Tuesday, 29 March 2005
Whilst trawling the highways and byways of the World Wide Web on an afternoons revision break, I stumbled across what might be aptly termed ‘a sewer of hatred’.
The Stormfront message board is hilarious and disturbing in equal measure. It is run by a former klansman and appears to be mainly populated by fanatical neo-nazis, Holocaust revisionists (deniers) and conspiracy nuts. Of course a chatroom can only be as good as the people in it; normally the details included in the public profiles of internet users are an exercise in banality, containing details such as ‘I am 14, I like to listen to Destiny’s Child and I think Matt Damon is sooo cute’, on Stormfront they are rather more interesting
‘I live in South Florida where iam the last outpost down here. By one side which is the southwest region i have illegal mexicans and on the other side which is the southeast is nothing but cubans and south americans.I truly live in a horrid nightmare. For a person to interbreed with another from another race is racial genocide by throwing away your great Aryan genetics to the sub humans’
I suspect this is the kind of person who has sexual relations with his sister in order to preserve his bloodline. The topics of conversation range from ’60 reasons why I hate Black people’ to the celebration of ‘Germanic values’ such as ‘Truth’, ‘Honour’ and ‘Perseverance’ – they seem to have left out ‘invading other countries’, ‘pinching the sun-beds’ and ‘being beastly to the Poles’. There is even a poetry section, most of which appears to be anti-Semitic with titles like ‘The Jewess’ and ‘A Jew in your heart, a bullet in your head’. It purports to have been set up for those that want to reclaim their heritage and unite against the immigrant hordes that threaten the survival of what is loosely termed ‘the white race’. Apparently the Jew run media controls everything, even the movie ‘Revenge of the Sith’ has anti-white connotations.
“Let's start at the beginning. Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi are the first Jedi introduced in the saga. Both are white males, but Qui-Gon dies at the hands of Darth Maul, who, with his black and red tattoos, obviously represents the anger of the oppressed blacks and Native Americans. …There is not one single white person on the Jedi council. In fact, the two people running the show are Yoda, an elderly cinematic shilling to the idea that the older generations are smarter and more capable than the younger, and Mace Windu, a black man. In fact, so important was Darth Shaft that he was given the only purple lightsabre in the galaxy. While we're at it, let's take a closer look at lightsabers. The blades themselves are a core of white light surrounded by color. As if to say that, while white people may be in power, we are surrounded, and it's only a matter of time before we are usurped by people of color. …Darth Vader - the blackest man in the galaxy - bossing around stormtroopers, who are the biggest collection of white folks the world has ever known. Is this meant to promote the idea of blacks enslaving whites? ……as a side note, the beautiful green female Jedi* is played by a beautiful white woman named Amy Allen (unless she happens to be Jewish)”
According to the music section, Ozzy Osbourne is a ‘race traitor’, ‘Birth of a Nation’ and ‘Zulu’ are the greatest pro-white movies of all time –although Lord of the Rings is a close runner up because there’s not ‘not a black or yellow face in sight and plenty of heroic strong white characters’-, and Kylie Minogue deserves to have breast cancer because ‘she defiled her body with non white, and is a homosexual oracle’. Other highlights include agony aunt style threads such as ‘My sister is dating a Jew’:
‘Her boyfriend/partner/whatever, though, I don't like. We have arguments frequently because he doesn't listen to me, and he point-blank refuses to do anything I ask of him… Tonight we began talking together about our ethnic heritage. He asked what we were and I told him we are 100% British including English, Irish, Welsh and Scottish (in that order, btw); to which he responded by saying that he was Polish. This surprised me since his surname is an English one; so I said, "surely you mean you are *partly* Polish" to which he agreed. What he said next left me speechless "My mother's grandparents were Polish Jews who escaped the Nazis by coming to Australia," he said. I must confess: I lost the plot. I said some things without thinking. I said, "are you quite sure about that? If this is true, I don't want you even touching my sister. You should find out whether it is true." I said to my sister, "if this is true, I don't want you ever to have children with him; you'll destroy our bloodline forever. "My sister then went to the phone and rang my mother to tell her what an "evil nazi" I am. And then I said, goodnight, and logged onto stormfront.”
The whole thing resembles a sort of a ‘Dear Deirdre’ for Nazis; when I pointed out to him that in fact he did sound rather like an ‘evil nazi’, I was met by a chorus of disapproval and was accused of being a subversive Zionist.
I am also regarded with varying degrees of scorn on the ‘Holocaust Revisionist’ threads, although that might have something to do with my multicultural avatar, which depicts stick figures of different races holding hands. According to the self styled experts on Stormfront, the whole event never took place. But isn’t it the best documented genocide in history?. Apparently not, it was fabricated by the Zionist high command and the Allied powers to draw attention away from their own atrocities. So let me get this straight, in 1945 all the most powerful Jews managed to win the cooperation of the world's greatest military and political powers, forge thousands of documents in record time without being detected, and create physical evidence attesting to an annihilation programme, all that and convince the Nazis on trial to come up with the same story about gas chambers that didn’t exist. Doesn’t that seem an incey wincy bit unlikely?, well not to a bunch of Nazis suffering from a permanent suspension of disbelief. Apparently the mountains of historical evidence can be cast aside because of factual inconsistencies, the findings of various forensic reports (all discredited and all written by badly qualified revisionists) and the fact that S.S confessions were extorted by torture (there is no evidence for this). Revisionists appear to be highly schooled in the ‘la la, I can’t hear you’ method of arguing and most are so infantile it’s hard to believe they are being serious.
One chap in particular is my particular candidate for moron of the year. His main characteristic is to declare any evidence presented to him ‘inadmissible’. I showed him a gas chamber blueprint and his idiotic response was something like ‘that’s not a gas chamber, it could just as easily be two robots fucking’. ‘Where are the bodies?’ he keeps insisting. When I told him they had been reduced to ash in crematoriums and cast into rivers or used as fertilizers, he then informed me he was unconvinced and wanted all the ash collected and examined. I was incredulous
“What the hell do you expect me to do to convince you?. Go out to Poland with a bucket and spade and start digging for ashes and ground up bone?, and then come round to your trailer park with tons of ashes and have you count it. You know what you would say then?, 'Inadmissable”
In reply he called me a ‘whiney little bitch’ and told me to ‘grab my balls’ and admit that I could not provide any evidence of mass exterminations. When I did, he ignored it and said that he had ‘put a wig’ on me ‘slapped’ my ass and called me ‘Sally’. You’ve got to love this standard of debating, not even A.J.P Taylor would have been as offensive as that.
I see in the papers that the Yorkshire ripper believes he will one day be released from jail because he intends to use the clichéd defence that voices in his head told him to do it. I have always found this concept a tad puzzling. Why do the voices always say bad things like ‘kill that guy’ or ‘get your hammer from the toolshed and club that prostitute to death’. Why do they never say nice things like ‘make your mother a cup of tea’ or ‘the chrysanthemums look like they need watering’. And even if they are saying nasty things, why the hell should you listen to them. Right now there is a voice in my head telling me I should procrastinate but I suppose I should get back to work.
Tuesday, 8 March 2005
Isn’t democracy wonderful?. I read the manifestos, I went to various ‘fact-check’ websites to compare the truthfulness of the parties and I even sat through the interminably dull political debates that were ever-present on the television. In the end I was torn between the Conservatives and the Socialist Alliance. The Conservatives seemed a decent choice because they will fight for my right to butcher small animals on horseback, the Socialists seemed to be complete loonies, but their hearts were in the right place. I was due to make up my mind at the polling station, but in the event, I was too goddamn lazy to actually walk to the place. One more I have failed miserably to be a good citizen.
A general election is much like the national lottery, you make a small mathematically insignificant contribution once every four years and win precisely nothing except higher taxes that put you out of pocket. Politics is all about silly sound bites such as ‘our party is the party of hard working families’. As far as I know, every family in the country would consider itself hardworking, even the ubiquitous ‘dole scroungers’ that always seem to appear in The Sun newspaper when there’s no other news around. By the time the parties’ manifesto has filtered through to the general public it has become ludicrously distorted like Chinese whispers, and people just seem to end up voting according to their natural prejudice. I guess this is understandable, repeating the redundant mantras of the nineteen eighties is far more exciting than examining boring facts and statistics. The only choice now seems to be between a pro-war Thatcherite party that dishonestly manipulates statistics, and a pro war Thatcherite party that dishonesty manipulates statistics, with a few token left wing policies tacked on to make them seem like the party of the people. We may yet see the Conservatives return to power, but not until they have repackaged themselves as ‘The New Conservatives’ and elected a leader who has a full head of hair. Only that will satisfy the shallow electorate.
Tonight’s episode of ‘Ultimate Force’ was without doubt the most pathetic hour of television I have ever had the misfortune to sit through. The whole show resembles an episode of the A-Team minus the irony and the humour. This time, Ross Kemp's SAS unit was sent to Chechnya to help the Russians destroy a terrorist clan run by an I.R.A gunman. When I saw this miserable excuse for a ‘plot’ laid out in front of me in ‘The Sun’s television supplement, I nearly choked on my dinner, and uttered several unrepeatable expletives. The whole episode looked to have been filmed in Epping Forest, which looks about as similar to Chechnya as Basingstoke does to Baghdad. The lowest point came when Ross Kemp, using the ingenious tactic of hiding in a pile of leaves manages to wipe out an entire company of Chechen rebels. The I.R.A man inspects the bloodshed and remarks, ‘this was the SAS’. ‘How did you know that?’ exclaims his second in command. The I.R.A man turns to his and says ‘body-count’, I grimaced in horror and wondered how anyone could write such drivel. Remarkably, Kemp managed to keep the same facial expression throughout the entire show, which must be some kind of record. Things took a turn for the bizarre when, upon encountering one of the oil-worker hostages the SAS had been detailed to rescue, Kemp decides that he should be executed for fear of ‘giving away our position’. If this is supposed to be based on real SAS tactics, then I for one won’t be mourning the fact that our armed forces are due to be reduced by cutbacks to a couple of rusty u-boats, half a dozen nukes and a troop of cub scouts. Eventually the poor chap was spared, but cowardly gave away the British armies position later in the programme, because of course, everyone who works for Esso is a morally repugnant capitalist. Mercifully, the plot was abandoned in favour of long drawn out gun battles in which the bullet-proof SAS slaughtered never ending hordes of tactically naïve Chechens. Eventually Ross Kemp’s team called an air strike in on their own position, purely in order to run away from the resulting explosion in cheesy slow motion. I didn’t think it was possible to produce a worse series than ‘Seaquest DSV’, apparently I was wrong.
Thursday night was the G.D.L ball and a very good occasion it was too. The venue was a real dive and the jazz band consisted of a geriatric with a keyboard, but this merely added to the character of the evening. One rather unfortunate aspect was that several of my tutors were in attendance and I had to have my wits about me in order to avoid an embarrassing faux pas. Sadly my efforts were to be in vain.
‘Do people like me, I’m afraid I’m not popular?’ mumbled my drunken ‘Trusts’ tutor. This seemed the kind of question an insecure teenager would ask, not a 40 year old lecturer at a premier law school. My alcohol addled brain wasn’t working properly and I wasn’t sure what I could possibly say in response to this. Eventually I decided upon, ‘Hey…I wouldn’t worry about it’ and then ‘You know…if you teach a subject as boring as Trusts you have to expect a bit of stick…I’m sure its not personal’. She seemed a little offended, and I realised that that probebrly wasn’t the best way I could have put it. Hopefully she won’t remember it. As with so many other occasions, I fail to say the right thing to women.
Friday, 4 March 2005
Seven years ago, I sat in a top floor chemistry lab in the Uppingham school science block; if my memory serves me correct, I was heavily engrossed in drawing a Yorkshireman copulating with a sheep on my science folder. The unfortunate animal had an expression of shock and horror on its face, as if it had been happily grazing and unsportingly caught unawares. Suddenly, into the room walked Dr Roberts, my form four chemistry teacher and notorious hothead. I discovered later on that he was in the midst of an extremely messy divorce, but back then I wasn’t to know. He began to converse with the teacher who was taking our class. All of a sudden he stopped abruptly and shot a death stare in our direction. ‘Be quiet, stop giggling!’ he shouted. Clearly the science department was to be no place for sweetness and laughter. I looked up from my bestiality drawing, I was proud of my creation and I believe I had a smile etched across my face. It was an unfortunate expression to have at that juncture. I could see that something was up, Doc Roberts had turned a rather unhealthy shade of purple and was staring with a look of pure hatred in my direction. ‘Get out’, he screamed, ‘GET OUT, GET OUT GET OUT’. It was clearly time to excuse myself from the assembled company, I gingerly hoisted myself off the uncomfortable wooden stool I was perched on, and walked out as quickly as I could. Standing outside in the sparsely decorated corridor, I hoped against hope that Roberts would calm down before he next saw me. I was to be disappointed. The door to the laboratory opened with a bang, and out stormed the indignant teacher. He ushered me into an adjoining room and pinned me against the wall, I could see he was still livid with anger. ‘Do you realise who I am?’ he shouted at me, drops of phlegm raining from his mouth, the veins on his forehead nearly bursting at its seams. I concluded that this was not a question that was meant to be answered and decided to stare back in silence. ‘You’ll regret this’, he went on, ‘I’m going to make your life a living hell!’. Being a happy person clearly has its penalties.
I could have told him that all he needed to do to achieve this was to continue teaching me chemistry, to force me to sit in the science block amidst the pungent vapours that are the result of years of pointless schoolboy experiments; to make me perform fruitless investigations into the nature of solids and to ponder the hopelessly abstract concepts of chemical bonding and electrolysis. To be forced to watch sterile educational videos –all filmed in the early eighties- that detailed the ins and outs of Britain’s doomed coal industry. To waste precious hours of my adolescence attaching wooden clips to the teachers lab-coat when he wasn’t looking. At the end of the lesson I would have drawn impressive diagrams of circles and crosses interacting with each other on my sheet of paper, but I still wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what was going on. Parent’s evenings were usually disastrous. ‘Humphrey is a strange boy’, the schoolmaster would recall with considerable contempt –as if he were describing a particularly vile strain of bacteria. ‘He generally sits there in silence, staring at the periodic table, occasionally you can see dribble appearing at the corner of his mouth’.
In truth I have never been very good in class, I prefer to sit back and let other do all the boring discussion for me. My only ability is to be able to absorb large amounts of information and store it in my brain over a 48-hour period, this proves extremely handy when it comes to exam time. I need to be on top form in the next month because I have to take seven three-hour exams in June, on a series of monotonous and dull topics that could bore, even an Althussarian Marxist into submission. If I fail, I will have waste a considerable amount of time and effort and will no doubt be forced to commit Hara-kiri with my grandmother’s fencing sword. If I succeed, then I can continue building my C.V of extra-ordinary magnitude that will aid me in my quest to suck greedily on the udders of capitalism.
Law has served a valuable purpose. There’s something about reading tedious amounts of contract law that concentrates the mind, and makes you focus on the important things in life, that strengthens your resolve to break out of the cycle of monotony and strive for the things that really make you happy. Life stretches out before me with all its possibilities, and the path to happiness is clearly visible. All I need to do now is strike down the obstacles in my way and tackling Land law seems to be as good a place to start as any. Time to grow up.
Thursday, 3 March 2005
On odd occasions I come down to the pigeonholes in the Blenheim lobby to discover I have yet another letter from the T.V licensing body. This particular piece of threatening correspondence usually sets out in detail the nasty things they can do to you if you are caught in possession of an unlicensed television, and presents a series of alarming statistics showing impressive numbers of ‘successful prosecutions’ and ‘detection rates’. I’m a sucker for this kind of psychological warfare. The licensing body has taken on the same role in contemporary society as ‘the four horseman of the apocalypse’ did in the early modern period. They are usually referred to in hushed tones by students at the start of every year and are attributed with implausible powers of perception. The picture one gets of them, is that they drive around the streets of Britain’s cities in state of the art ‘detection vans’, armed with enormous satellite dishes that can pick up guilty households on their radar. They can also smell fear, and produce categorical evidence that you are lying when you tell them you don’t possess a television. ‘That’s funny’, they would doubtless say, in a Columbo-esque kind of way, before proceeding to pick your alibi apart with consummate skill. I tried not to pay my licence, but somehow the guilt kept eating away inside of me and I ultimately relented.
Into my head came nightmarish images. I would be sitting in my Blenheim cell at night, watching Friday night porn on Channel five in a zombie like stupor. Then, suddenly, the door would burst open, and into the room would leap two officers in ski masks and carrying assault rifles. ‘T.V licence board, get on the fucking ground!’ they would shout, and I, terrified, would spread-eagle myself on the carpet as they inspected my T.V. ‘I just use it to play my Xbox’, I would stutter, meekly, but these specially trained operatives would see through me at a glance and issue me with a hefty 1,000 fine. In reality, I suspect the TV licensing board is a somewhat impotent body. It probably consists of a single computer with a mail-merge system that routinely sends out nasty letters, effecting compliance by maintaining an atmosphere of terror. In essence it’s the same technique that was used during the purges in Stalinist Russia. I complied earlier in the year, my two flatmates didn’t and there has been no visit from the B.B.C ‘Cheka’. I need to face up to the fact I am weak.
The public urinal is the last battleground of masculinity. Deprived of large-scale war by the nuclear deterrent, and restrained from butchering our neighbours by the rule of law, we now divert our energies into more trivial areas of competition. One of these is to torment people with nervous bladders, the phenomenon where one finds it impossible to perform an ‘act of nature’ when one has reached the appropriate venue. I do suffer from this affliction on occasion, and it is pretty annoying to say the least. One stands there squirming in embarrassment, praying for your bowels to get their act together and cursing the sequence of events that brought you into this situation. The chap next to you usually displays one of two reactions. Either he gets suspicious and suspects you of having ‘George Michael’ style motives for your expedition to the public urinal, or he revels in the position of power in which he now finds himself and takes as much time as possible in order to prolong your discomfort. Defeated and dejected, one sometimes has to admit that one is beaten, and retreat to the confines of a nearby cubical. Alternatively, you sometimes find yourself playing the opposite role and find yourself next to someone who suffers from the same defect. You stand triumphant while the poor chap struggles to function, taking your time, and considering the adage that sometimes ‘life ain’t all that bad’. Life is all about the small victories.
Speaking of which, i've just won Aprils 'rant of the month' at 'Have a Rant.co.uk' for one of my old posts. Sadly all I seem to have won is a virtual certificate and 15 rant point, yippie fucking-doo