hijab and all. I got into a discussion with a couple of people – I thought this was broadly a good thing, in as much as any kind of beauty contest can ever really be a good thing, some people thought that wasn’t the case, we traded opinions pleasantly enough. But at the same time that this was going on, there were a steadily accumulating pile of grotesque, sexist, racist comments building up – over a hundred at last count. I don’t know why this shocked and disappointed me, really – I suppose I’ve been lucky so far. In the short time I’ve been on Twitter I’ve encountered very little real racism – and nothing like the nauseating misogyny that I saw today; the people I’ve heard defending Tommy Robinson, arguing against Islam and expressing concern over immigration issues have largely been at least as sane and as respectful as myself – the response from a large number of people who espouse the same values was quite revolting – it’s exactly the kind of behaviour they would say is displayed by adherents to a barbaric, medieval religion…
…and then there was an equally gruesome response to some ‘saucy’ photos of the misguided woman who’d led the campaign to have Tommy Robinson removed from Twitter. Someone had got hold of some candid shots of her (possibly him, to be fair – what the fuck would I know anymore?) and people were being encouraged to share them as widely as possible and make degrading comments on them. Vile – to be honest. I’m as appalled by anyone at the vindictive, self righteous way in which her and her team of santimonious outrage merchants colluded to have Tommy’s account closed down, but really folks, this is no way to organise a counter strike. This and the response to the Muslim beauty pagaent contestant just reveals a sizeable and vocal minority (I hope) of ‘our’ side to be disgusting misogynists who can’t spell, can’t think and are just as bigoted and outdated as those they profess to be protesting against. A very shoddy show, which does nothing to bolster ‘our’ credibility. To be fair, I recognised very few names amongst those tossing around the stomach churning comments about women’s genitals from earlier conversations about free speech/Tommy Robinson over the last couple of days – so maybe this is some grubby, muddled fringe element who need to have a serious word with themselves. I dunno. I’m tired and a bit meh about it all.
Tommy Robinson is dead – long live Tommy Robinson. No, he’s not dead really, thank goodness – he’s just been booted off Twitter, exorcised by the bleating priests of outrage. Forever, apparently. And that’s all well and good, it’s a private space and they can have whoever they want in it. He’s been thrown out as a result of a coordinated campaign by a gang of snot nosed cry babies who’ve gone squealing to teacher over and over again until exasperated teacher has expelled the (relatively) innocent kid just to shut everyone up. A catastrophic home goal, I think. Hydra-like, Tommy’s online presence has been temporarily beheaded, but there are already fresh heads with fresh teeth teeming from the stumps – a growing sense of people pulling together, beginning to get organised. There’s been a greater level of civility amongst people who might have been calling each other cunts yesterday; today it feels like they’re beginning to appreciate that maybe there are more things that unite us than divide us. Pulling together to bring down the enemy seems like a more realistic endeavour now we can begin to see what the enemy really looks like. And of course, Tommy Robinson isn’t dead. Maybe his enforced exile from Twitter may have positive effects all round – maybe he’s more effective standing in the streets, rallying the masses. Time will tell.
I blundered into a brief stand off with some real life altRight types last night. Someone had posted Jordan Peterson’s piece addressing the altRight and what they ridiculously refer to as the Jewish Question, and some of Richard Spencer’s supporters were demanding that Peterson step up and debate Spencer. I jumped in to say it would make for an hilarious spectacle and was swarmed by people seeking to correct me on this score. To be honest, despite some initial posturing and vague mutual belligerence, it was all pretty polite and I bowed up with a reading list that people had kindly furnished me with and some relief and surprise that nobody called me a cuck or a soy boy. I don’t really understand the whole altRight thing – I guess it’s more of an American phenomena; and I’m not sure I understand the problem they have with Jordan Peterson or what benefits they think they’d get from seeing him debate with Richard Spencer. I’ve never really seen Dr Peterson as a political beast – and I was confused to read people obliquely suggesting that he might have altRight leanings. It seems that a man preaching personal responsibility, virtuous behaviour and truth telling is now seen as at least bordering on being a fascist. So I guess I see why he may have sought to distance himself from the flakier edges of the right wing. But I need to look into the altRight for myself. I’ve seen Spencer being interviewed and he seems a little ridiculous, if earnest, and I find the whole white supremacy thing not really to my taste. Having said that, I suppose I’m okay with supremacists of any shade so long as their mission is the advancement of their own race rather than the subjugation of another. It’s this whole JQ (Jewish Question) guff that really gets me. It just seems so utterly at variance with any sane world view, entirely a paranoid teenage Nazi’s basement dwelling confection, all SS memorabilia and Hitler shrines in the bedroom. Nothing’s ever going to convince me I have anything to fear from a worldwide Jewish conspiracy. And I don’t know enough of what else these guys believe to really have an opinion. I’ll read up, and hopefully have some more civil discussion with those on the inside. Knowledge is power and all that jazz – and we can all benefit from that. Maybe beyond the crazy Zog bullshit there’s some common ground – at this stage, I really don’t know. I don’t know if racism is a non-negotiable part of the altRight deal. I guess I’ll find out. I was impressed by the seriousness and sincerity of the guys who jumped to Spencer’s defence – so I’m keeping an open mind. Not so open that my brain’s about to fall out, but – well, open enough.
There’s a war against hate, and the battleground is everywhere. It’s online, where the thought police will choke the voice of dissent, crushing the questions before they can be asked, it’s in our educational facilities where legions of overgrown babies drown out the grown-ups with their howls of outrage at a reality that won’t serve as a warm, milky tit dispensing soothing soma on demand, it’s in your MIND – where intention is a crime, where facts must never be allowed to cast a shadow over feelings.
You cannot hate – so you cannot love.
You cannot hate – so you cannot resist.
You cannot hate – so you cannot fight.
We’re locked forever in a burning nursery, drowning in the air.
So, I was going to write a short piece about last night’s little spurt of momentum, when someone on Twitter suggested that those of us who were following Tommy Robinson reciprocally followed each other, thus patching together a little online community of broadly like minded folk. So I’ve got a few people in my circle of virtual comrades who post pictures of Qurans being held open with bacon bookmarks and a fair few who are heavily into football and even one who’s into Shi Tzus – none of which really push my buttons. I think Islam’s a menace – I think uncontrolled immigration has gone way past the point of cultural enrichment and is now deeply corrosive to values and a way of life that we’re all being encouraged to feel ashamed of; but I find a lot of the Muslim baiting a bit puerile and a lot of the sharing of tales of Muslims doing evil deeds all over the world to be not particularly helpful – but I also feel, like I’ve never felt before, that we are all being asked to pick a side, to decide where we stand, and I’m choosing to stand with those who are hanging on to traditional, Western values. Even if some of those make some dubious choices in the kind of thing they chose to post on social media. A time’s coming when we’re all going to have to decide who ‘our people’ are. My people are my family, beyond them the friends and and bit part actors who make up my local community, beyond them my nation, further afield, Europe. My people are the people who are here already, who have contributed toward making this a better place, who are working to make this a country where our children can grow to enjoy the fruits of their ancestors’ labours in peace and freedom. It’s got nothing to do with race – my people are of all colours and all backgrounds and men and women of all creeds and colours have helped lay the foundations of where we live; it’s not where you came from but where you want to go – and if you want to move to a future that can make use of the gifts of the past in such a way that preserves and builds our shared culture, then you’re my people. We’re losing our identity as a nation – successive governments have sold our birthrights for a mess of politically correct pottage, trading lies and illusions for advantage and votes, the blood and sweat of generations for the opportunity to stuff their pockets as quickly as possible – a cultural supermarket sweep that’s leaving the shelves empty as they run out of the door…
And blah blah blah. I was going to write a load of stuff along those lines, but then I got up and checked Twitter and it seems that at some point in the last few hours Tommy Robinson’s account has been taken down. Love him or hate him, the man’s becoming more significant by the day – thousands of people are watching to see where he leads; I don’t think he’s messiah material, but he’s a prophet whose audience is growing rapidly – and the powers that be would do well to learn from the history of other prophets who states have tried to silence. It never ends well.
Now, Twitter aren’t a public service, however people may have become accustomed to viewing the platform – and they can toss whoever they want without explanation. But I’m watching the ants’ nest bristling with activity this morning – angry, reactive, spitting poison into the air. If what is seen as persecution of such an important player continues, then the spitting’s going to subside, and the ants are going to start organising instead. A column of ants on the move is a formidable sight – you wouldn’t want to get in their way.
My head’s tired from too much work, nicotine withdrawal and trying to make sense of what’s going on at the moment. More later, no doubt.
“They toil not, neither do they spin; yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. ” – Jesus, a long time ago.
I used to work in a Jobcentre, which for those unfamiliar with the concept is where lazy people go to be given free money and people who’ve diligently spent their whole lives plodding away on the hamster wheel of employment go to be told they can’t have any money because it’s just been given away to the lazy people. That’s a bit of an oversimplification, but not much. When I first started work there, I assumed that everyone who chose to work in such a place was probably a total cunt (apart from me) and that everyone who staggered through the door with their hands out was an innocent victim of The System, ground to a quivering human ruin by the greedy, gnashing cogs of capitalism. It’s amazing how quickly a bit of reality can crack those rose tinted glasses.
My colleagues, it turned out, were largely well meaning, perhaps misguided, lefties, underachievers, old hippies, tired idealists. The customers/claimants were a mixture of genuine people who’d fallen or been pushed upon hard times, the insane, and the fucking bone idle. “Nobody’s on the dole because they WANT to be” I’d once thought – despite the fact that whenever I’d been on the dole in the past it had most definitely been because I had wanted to be. A few months working in the Jobcentre showed me that there is actually a massive section of society who really DO spend all their time sat at home smoking weed in front of their 70″ flatscreen TV from Bright House, in between popping out to get another kid’s name tattooed on their neck or steal something to go sell in CEX. And that it’s nothing like ‘necessity’ that has led them to this – it is a CHOICE. Whole dynasties of people who had NEVER worked – ‘single mothers’ who would turn up with more and more children in state of the art buggies over the years while remaining ‘single’ – surly, inarticulate youths in designer baseball caps who’d sit there stinking of better quality weed than I could afford, fiddling with their iphones, rolling their eyes and kissing their teeth, telling you that despite their criminal records and zero work experience they wouldn’t consider getting out of bed in the afternoon for less than £10 an hour, people who’d threaten violence if you couldn’t see them because they’d missed a 4pm appointment because they’d ‘slept in’, people who would lie and menace and wheedle and plead, seeing you as nothing but a faceless, inhuman obstacle that they had to dodge past to dip their grubby mitts into the honey pot. Not the ill or the unfortunate, but the LAZY.
The lazy are a massive problem in our society. They have their hands in the pocket of the working man, always ready to excuse themselves with some tale of victimhood or entitlement or casual, lazy, ignorant racism – no jobs coz the poles have got them all. Whole generations of people sucking the light and the hope out of communities, refusing to grow up, refusing in any way to become the adults we need to shoulder the problems we face, fat, chocolate faced babies sat wailing in their own excrement, forever.
Since we decided, for better or worse, to leave the EU, the press has been filled with tales of how fruit is rotting in our orchards, the elderly are freezing in their own homes – all because the Eastern Europeans who had migrated here to work had decided to return to their own countries, and English people wouldn’t labour in the fields to bring in the harvest, or care for their own parents and grandparents. The hard working Poles were going home in droves, and the lazy English sat watching Jeremy Kyle, a grotesque, moronic, mirror of their own feckless, foul mouthed toothless existence. We have generations of people who WON’T work – who just don’t have the mindset for it; they believe that anything difficult or unpleasant is not possible, or that it’s not possible for THEM, or that somehow they should be exempt on the grounds on their own wholly unproven superiority. Not the sick, not the unfortunate, not those who who cannot work, but the LAZY.
We shouldn’t be importing a single migrant to do a job that one of our vast supply of lazy countrymen could be doing. Anyone who tells you ‘there just aren’t any jobs out there’ is LYING. There may not be many jobs that’ll pay you £40K a year and not require qualifications, application or actually turning up when you’re expected – but there are plenty of jobs scrubbing floors and caring for the old and serving fast food and so on. So many of the lazy are so PRECIOUS – there is so much they feel is beneath them, so many of the essential roles that need to be fulfilled for a society to function that they hold in utter contempt. They wouldn’t swap places with a toilet cleaner, but they’ll happily sit down at his table and eat the food from his childrens’ plates.
It’s not entirely the fault of the lazy. Nobody could spend their whole life as a baby were not the poisonous teat of the welfare state made so easily and unconditionally available. The benefits system in this country seems almost deliberately constructed to be of absolutely no use for those who pay for it, while providing an endless bounty for the irresponsible and idle who spend forever milking the cow without ever feeding it.
I don’t know what we do about the lazy. Maybe forced labour gangs or a return to the workhouse. Not as some kind of humiliation or punishment – that benefits no-one – but as a way of insisting that if you wish to be a part of this society and enjoy the fruits of its collective labour, then you must HELP, you must CONTRIBUTE. That would leave more for those who cannot work, it would leave more for those who need a shoulder to lean on until they find their feet again, and it would help towards building a sense of community – how can we all feel that we’re striving for any kind of common goal, working together towards a better future, when so many are just REFUSING to work?
Too many want to remain children, spending all day at play, letting the adults feed and clothe them, tidy their toys away at the end of it all, tuck us in and kiss us goodnight. But the adults need to step back and stop listening to excuses for why these eternal children still can’t stand on their own two feet. The lazy are dragging us down. We need to let go of their hands – and if they won’t stand, we need to let them fall.