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Behold, the Bearded Ladies!

Updated: Jan 20

Note: I took this screen capture with a VPN displaying Google Canada. I don't think the official sentiment is out of place anywhere else in the Western world though. I've never heard internal voices.

The hypertrichosis allusion in the title, mimicking a showman's bombastic marketing pitch, is a reference to the biological oddities exhibited by circus and carnival freakshows such as PT Barnum's American Museum in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries. These unusual, physically and mentally disabled people were displayed as curiosities to the middle class for shock value and subsequently exploited for profit. Though medicalization seemingly ended this historical entertainment practice, one is left wondering how much of that exploitative attitude has actually changed given the official practices and political abuses of Psychiatry, from its historical roots as an institution for involuntary and punitive social control to its reliance on arbitrary and subjective diagnoses, an ideological biomedical reductionism that does not conform to objective testing standards, and a damaging, for-profit psychopharmaceutical treatment model. I was also referencing a few discrete characters mentioned in the text, mulling over just who could be considered a 'freak'.

This is the first proper rough draft of this essay, so expect a plethora of small spelling mistakes, punctuation errors, and missing letters, and poor paragraphing. I have experienced an 8-12 second screen-lag each time I have typed more than 5 or 6 characters, and it has made the 76 hours I spent composing and editing this draft over 8 days of solid writing considerably more strenuous.

I'd been out on my front porch, just messing about, under some distinct stress and mental malaise in the background. The daily dissolution of UK society and my everyday peer group's total lack of concern about this was playing on me, compounded by my general loneliness, the humiliating destruction of my 'new' family at the hands of an unquestionable State, and my father's insistent visit from Ireland to rearrange the house, bully our dog, and "cheer me up." This tender loving care generally amounted to stomping up to our bedroom every night and barging in with a glass of water and a tablet, demanding me to swallow it, and lingering attentively in the doorway to make sure I didn't neglect this fresh mandate or spit anything out.

I had humoured him once or twice as a distant elderly guest, which was a glaring mistake all in all as this initial capitulation got his foot in the door and added a sanctimonious intensity to the furious, aghast spite he flung at me once I did make an effort to successfully tell him "no." Raised voices echoed back and forth for over a week and slim détente was only established by keeping out of his way, sequestered into my corner library workstation as he blundered about the downstairs rooms of someone else's house, or repeatedly burst the toilet door open as I was sat naked reading in the bath and attempted to turf me out on the false assumption that Ozzie desperately required a piss in the garden. The back door would be flung open to the Winter darkness and Ozzie would be dragged out despondently by the collar, yelping up the steps of the decking in startled confusion so he could circle the bushes a few times, glancing back down at Dad for approval, not piss, and then charge back in towards his bed half a minute later, only to be shouted at by Dad for not pissing and thus failing to obey the commanded obligation. I got dressed once or twice to go and tell my father off to his face with more authority than a startled, naked, dripping wet man can muster, and to physically retrieve Ozzie, who is by now very old, and soft in temperament as a gentle, intelligent, good natured Border Collie with a deep, dedicated trust for the family he lives to support and serve, and considerably more patience than me in the face of advanced idiocy. Too much patience really.

Nothing made a difference to Dad's stubborn, erroneous conviction though, having set his mind fully to establishing the success of this new ritual no matter the cost, so after a while I just lay there sat back in the water and barked at him like a drill sergeant to get the f**k out and have some respect. Repeating this multiple times in subtle variations in a campaign of steady attrition produced some eventual chink in his obtuse and indominable mental armour and in the bitter end one could train him to storm out grumbling in livid defeat, and even to knock first on return. I had no time to reap the benefits of further training as there was a grand interruption to my schedule soon afterwards and in the interim he got on a plane and disappeared back to Northern Ireland, taking his personal supply of emergency medication with him.

I was about to walk down to the local shop that evening. I had a small stick in my hand, a twig which one of my stepchildren had picked up on our woodland walks, and in absent-minded fashion used it to prod my neighbour's BMW's front-right tyre. Dad spotted me from the open doorway. "Stop it. Stop it Benjamin. You're bringing shame on the entire family!" He had adopted the vocal tone of my obtrusive grandmother, late into her troubling senescence, all cold cynicism and reprimands. I didn't really have the time to mourn quietly and rage with undying black hatred, in a column of sharp, boreal flame, so I just took his advice.

Later that day I was arrested. The four policemen looming over me told me that the fat bitchy crypto-feminist woman next door had made a complaint that I "swung a wooden club at her car". They didn't mention her weight problem or her obnoxious vulgar temperament but it's easily observable and you can hear her common-as-muck, ear-splitting screeches from quite far off, as doors are slammed from their hinges, furnishings broken and her boyfriend driven about by slanderous waves of sound until he gives in and tells her she's lovely. Despite all this she carries an air of snooty, enforced respectability about with her, strolling down to the shops in her dressing gown some time in the late afternoon, or blasting out of the front door in a figure-hugging white skirt, thin hoop earrings, and a hooker's worth of tartish makeup and zooming off to another important day of imposing her liberated magnificence on the world.

She's also a marvellously adept informer, to a Stasi degree, and will fling you to the wolves at the drop of a hat if it gives her a chance to offload her frustrations and then peek out from behind her blinds in bloodthirsty vindication at the joy of having successfully encouraged sterner agents of unmitigated brutality to fight her battles for her. Another fine, upstanding citizen of the year doing her civic duty. It seems, from my partner's wide-angle camera observations, that she also presented them with her house-broom as evidence, passing it off as a weapon she had pulled from my hands as I threatened her and sabotaged her vehicle. I protested that that was nonsense, as our front-door security camera proved quite adequately later, but was taken off regardless, dragged naked from my book ("The Nameless War", a valuable read) and my warm bath, hogtied with reinforced straps, carried out under their arms, still in the nude, and locked in the clinical steel holding cell at the rear of their vehicle, like a hunter's trophy-kill. My father, frail and sick from prostate cancer and devastating vasculitis, had stepped in to complain about the unexpected entry and to inadvertently shield me, but they just knocked him out of the way. It was nice that he defended me with his small, wiry body.

They were a little sadistic in the cells, as seems quite common - not providing any toilet paper and refusing to look away as I sat down to relieve myself. They refused to turn the cell light on despite me subtly nudging them that I have a fear of the dark. It wasn’t cynicism or spiteful humour exactly, and I sensed a coldness in them, like there was an unbridgeable void between us. I noticed a small drying bloodstain high up on the wall and wondered what had happened before I’d got there. It's not the first time I've been temporarily stored there. It's not the first bloodstain I've spotted either. Also, they all had very strange hands. Very smooth and with the hair shaved, or otherwise non-existent. I noticed what seemed to be a slight dysgenic element to their fingers and wrists, and a subtle asymmetry to their odd, podgy faces. I'm never quite sure how to genetically explain this adequately, but you could easily discern that these were the faces of liberals. Not that liberals are anything but totally illiberal in principle, having been operant conditioned into hostile progressive radicalism long-term from a baseline of gormless rubber-stamped optimism and ignorance, all vacant, self-serving cheerleaders for astroturfed tyranny. When the spoke to each other, it was in brief staccato snippets of banal information, in dulled flat monotone, as if they were on radio chatter, and otherwise were unable to maintain a normal conversation, a pall of post-speech with all the resonance and timbre of a censor-bleep.

I couldn't shift the sensation that they were like awkward sixth-form schoolchildren separated from the regular classroom for inherent malevolence, only to be adopted independently by the ambitious postmodern training program of a persistent supply teacher and intensively tutored into the dusk from the disquieting privacy of a locked side-room in the basement. A mixture of forlorn ineptitude, presented daily with the soft, intermittent siren-sense of their fundamental wretchedness, and fat, blocky, matter-of-fact sadism, delivered with a compensatory laddish camaraderie, having failed the Turing Test of the heart. They were talking about a mixture of what new external training programs presented the best financial benefit in the long run, and how to perform new takedown techniques. Very odd people. I felt like the only human in there.

Eventually, deciding they couldn’t charge me with anything, they made some phone calls with the local hospital. I delivered a frustrated argument to the Sergeant to impotently plead my final case, keeping my voice at reasonable volume and struggling in exasperation to remain polite, but was ignored on principle, swiftly interrupted, and argued back at with less politeness from a uniform position of firm, antagonistic inculpability bordering on the immaculate, again with the feeling of the schoolyard and its petulant, touchy smart alecs. Decisively dragged back into the squat clinic gloom of the reinforced travelling pen, knocked together from cheap painted steel and slotted plexiglass like the walls of an inverted post-war tower block, and reminiscent of the sterile mass-produced lab containers that shelve toxicology research beagles prior to their painful death by injection with flesh-stripping parasites.

The pen juddered along, rumbling with each bump of the interminable road, sat there artificially curled up on a bare, brutalist cast-metal bench perpendicular to the sealed doors, stress-induced nausea and travel sickness rising in me as the tiny, feeble circle of a recessed light a foot and a half above my head blinked in the tight airless gloom. Britain these days comes across as a dilapidated coastal amusement park tailored to the theme of Orwell, complete with a fresh team of enthusiastic method acting regulars, and a persistent staff and management well-versed in background lore, the full environment meticulously hell-scaped, and every formless object, structure or tool lovingly ruined down to the last oppressive, inhumane detail, functioning, barely, and easily replaced, more as a soul-sapping abstract warning policy to the rest of us than as any meaningful act of hobbled creation.

An hour later I was again opened to the light, and force-led, tired, stumbling and reluctant, like a chained pit-bear, into a freed-up alcove chunked out of the public A&E. An adult social worker was called to analyse my mental health, as they are fond of doing. I told him about the police sadism, and my neighbour's on-going one-sided feud. With a high-pitched whining voice, he utterly dismissed me, and pressed on with questions about how I felt, with the implication that he was trying to arrange me a psychiatric hospital stay, whether I liked it or not, as he decided that I was under the weather, and evidently confused. He had noted with some concern that I was an “anti-vaxxer”, and that I had refused a PCR test. The attendant nurse went to do it anyway a few times, mocking me verbally in the process for being 'silly', bolstered by the steady chorus of Police cat-calls, grumbles and head-shaking, all friends in full agreement, but I was insistent.

I grew impatient, and annoyed, having had enough at what I considered to be a grossly unfair railroaded situation, and leaned forward and punched the social worker hard in the face, bloodying my knuckles on his nose. I think it was my own blood. He shrieked at me, like a seaside Vaudeville entertainer "oooo, sucker punch, Benjamin! Violence is un-acc-eptable!". A sucker punch is generally delivered to the back of the head, as far as I remember, whereas he got to see this coming. State employees in the UK are notorious for endlessly provoking people and escalating the situation so as to maximize their potential for the sole response they have trained to eagerly provide, and then doubling down in sanctimonious pig-headedness if anyone resists or calls them out on their hypocrisy.

I'm not condoning the punching of social workers, but I often hope these public service people would have some basic understanding of human psychology, and the responses one could expect if they keep someone under constant pressure in a high-stress environment and then continue to torment them. Yes, he was correct. I was indeed thoroughly stressed at the time, as a basic aetiological analysis of official conduct throughout the entire disproportionate fiasco could explain with a satisfactory simplicity. They are often blind to the obvious though, as it gets in the way of targets and dogmas. I have never quite decided if this is a conscious deployment of pure wilful spite or if there is merely something wrong with them, some blinker on their natural compassion. Observably, and long documented by those who study the historical dynamics of crowds, mobs, and group behaviour mechanics, considered in tandem with evolutionary psychology and an analysis of demographic patterns, general intelligence, and the intergenerational impact of dysgenics and mutation, and from before any unscrupulous ideology is applied and subsumed, there seems to be something quite wrong with the majority of people, as if their soul has been casually bred out from multiple angles and the very memory of it laser-cut from the ancestral vellum of our folk consciousness in order to develop more safe, secured storage space for surveillance drone images of polar bears.

The Police standing guard around me growled in their ingrained Middle-Class manner, and threw me hard to the floor regardless, damaging one of my ribs on the right side, and dislocating my left shoulder. My partner later informed me that she knew he was an open homosexual. His face reminded me of my teenage East London friend's popular social worker dad, who loved to rape her with his buddies at private parties. She did tell a psych team back then, but they poo-poo'd her story, and routinely laughed at his jokes as he was handed custody. She swallowed broken glass in the end, washed down with bleach. An interesting coincidence. It's not why I hit him, but I do know the type. In retrospect, it's lucky I wasn't charged on the spot with a hate crime. However, I was placed in a doubled-over crouch position, wrenched to my feet, with my arms dragged up behind my back and locked in grip of their interlocking forearms, and with my head simultaneously pushed down by their palms, putting enormous stress on my legs, neck and back, and pulled out at double-pace, as they power-walked me over to the neighbouring psychiatric assessment unit. I fell to the ground at one point, collapsing in vocal exhaustion and pain, and grazing my elbows, knees, and cheeks on the tarmac, leaving small red stains, however I was yanked up again and the process continued. An enthusiastic aggressive deployment of coercive hyper-militarized pain restraints. It seems the IDF has trained them well. If they see any distinction between helpless, psychologically vulnerable patients and fugitive war criminals and assorted enemy combatants then they're keeping this firmly out of their active responses.

At the unit, I was thrown like a worn sandbag into a small, bright, barren white room, whilst they stood guard. The social worker tittered about in the background. I thought for a moment that they were going to let him in to have his revenge, as he had rolled up his sleeves. However, a Pakistani psychiatrist arrived on the other side of a clear glass panel to the left of me, and his curt, metallic voice rasped out of a Tanoy system on the ceiling, as he interrogated me via the camera high up on the right wall. I was given a full mental assessment, lasting all of 5 minutes, and judged to be unwell, in no small part based on my Covid-19 views, so was interned in isolation in their cold, spartan, immigrant-staffed facility for two weeks whilst they patronised me to death, degraded me, and forced me to take their grim medications on threat of indefinite further confinement. I had to 'admit' on camera before a panel of glaring suits that my sceptical Covid-hoax stance was wrong as a primary condition of release. Ultimately, I was let go back to their community team. I wasn't having any of that.

A blonde female walked in to analyse me. I told her she was unwelcome in my house and asked her if she felt lucky. I pulled out my vaporizer, turned it and pointed it at her head like a pistol, 'cocked' it with my other hand, and pulled the 'trigger', making a double-tap "pew pew" noise with my mouth. She screamed and jolted backwards with her hands up to protect herself, as if shot, then scampered back out the front door to her car. It appears she had less grasp on objective reality than me. I have never seen her again.

The day after a male walked in with a clipboard. Quite tall. Greying hair. A little beard. Smiling of his own accord without external prompting. He sat down. I loomed over him and scowled as he broke the ice. "Hello Benjamin, I'm Sean!" I was unimpressed. "Tell me Sean, do you like Feminism?". "Oh yes Benjamin, I think it's marvellous. It's so great that we can empower women!" "Get out of my house, Sean, and take your sweet, soy-infused mother face and your underground railroad for self-destructive Marxist female supremacy with you. Are you actively trying to obliterate the future of the White race?" He remained smiling, or at least frozen, with him little teeth and cuddly grey hamster cheeks locked into a display of inert and submissive cheerfulness. I'm not sure what he was thinking. The moment lingered. In his own good time he got up and left, but not before quietly ambushing my partner on the step outside for a brief parting exchange, like any good paparazzi. I have not seen Sean since.

Now an older woman called Theresa is still coming round, arriving late each time, and haranguing me about med-taking before she asks how I am. She seems quite a patient person compared with a line-up of the usual suspects, with the vocal tone of a typical Essex girl Statist, if slightly sarcastic, which can be grating in a care professional. She exaggerates the emphases of her speech to jolly sing-song tones and carefully enunciates each slow syllable, employing simple words and repetitive language, as if responsibly shepherding a drooling, partially deaf schoolchild with severe learning difficulties. I'm surprised she doesn't put a Sesame Street puppet on her hand or award me a bouncy ball to play with. She coped with me calling her kind "subhuman zombie drones for a kakocratic Zionist dystopia", and notes down, with a weary facsimile of strained politeness, that I appear to be a little "anti-authoritarian".

I've told her before that I don't need her and that she brings nothing of worth to my life, instead merely acting as a low level spy to carry my private business and opinions back to the State, in all her drab, simple, conformist normie bias, and to follow her bullsh*t training to the letter, operating cluelessly and carelessly within a twisted paradigm as rigid and yet full of holes as a long-expired hunk of mouldy Emmental. Her reply is always "I'm here for the whole family." To me, this seems off, and begs the question as to why she doesn't set up an independent service for Abby to discuss her own life in. In reality, if I refuse to talk to her, as I usually do, her speaking to my partner is merely a way to worm out the information anyway, filtered through the inaccuracies and assumptions of another narrative perspective, and one far more obliging of the British State's draconian impositions.

The family is never interviewed on their lives. It's just me, me, me, boxed away as a strawman caricature, as they know next to nothing about me bar their inevitable profiling, and have never had the gumption to genuinely ask. Each new loaded interview question, inquired only so at to ratify the speculative thrusts of a grim, manipulated thesis, hammered down on eternal slabs of cold iron by the assiduous fervour of ugly hands, shunts my case further along the fused rails of its hopeless lifelong trajectory to a dim, only conclusion that feels nothing but pre-decided, and with any on-going treatment model applied to me by official services resting solely within the confines of this non-negotiable belief, sustained by their industry from the very start.

Having attended the local clinic for an interview with the Jewish-looking psychiatrist I am now placed under, I was able to quit taking those blasted 'meds', albeit first having to invoke The Nuremberg Code on her (which she promised she would look up on her smartphone later). She pleaded fervently with me, and scolded me, and launched into a sales pitch for the efficacy of Big Pharma brain-poisons, then pleaded some more whilst reminding me of her authority and professional expertise, then counselled me on how ill I had been, and how much she cared about me and was worried for my health, then simultaneously scolded and pleaded a little longer, until eventually relenting, after approximately 45 minutes, and dismissing me from the room with a very sharp glance, closing her folder of notes with a snap, pressing the button to release the bolts of the secure door, and informing me that I would still be kept on their system, and that, in the event of any sign of future illness, it would be very likely that she would thoroughly review this decision on her part to allow me (presumably) to retain free informed choice over bodily sovereignty in the face of a vast, full spectrum dominance machine of pseudo-medical, anti-White, Police State New World Order anarcho-tyranny, stretching more that a few metres outside the magnetosphere, with the only pushback opportunity presenting, very occasionally, as a looser flange nut.

I had wanted to explain more of my position to her, as she took a keen interest in noting down that I had political opinions. I decided though that it was probably not worth her while being made aware of these small considerations as she was evidently quite content cradled in her current predicament of mind and besides, I knew I would be considered, by conventional internal mandate, totally mad.

I had also wanted to inform her that biomedical psychiatry is a sham. Despite their enthusiasm for destroying contrary lives and making too much money, psychiatrists have never found any physiological pathology behind mental disorders. No genes for mental illness have ever been found, and not for the lack of a near century's determined and well-funded research. No lab test can determine who is mentally ill. There is no proof of chemical imbalances. I had quietly asked the psychiatrist whether neuroleptic drugs themselves cause episodic psychosis, or long-term brain-damage. I was assured, without evidence, that that was impossible. They didn't tell me the constant restlessness, painful, clammy fingertip rubbing and jerky facial twitches, excessive weight gain, muted, alien emotional numbness, and months of rage-inducing erectile failure when I did take them were a lingering side-effect either. They didn't deny this second part when confronted, but they didn't give any indication that it bothered them, and breezed on to recommend treatment as usual.

I asked her, in not quite so many words, if she thought my father's utter dismissal with scoffing contempt of my every opinion, from year dot, and his ridicule of my intelligence, and cold shoulder towards my creative works, and his snide, insulting, belittling - humiliating - remarks if I disagree with him, especially in public, and his total gaslighting denial and downplaying of my history of abuse at the hands of a couple of other gross tossers, once with a few large bodies off in a little gulley in the woods, and three times with another savage moron in a posh country house bedroom, where I learned, unfortunately, what Pakistani excrement tastes like ("I don't know what you've got to complain about Benjamin - you've never suffered."), and the derogatory joke about me he shared with one of the abusers as both began to laugh at me in my face, and his love of telling me to take medication to the near-point of forcing it down my throat by threatening to break contact if I refuse, and the time he liked scaring me to tears as a toddler by poking wet, chewed down apple stalks into my face as I hid behind my mother pleading with her impotently to make him stop (leading to a bizarre phobia of apples these days that causes me to vomit at the prolonged sight of them), and by dressing up in a werewolf mask, turning my wall light off, and growling at my bedroom door in the night, and all that sort of thing, and my Mum always subtly backing him up by being more concerned about his reputation when I complain and never actually doing anything to encourage him to stop ("it makes me very sad that you say that."/"I wish you could get on with Dad."/"I wish you didn't say that.") despite a good many times when I've either:

1. Cried alone for hours with no relief and no-one there to know, and eventually dissociated in cold, empty despair, frozen in psychic pain far back inside the veils of a meaningless lock of flesh and without the ability to will my limbs into movement or to speak out for help, paralysed on the floor open-eyed and unblinking, and conscious of the deep-stretching valueless nothing, muffled in pale light and staring in echo against the moist pressing walls without shape that terminate experience (as a child).

2. Retaliated and punched him away defensively until he fought back harder and broke my nose multiple times which led to me shooting at him shortly afterwards from a distance with a cheap low power air rifle, aiming well off so at to miss but still angry enough at the ultimate betrayal to raise my weapon at all in warning. I was initially trained across Nottingham forests, Cornwall cliffs, and the mountains of Wales through long, strenuous platoon exercises as a British Army cadet NCO Staff Sergeant (as a teenager).

3. Breaking down fully for the first time after direct weeks of escalating compound grief and loss with the constant addition of his focused onslaughts and heading off for the day to the wilds of the country park in the hope of recovering my shattered composure in the calm isolation of nature, but freaking out instead and panicking, meandering pointlessly through the town with my sense of self evaporating, and then back to their wretched childhood house, only for the acidic put-downs and the punishing shouts of contempt to promptly continue within a half hour and to the point where I resorted to pushing him over in dazed panic before throwing a tin can at his shin to stall him, and fleeing out of the house in fear only to collapse in defeat on the grass round the corner, leading to him calling the Police on me who ignored my whispered pleas and took me to a quiet cell for a good kicking, and a prolonged off-the-record game of nocturnal psychological torture and physical degradation that they seemed to reap some sly feral satisfaction from, rushing at me and barging me to the floor of my cell or screaming in unexpectedly to pin me against the wall, lying to me about my situation as time passed, and refusing to tell me where I was as I grew more and more disoriented, and setting up practical jokes at my expense such as their advice that pressing an inert brick section sculpted on the cell wall controlled the lights, and that I should keep pressing it harder when I pointed out that nothing had happened, and that it was expected protocol that I should wash my hands and face in the toilet, and then encouraging me to perform pointlessly elaborate humiliation rituals for fictitious rewards, such as the promise of providing me the glass of water I had been begging for for over two hours on completion of a convoluted series of conflicting orders and physical movements that they passed off as official policy, and which I initially went along with until I twigged the ridiculousness of being told that I had to write my request for water on a specific piece of paper which I first had to request to walk across the cell to receive and walk back with, only to be reminded at that point that this separate paper was to write my request for the official paper to write my request for water on and that I would be obliged to request a pencil to write with and should thus repeat the request procedure to walk back to exchange it for one, given that only one item is allowed at a time, a slight, unavoidable further hitch in this routine process.

That this entire strange episode in human bastardry was delivered with straight faces and deadpan seriousness the whole time has always brought me to perplexed consternation, even years later. I did crack after that and stoop to drinking a mouthful of toilet water from a cupped, trembling palm. By approximate dawn, impossible to truly discern underground, beyond the rise of distant ambient noise and staff changes, they'd left me shivering and broken to nothing, crawling painfully hand over hand across the polished floor of the corridor outside like a snail, head down, eyes unfocused, and clad solely in a red dressing-gown, occasionally hindered by the impromptu doorstop of an upturned bootheel, with a mocking aura of derisive snorts filtering down from above, only ending as I gave up hope and drifted off, becoming unresponsive yet still awake, and then delirious beyond the last ditch escape attempt of catatonia (in my 20's).

There's a bit more to point three, and nothing has been the same since, as the aftermath dictated everything else. Once I had been rendered harmless by the sheer grimness of those 24 nightmare hours of harrowing subterranean weirdness in the cell, and as if by magic, an on call psychiatrist was suddenly phoned in and I was swiftly placed involuntarily in a psychiatric unit with no questions asked, until I regained composure 2 days later, unable to discuss anything of the matter, and was then lodged on the ward for a further 7 months of interminable boredom and private sadness, as a medically-sane presenting yet vulnerable adult with voluntary status but no fixed address as my Dad had decided it would be better for me in permanent sheltered accommodation rather than to go back to the family home, having previously been lodging with them for a couple of months after withdrawing from my full-time studies in London and vacating my private-rental flat to rest and recuperate from my fracturing grief at the sudden horrible death of a cherished long-term East End friend earlier on in the year, and in the immediate aftermath of my return from a solo personal holiday to the mountainous West of America, having wordlessly stepped away into the quiet leafy seclusion of an Adams County suburb, and then regularly off into the freedom of the hills, there on a long-considered mission to cheer someone else up and perhaps extricate them to better circumstances, impossible 13 years before, and which flopped magnificently regardless as I unravelled myself on the final days as pressure mounted, returning back alone to this country with gathering dread and the despairing realisation that the stringent financial criteria of US-to-UK permanent relocation placed my unemployed, physically disabled, poverty-stricken Coloradan companion forever on the other side of the ocean and left me powerless to keep my word in carrying out the last chance plan to improve their dire home circumstances, much as my own mind was rapidly dissolving in depression, and Dad's rows and the Police intervention tore all hope to pieces as the final nail in the coffin.

Despite regularly laying pressure on the doctors from the very start of those 7 months to fast-track my transfer into sheltered living for the rest of my life regardless of what I had to say about it, I fought back against Dad's decision at every step and coaxed them gradually into a more fair-minded solution considering that I was not displaying any acute symptoms of illness beyond a genuine melancholy at the bleakness of my personal circumstances. By then a hostel place was cleared for me a good distance away in a small town on the coast and I walked away out of the hospital doors and down the miles of roads to the train-station coach stop, departing alone into the crowds with the address and confirmation details, my wallet and phone, and a familiar sense of long-term unease, tempered only by the temporarily relief of freedom and unfamiliar space divorced from the great routine nihilisms of unescapable pain.

I asked the Middle-Eastern psychiatrist in the recent meds interview if anything I had touched on could possibly have anything to do, in any way, with any stubbornly persistent mental difficulties on my part, and whether the psychiatric intervention services, for at least 20 years, automatically siding with Dad, from the get-go really, taking his voice as sole authority on my case, but with increasing pig-headed solidarity and growing costs, laughing at me with patronising, condescending, belittling dismissals and repeatedly accusing me directly of paranoia towards him, as a kind, decent father without fault, who must be honoured and bowed to at all times for being a father at all, and a sane, sensible man whose every word and command must be listened to, assimilated, and obeyed without question might also provide some significant factor to my mind dissolving long term. She laughed, briefly and professionally, as if towards a child. I was informed that this conclusion was not the case. Oh well, damn chemical imbalances, I suppose.

I'd better shut up now so they can all get on with the job of totally dismembering my soul, and emptying my sense of self and self-worth into nothingness, and drugging me up with dangerous, spurious chemicals, and, with increasing regularity, sending in heavily autistic cultural Marxist psychopaths in black uniforms to mob wrestle me all over the room with their paramilitary training, beat me to a pulp and drag me to a grim, State prison substitute designed only to remove my freedom, and keep me subjugated under pharmaceutical violence.

Embarrassingly, I used to self-harm in my late teenage years by biting huge arterial chunks out of my right arm, often to the point of passing out through blood loss and requiring both life-saving blood transfusions and multiple skin grafts, which I had a habit of biting off later. Usually, the torn flesh went everywhere. Sometimes I munched it down obliviously. I can't say we taste particularly pleasant. I certainly didn't get a kick out of it (as some feckless nursing morons with their sh*tty hypotheses have suggested to me before). I seem to resemble lean pork more than anything. I don't do that anymore, thankfully, having weaned myself off that habit solo a good while back. It embarrassed the 'medical' staff also, who liked to come up with erroneous (and, in one case, lucrative) theories why I might be doing that. One early psychiatrist, when I was 17 and has just been caught in the system's net, wrote a research paper on Autophagia (he called it 'Autophagy') which he and his colleague then published in a cutting-edge journal, presumably looking for fame at having discovered a rare case. I only found out about this paper by accident, scanning online in self-help fashion having returned home in dilapidated condition from a extended runaway stint on the cold, wet pavements of North London, an unpleasant sojourn that lasted far too long but seemed better just about than the alternative of lingering in family hell. I asked him for a copy, but he declined, telling me that edition of the journal would be too much for me to afford, which is probably true. I gather he said something along the lines of "this homeless, alcoholic, Crack Cocaine-addicted teenager performs this attention-seeking behaviour for reasons of status-anxiety to appear artificially-interesting in front of his mother as he envies her position as a nurse." Oh my... the brain boggles. And they wonder why occasionally some patient goes totally postal and blows his psychiatrist away.

One of these days they might understand trauma. It's unlikely. I've long-decided that my friends lack all compassion on the matter, and are too timid, too gormless, too conditioned, and too argumentative to condemn bio-reductionist psychiatry, so I tell them very little. Big powerful man has suit on and drives big car... State has always told me that big powerful man is good, caring man, so... big powerful man knows best, always... thus we cannot disobey this big powerful good right man. I think the previous sentence sums up most people in their conformism and blind, lifelong-conditioned respect for authority. This iron-clad societal convention acts with immediate knee-jerk predictability to trump anything these official bodies do wrong. As someone with a Right-leaning political mentality I don't have a problem with hierarchical order, and no issue with a decent authority commanding me, but I don't like a sole concentration of authoritarian power in the cruel hands of globalist Marxian psychopaths, especially given their inability to notice their own glaring ironies when they make a point to criticise authoritarianism (or conspiratorial mindsets). You highlight the flagrant abuse, and people actually defend them, totally switched off. I don't think they've noticed that anything is wrong with this terrible, broken treatment model.

I observe angry, insincere calls from others online to "go get help!" or "take your meds!" when they run into a commenter they find unhinged, ill-informed, or off in some way, even as a stock response to being contradicted. I can understand the taut frustration, but claiming dissident status and complaining bitterly about the ravages of System all day and then glibly recommending others to f**k off and die in it insidious tentacles, without hesitation, and oblivious to the callous irony seems an unusual decision. And yet state psychiatry is never considered, even among those alert to other pharmaceutical nightmares, or vaccine disgraces. I prefer the bluntness of being told to "just kill yourself" - at least that expresses a non-partisan psychopathy in its dearth of interpersonal concern.

My partner called me "spoiled" recently. Admittedly, that stung. It was an offhand remark as she was frustrated at me following a comment I made about not filling the freezers with bargain basement mass-produced 'plastic' food loaded with additives, genetically modified organisms, and unhelpful hormones solely on account of the products being cheap and moreish and to diversify the diet beyond the staple barrages of thick carbohydrates, but these things build up quietly. I've noticed that, even with her, of all people, expressing 'dark' emotion is an unwise move. I've been known to cry occasionally, even these days, erupting in vast torrents of inconsolable tears. I do my damn best never to let anyone see me do this though. Women especially. Every woman ever, to be historical. If I'm unsubtle enough to be caught they stare at me in worried confusion (or aghast distaste). Occasionally they try to hug me tentatively and 'cheer me up', as if within 3 minutes of that I'm going to feel all better and nothing will ever hurt again in the style of a Men in Black mind-wipe. If I persist, they lose it and feel the need to call someone professional, thus passing the buck to these writhing nests of smug, status-obsessed medical torturers, and their useless, dim-minded drone minions.

To say it yet one more time, adopting the term 'professional' does not make you a caring, sympathetic adult, or indeed a particularly intelligent one, despite your government-harvested pay-grade, neutered university and med school brainwashing, and all those corporate training day backhanders from AstraZeneca. I've developed a full-blown hatred for the useless NHS and go out of my way to avoid all interventions on their part. If I have a physical medical problem, I deal with it myself. If anything too awful occurs, I will be dead before I will subject myself to them (although by that point they probably won't be treating me anyway, on threat of losing their jobs, as my potential political perspectives and ability to conform to Progressive ideals are more important to them in evaluating triage than any physical health complaints I may present with, however life-threatening). As for sadness, if someone else is in the room, I grit my teeth, and tense my muscles as best I can, and make sure I'm facing away, and pretend I have a cold and a case of the sniffles. With self-control, and long practice, one can hold tears in. There's something weird and unsettling about the modern world, all in all. That coming from someone with one of the rarest and most extreme methods of former self-mutilation yet documented, removing one form, orally, chunk by chunk by chunk.

It's the same with my walks. I enjoyed nature as a child, and continue to enjoy escaping people, and heading off into the woods, and across the open fields, alone, until it's just my thoughts and the wild. If I take too long though, worried calls are made, and again I'm dragged in, often by questioning Police, who interrogate me on how I am and where I've been. I had used to walk at night also, partly to overcome my crippling fear of darkness. Admittedly, it's far more psychologically intense and oppressive when I am indoors in poorly-lit rooms or walking down corridors and hallways in the darkness, presented with the horror of every open portal into the deep unknown fearfulness of the pitch black. That said, I used to find pressing interest in the exploration of caverns and deep abandoned places, both a little amateurish potholing by the waterfalls of wild France, and also a far broader, more detailed investment in SCUBA diving, particularly reef wall dives, balanced in grains of sand against the blue, 47 metres below the surface waves, with no end discernible below, and, oddly, a great pleasure for night-diving, passing beside moon-glazed fire coral that brushed at the bursting fish in flutters of sediment, away beyond the edges of the group, lost altogether once with the dying out of a malfunctioning torch, and, world-sloughed, drifting with the knocks and echoes of the deep, in quieted acceptance, until my kicking fin bent up against an unexpected resistance in the currents, a wobble in inner space that felt very much mutual, and I decided to turn back, ascending slowly by trial and error, and the following of natural signs and faint bioluminescence, the familiar contours and rocky underwater outcrops that indicated the gathering shallows of the shore. Far out, but not enough to abort or panic, I will never know what big aquatic species veered away from me in the full-black, but I was glad it forgave my alien clumsiness. This is all a firmly demarcated 'former life' now. If I want to move around elsewhere these days I'll pop down into the interconnected tunnels and chambers of decommissioned outposts and assorted weathered ex-military buildings, favouring those unclaimed by renovating hands, and unexploited. I don't get that chance very often though. A running theme in my modernised life.

The red lights of the extension cord boxes on the floor of my parent's living room used to scare me as a child, in the still silent darkness of the early hours, a cluster of small red lights in the corner, just to the right of the wide patio doors that acted as a great, thin barrier lens to focus the sense of prey-like exposure before the deeper, wilder darkness of the garden, untappable and closing back in. Their soft, bloody tones and the muted corona they cast up the wall, like dying embers against the primal stones of a sealed burial mound never failed to repel me, stimulating a blanketing mantle of invasive perceptive weirdness if peered at for too long, never quite able to place what I was thinking about and without tools to distil the tangible essence of the consistent alien pain these steady, opaque experiences stimulated. Distant, always beyond reach, and yet not intrinsically unfamiliar at the barbed gates that boundary memory, on cold winds stretching across the permafrost of the ochre sands. There has always been darkness at the outskirts of my life's passing.

Out though, even in the depths of the natural world, in the sightless void under the stars, I feel fairly content. I've never learned to drive. I don't like cars, or the idea of cars, or what cars have done to communities. It's nothing to do with any CO2 or fossil fuel worries as I don't buy in to the climate change and sustainable development agenda. I acknowledge the argument for personal freedom but resent the dislocation that comes from decimating the countryside with roads; driving off to the city to sit in an office all day with other rootless, personality-free cosmopolitans then driving back to sleep, as the community around you withers, all local industry and neighbourly interaction neglected. You see so much more of the world if you walk everywhere. I do take lifts though, if I have to. I've been criticized for not being a fan of driving cars also, as if it was a hallowed rite of passage into adulthood, and simply turning 18 was not enough. Before the mass production of personal vehicles for the flippant relaxation and convenience of the commercial market, was there such a thing as a functioning civilization at any point? Could we not have left this technology to necessary infrastructural logistics cargoes, heavy deliveries, and long-distance supply in relation to the transit of food and raw materials? A journey on foot, even if it is an extended distance requiring periodic rest, will still bring you to that deep, much needed freedom, divorced from the toy race tracks we ferry our regularised exhilaration along, clipped in from A to B. If we must flee with such haste to be alive, conveying ourselves into the distance in fine little pockets aligned to the drover's attentive ingenuity, something is broken.

If I pop out to my friends these days, and get too pally, my partner accuses me of being a homosexual and cheating on her. I expect less than that level of maturity from the nurses of the NHS, all tittering behind the bike-sheds with their fags and bleached blonde hair and Hip-hop streaming on the office radio. Despite my weird body, I'm glad I'm not that ugly. I often suspect that if I was hideous on the attractiveness scale, then my past female friends would not be at all sympathetic, and even nurses, in all their gormless Statist abruptness, might be even more unprofessional. Not that the men are much better these days, on the whole, but at least they can see me as a distinct being, and not a toddler to be disciplined or a long-term project to be worked on in the hope I will go out with them. The latter has indeed been attempted once or twice. I get the idea I'm considered a lost cause by the majority. Abby's not like that. She at least seems to have a spark of genuine affection. Totally loyal, to the degree that women can be loyal, which is a great blessing. I find her attractive, and she is amusing, hard-working, and good company, but certainly not aligned in views.

She expresses no strong viewpoints altogether, and has no interest in evaluating evidence, calmly detaching enough to analyse arguments, or marshalling her thoughts to propose and develop any of her own, bar the usual formational cliches implanted by a liberal society that designate her position as that of an unquestioning normie, thus she tends to assume that everyone is in accord over the popular talking points of the day and that it has always been this way, with nothing major really threatening the progression of average life bar the humdrum stupidities that can always be expected, possessing a powerful scepticism for anything out of the ordinary, and hesitant to accept any bad news not fed down directly by the State's media into the blank, spread brains of the retail staff she exchanges pleasantries with on her daily errands, or the friends-list of 400 or so personally unconnected people she does not know that dutifully maintain the contents of her scrolling Facebook feed. If there was any core issue she felt passionate over, it would be the sole insistence not to rock the boat. She does protect me though, and is patient. I imagine I am indeed very stressful for others to observe, if I am not in a happy mood.

I keep these historical matters from my stepchildren totally. They're children. They've seen me experience psychosis, although I always quarantine myself elsewhere and we take steps to ensure that they remain generally unaware, only noticing in practice when a herd of Police and NHS psych employees smash rudely through the door, pounding across the living room and off into the house to rip me out of whatever tiny, discreet pocket I'm hiding away in and leading me downstairs like a condemned man to be plonked back onto the sofa and interrogated in full view by frowning care workers before the inevitable rag-doll yank into the back of a van pulled up outside in the centre of the street with the engine still running. A set of mysterious disappearances on my part, left missing me and wondering if I am ok. Nothing else, thankfully. They're not my sounding boards though. I'm glad they cope with me, and seem to quite like me, in a way most adults don't, totally unjudgmental at root. That said, as they get older, I see the influence of the State school programming, and the political nudges of the media on them more and more. It seems their friends all share this brainwashed mono-perspective. I can't imagine anyone subjected to contemporary 21st Century education would come out in the end as anything but a radical Leftist, bar a tiny, persecuted minority.

I don't really understand their obsession with YouTube amateur Dadaist mini-cartoons, full of crass, absurdist, heavily self-referential meta humour, as more than a desperate, unfunny response to a dead, cultureless world and a terrifyingly broken future, but I resent the Progressive Black-washing expressions they come out with more. Seeing White Barbie dolls named Falisha by them and being told that we are not 'sassy', delivered in heavy BLM-friendly dialects can be grating. Recently, the youngest girl asked my partner for a Black Barbie and was refused. She looked very disappointed and asked why. Abby replied, "Ben would not approve", tactically adding "and neither would your father, most probably". She was totally correct, although I wish she had gone full hog and adopted the position herself, for solidarity. This response prompted the eldest girl to state "I don't see why everyone has to be so racist! We need the Ku Klux Klan to protect Black people from evil racists!" This statement confused me later when I found out. I was glad she still wasn't paying much attention in class, a gift I had previously commended her for.

I see the State school is continuing to fixate on traitorous Race activism in its English lessons though. School events and dances always utilize some trendy ethnic element, as if virtue-signalling White Middle Class female teachers could look cool and 'with it' in front of their students by playing Rap and Hip-hop to them as they dance along as well. It's more than that tragic insecurity though. These vapid, airheaded teachers are not only completely subscribed to the death of their own native culture and the sycophantic bigging up of hostile interlopers who readily hate them anyway, but simultaneously au fait by nature with any novel introduction of the stupid, reckless, cynical bohemian causes artificially promoted to tickle their vast, naïve, optimistic ignorance, as the bright, grey, blinded research teams of Bernays enthusiasts cloistered away in the Department of Education's applied behavioural science offices somehow know quite well already. Programmed morons directed to create more, and to love themselves for doing it, the propaganda media heaping official praise on top of the natural egoism and false pride showboating of this new breed of hysterical obedience counsellors.

The children can't really read or spell anything not dumbed down to modern incompetence, and certainly not anything challenging in its presented viewpoints, and they show no interest in literature or creative writing, although they're certainly shaping up to be profoundly ignorant anti-White dogmatists. I was under the impression that the KKK was a fading American phenomenon, kept alive in memory by a few loyal enthusiasts of advancing years, and hardly a puissant political force, and that they were a couple of internal controversies regarding the rumoured influence of Zionist intelligence agencies on the general initiatives of the organization's leaders. I don't imagine they ever get around to teaching them positive English history, culture, or folklore, or anything pro-European. I'm categorically banned, to a legal violence level, from injecting any counterprogramming into them by their father, who despises me, and under direct, heavy ongoing pressure from the State not to educate them. They certainly nipped that in the bud with extreme prejudice. I tried to shape the children's boundaries to limit their phone use, and screen time years ago, and to assess what they were viewing. I put forward that smartphones are not a good idea, or even a worthwhile or necessary purchase, and unlikely to be employed for anything constructive, or even for the purposes of traditional communication.

I also didn't like the idea of the house being chocked up with insidious, perpetually-recording portable surveillance and data harvest systems, the fundamental snooping technology that initially helped, significantly, in drawing in the usual generous investors that propelled their development, design, and mass-market release along at all now bolstered by additional software stealth-updates, helpfully implanted gratis, or for a small fee, each time the children add another irritating app. The rest of the adult family ganged up on me though, and quashed my concerns. I was forcefully reminded that social workers and the school nurses who report to them consider not owning a TV or a contemporary phone to be a warning sign of neglect and child abuse, and otherwise told I was worrying over nothing, impeded every time I took matters into my own hands, and warned against "upsetting the children" and "altering the normal routine". I was forbidden to raise my voice so as to discipline them with any proper authority and gravitas if they were naughty.

I get the idea the preferred position these days is to sit back beaming in joy and proudly let them do whatever they want, no matter how destructive, disruptive, dangerous or ill-advised, and to treat them to all intents and purposes as wise, competent, liberated mini-adults, in full consenting understanding of their actions and their consequences, and superbly equipped from the first second of their birth to handle the fullness and glory of their inevitable victorious destiny, rising bright and blazing across the future in meteoric individualism, or face the wrathful paranoic glares of the bleeding heart social worker brigade, scalding out in fierce ever-scanning malignance from the dark, baleful towers dotted across the benighted horizons of their panopticon. I note that this rule only applies to parents and guardians. Naturally, granted the approval of their supervisors, left standing some metres away tapping their feet in a stance of disapproval and meekly threatening to hand out yet more hour detentions, the predominantly White students can also decisively continue freely consenting to tearing themselves to pieces at school, rousing temporarily out of sullen, disaffected inertia, like a horde charging pitiless out of the East, or the complicated eddies and rising feedback loops of a chaotic cosmic cycle, biting, bruising, kicking, hair-pulling, and ganging up to try and stab each other to death in the corridors over the loss of a unicorn fidget spinner or hanging around after lessons in a swarming cloud of posturing expletives, pouring into the road clutching their spliffs and Smartphones, blocking up the traffic and driving their brother's bull-mastiff growling onto the prone body of the small weeping White girl with the bleeding nose lying outside the school gates, on account of the persistent wildfire rumour that, apparently, a girl she once knew in another class once might have compared the appearance of the Black boy that had kicked away her chair to a chocolate bar after he had finished spitting on her face.

I continued to take the kids out on country walks, and talk to them about the world openly up until the point their estranged father, a Police officer, threatened to come round and beat me up then have the children forcibly removed and put into care. I had been lecturing about whistleblowers at the time, and giving a child-friendly overview of the persecution of Melanie Shaw, the propagandistic martyrdom of George Floyd for the purposes of developing a pan-spectrum strategy of State-backed anti-White activism, and a gentle reminder of a couple of rarely mentioned cases that they could share at school in which unarmed White people were genuinely murdered by Police, or indeed by Blacks and Muslims, and why it's strange that this criminal activity is often ignored and covered-up but makes sense once you realise that the establishment is run by greedy psychopaths with grand visions and its masses of paid followers aren't very intelligent or pleasant people and that the former group has spent considerable time and money training up the latter to carry out a long-term campaign of genocidal ethnic cleansing and is prepared to utilize any dark, underhand tactic-set necessary to achieve what they want. I followed, at length, by a critical introduction to academic Marxism, an interactive question and answer brainstorm quiz on the dangers posed by the points put forward in Agenda 2030, an ongoing warning about the pharmaceutical industry in general, a further discussion on how and why the establishment's State media and school systems are designed to lie to people, and why it is always important to stand your ground, think critically, and tell the truth, even in the face of impossible odds. We finished with a mild analysis of Israeli hypocrisy and belligerence, and a few notes on how the world is controlled and run at supra-governmental level, what corruption and greed are, and why so many politicians and state employees are self-serving cowards.

I had to relinquish the games of hangman I played with them to teach them unexpected new words, the formal rhymed poetry writing competitions, and the drawing sessions I'd organise to test their satirical cartooning skills as much as their imaginative fine art. There will be no more physical fitness workouts in the garden. There will be no more elaborate sandcastles on the beach or swimming out in the summer sea. No more woodland nature trails or games of catch in the meadow. Neither am I allowed to begin to teach them how to target shoot anymore. Abby's quite unwitting about it all and doesn't see what the fuss is, on anything. It's a terrible pain having to sit back and watch, and a great sadness. I thought they were coming along quite well as reasonably open-minded, intelligent critical thinkers and questioners. A lot has been lost. I fear it is now too late to re-recover it. The pitfalls and disadvantages of being a stepfather are many. One can be resented and ostracised, by the Law, by the State, and by the parents themselves for trying to shape what is best for "other people's children." I hope my lines on this topic display a cold, sad irony to that flippant, perfunctory dismissal.

I wish the psych teams would just leave me the hell alone to be honest. Their arrogance and institutional hubris are terrifyingly destructive. Their treatments don't work on me, empirically observed, and bolstered by a severe slab of medical research evidence, suppressed and heretical to the orthodox, but instead of relenting, or even listening to my views at all, they just apply them regardless, as if addicted to their job. What do they possibly think they are achieving? The gross, over-paid, empty-headed guild of their shabby, unscientific profession does not seem able to accept that it is ineffective and destroying the lives of so many patients. They cannot allow themselves to accept that they are wrong. That's extremely dangerous. One feels they are making me take the meds to fulfil the professional myth "until they make me well", knowing (at least a little bit) in full pessimism, at top level only perhaps, that their treatment method will not succeed. Not even 'if', but 'until'! Their minds are already set. All the while, my body and mind, and inner core of being is totally ruined emotionally by this relentless battering.

Friends and family are a better, far more sympathetic care environment, though even that's saying something. But you tell the psych-industry "no" and they apply their dogmatic careless inquisitiveness to you anyway. You wonder also if they truly think they're helping you, or if it's for their sake, to keep their salaries and their perks, and to maintain their desire for status, and to eradicate the frustration and embarrassment that arises from them having to watch you be ill. The urge to crudely intervene seems pathological. Not bring help, to end another's pain. Just intervene, for their pleasure and convenience. They must be some kind of morons to think that, after all this. Going through the motions of being a pseudo-doctor and collecting the glitzy bonuses beats acknowledging the existence of patients as autonomous humans in possession of consent, and to be treated with dignity, and not just as interchangeable units of infuriating meat to be prodded, tested, and 'fixed'. If they've got you to the point where you're completely broken and dehumanised, down on all fours, whimpering like a trapped animal worrying away in the purgatory of steel jaws, gnashing at yourself unobserved in the cold concrete corner of a locked solitary suicide-watch isolation cell, hmm, leave me alone people, maybe?

Unlike Sean, Dad doesn't have his beatnik beard anymore. I told him off gently in the street during his visit after he gave £3 to a fat, ugly Syrian (or Roma?) immigrant woman selling The Big Issue. She should recognise me by now as I pass that way a few times a week. If the definition of insanity hadn't been changed by Big Tech so as to conveniently negate all criticism of government, one folk-wisdom connotation used to be "doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results." Her shameless, money-grabbing insincerity is not enough to sell her act to me. Interestingly, as I stormed past her shaking my head, she fixated on him, but, as the coins were handed over, it was me she looked at, and me she gave the cheeky smile and the "thank you!" to, with vindicated smugness. I hate that thinly veiled propaganda 'magazine', for the traitorous anti-White content. The writing is also uninspired, bland and increasingly dumbed down. Familiar.

I recall my periodic visits to the local shop set up by St Helena Hospice, an independent charity providing bereavement counselling to individuals and their families in north Essex, although I'm not sure how independent they actually are as their official website, full of intrusive customer service pop-ups and shifting decals of smart, non-White females posing for the familiar stock photoshoots clustering a soft-edged, pastel-hued 'cloud-bubble' page layout that prioritizes style over substance, and employing one of these cuddly corporate fonts set to pacify pre-schoolers informs me that a third of their funding comes directly from the NHS and that the hospice is the proud member of a vast Essex healthcare alliance. I notice that the Essex Freemasons group sent them a £31,000 gift in 2021 which they have pledged to put into new services designed to assist deprived communities with a specified goal of attracting more Black and Asian patients. Typical proto-commie errors - given that 8% of the global population is White, I know we appear rather small and measly to your similarly-hued Smart-mind(s), but I've often thought a total minority might be outnumbered, and more likely to on that account to be akin to a dying organ-failure burns case on a tiny specialist wing.

Do we:

A. Help him out.


B. Continue to make a fortune spreading mental paracetamol on a rat-line drip to the crowded wellnesses, only to, mysteriously, lose the occasional patient now and again, but at least everyone's smiling and the atrium moves.

Where's the bloody triage now, you stupid, Bezmenovian idiots? Beyond browsing for knickknacks I stop by at their branch in town to drop off piles of old books I think might be of interest to their customers as there's not a great selection in there and everything is of a kind, but am always disappointed as though the books are happily accepted, they never quite seem to make it onto the gaps in the shelves. I've come to understand that, as with everything else these days, rather than operating the impartial basic service of volunteer staffing a small community goods exchange outpost in return for mild yet regular income streams of public money to aid their charity's vision and maintenance costs, they are instead running a censorious publishing house on the premises, with the dignity of old liars in public places, and a still-botched civilization.

I am, in general, not in favour of random handouts, charities, NGO-status government contractors, or supporting those who do not give a solitary toss about our country, and the issues that affect our own wretched feudal citizens, more than seeing us as the naïve, otherwise contemptable group custodians of a compliant and profitable piggy bank which they can eternally raid, kicking at our falling corpses as they loot the pockets for final pennies and additional bonus rewards, and then leaping onto their friends' scooters with the ruddy handfuls of harvested iPhones nestled tight in their designer bags and screaming off from the curb to go and smash up a McDonald's. To be honest, I'd prefer us to drive them into the sea with SA80s, hopefully in the hands of the sort of people you would conventionally expect to be holding one, and perhaps be left to watch them stubbornly drown scrambling relentlessly back through the surf against a punching hail of agony, yelling out final curses and angry demands for bloody revenge to their subservient native goons piled up crying and heartbroken on the shore (the latter having failed to rush forward in massed traitor suicide waves and slit the throats of the last loyal defenders of this island), rather than even attempting to swim off from the snapping resolution of the L85 rounds easing them indelicately into death. They seem slow to get the hint, perhaps on account of a general slowness anyway.

There's a lot to be said for Exterminationism. Some Whites annoy me also. More than one would imagine. I like to pretend I'm joking occasionally. It's a shame I feel I have to do that. Even the Right doesn't really take to this idea. I don't think it's very likely at all that this would happen, not within my lifetime, or at least not even a potential until I am at the closing of old age. What will happen exactly? Does anyone know? I'm not sure it's possible to predict with any particular fine accuracy. It's just a couple of solid, if limited, approaches to prudent strategizing these days based on a review of the relatively small body of available data highlighting the terrible concrete points that we do know for sure, and always subject to unexpected change that makes it even harder to act decisively. I'd prefer a lot of things to occur. They remain unresolved.

A new store has popped up in town to replace the short-lived New Age Wiccan crystal shop and its small staff of thin White female young professionals dressed in loose colourful Hindu robes over short baggy Western trousers and flicking at their pentagram earrings as they lectured in tones of deep, knowledgeable authority on the cleansing ritual benefits of their home-made Vegan teacakes, pinning up extensive handwritten blurbs highlighting the powerful astral energies of each individual bucket of small, similar, expensively priced stones. This time the premises is functioning as a temporary bric-a-brac thrift store to gather money for Ukraine. They have leaflets inside showing photos of random babies and broadcasting finely-sculpted words of minimalistic sensationalist distress and of the pressing human mobilization required in the here and now to assist them with love in addressing this atrocity, arrayed all across a selection of eye-grabbing two line paragraphs. I reluctantly went in with Abby. I had to leave the premises a few minutes later though as I passed comment on the dire, controlled collapse of the British economy, the cynical manipulation of fuel, food, and energy, the massed ranks of starving citizens on our streets, thrust out by family breakdown and the increasing polarization of relatives, rising rents stimulated by increased housing demand on account of a growing artificially boosted population of immigrants, ill health across the board in a hostile society, the wrath of the plandemic with the steady loss of so many jobs and small businesses, and the traitorous betrayals and virtue-signalling renovations of those defence ministers devoted to ruining a gutted, anti-White Armed Forces. I said something negative about all politicians also, and about the World Economic Forum and its young global leaders.

My question to her, firmly delivered in company, was, given all this at home, why are continuing to fleece our native citizens to provide cash for a alien foreign country that most couldn't find on a map until recently, have on the whole never visited, have no firm, meaningful historical connection to, may have a contentious genetic dissimilarity from, and do not in any way possess the years of lived on the ground experience and, co-current to that, the deep, complicated background research necessary to adequately analyse and respond to, in any meaningful political, historical, or cultural fashion bar what they can glean online by hastily cribbing from routine mainstream news outbursts, through sly social media propaganda displays and exponential groupthink, through the daily screens of printed lies and the buzzing howl of a million televisions, and by the fiercely-contested, rigid dogmatism of assorted dissident opinion forums and the intelligence plants, subversives, and bad actors that stuff them, unobtrusively directing the flow of conversation, even as we ourselves are broken, desperate, starving, and shivering to death. I conclude that if, by some weary miracle, uncommon in the charity business, the money did reach its stated targets, we would have done nothing more by this act than confirm our participation in a post-national World State, with one group of brow-beaten, mass-produced, useless eater peasants as equal, interchangeable, and expendable as another. It's just that they've got all our cash now. Perhaps the counterpoint act of not blithely flinging away coerced aid may have some small impact on curtailing the war, or at least altering it in the eyes of Whitehall and a few offices of disappointed MoD war-hawks and arms contractors, unable to fulfil their orders and directives with the same efficiency, whilst allowing us to be genuinely impartial.

I had used to think that Russia was slightly more dangerous short-term. Now I've gone back to thinking everyone's more dangerous, and the long-term is forever clouded if not antithetical to human life. Russian remains a decayed Third World hole though, and there doesn't seem to be any intrinsic reason, despite their rampant state publicity and lying protestations that they would not be acting as anything but a continuing communist USSR, under internationalist oligarch rule, matching the aims of an elite globe-spanning System of total evil. I had forgotten that every governmental enclave masquerading as a clear-cut national leader in their front for the public serves only as a geographical substation of paid-off, share-invested bureaucrats for one faction or other of a One World Government. I've put Putin out of my mind for a while. There is an obvious control nexus much closer to us that will direct that World Government's agenda regardless of him, camped on top of our very own country. No real difference anywhere. Reading the non-fiction warning publications of Patrick M. Wood, Servando Gonzalez, and Dr. John Coleman, and regularly engaging with the reports stored on UK Column leads to an an unavoidable conclusion that something is very wrong, and has been wrong for quite some time. Why are we allowing these people, who we pay gross taxes to so they can fund ventures that we have no say in and that do not agree with, and who patently despise us, to strip away our wealth from yet another angle and transfer it overseas under black propaganda pretences and with no chance of recuperation? Do we hate ourselves that much?!

Abby got flustered at this point. I was gently yet firmly told off for "making a scene." She flashed a quick, apologetic glance at the two frumpy, middle-aged White women minding the till. I decided I couldn't remain in there. Oh dear, another rude man. Perhaps he's mentally ill. It's often easier for her, and everyone else I talk to, to cope with all of the above than to cope with the embarrassment of someone saying it openly to them, especially within earshot of the very people perpetrating it on them. In general, it's not even coping, they just don't give a damn beyond social graces.

As to the Syrian street-stalker woman, Dad replied that I was a bigot. Perhaps he liked her dress or something. It was a strangely feminine display of misplaced chivalry on his part, the same as him always chiding me for being a monster because I politically differ from him, having actually put some thought into it. He has the bonus at least of not accepting to 'agree to differ', with both people being 'equally' right, which is obviously nonsense and could never exist in nature. He at least acknowledges that someone is right, and someone is wrong here. After all, in my weird meta-set mind, though the first-order logic appears sound to both of us (and he can phrase it with considerably more depth and skill), the quantified variables agreed, on account of some grand commitment to laborious patterns of self-in-world honesty, our given interpretation, horrifying as it is, does not seem to allow us to declare every single sentence satisfiable on account of its pleasant, calming existence in one huge mad formula of warped logical baselessness, despite the sneakiness that can be hidden sometimes in unsound semantics by those who wish woe, their neurotic love of postmodern attempts to jam in the lesser if not impossible by brute force, having encountered, a little, the idea of effective deception, and deception nonetheless, in spiteful preternatural hisses from the rim of the cots rattling in their skull-eaves. In a similar manner, but with some commitment to regeneration, ranked hierarchies, and basic operations, despite some concerns over the difficulty of non-linear dynamics, which is beyond me really, I have never yet seen 1 expressed mathematically as 2 in a way that seems pleasing (enough), whereas quite a lot of other humble minds clearly have.

It's just that it's me, categorically, who has to be wrong. He prides himself on his atheistic humanism. I would call him a fundamentalist zealot by personality regardless though. I love him. It's just shouting these days, now and again. It never penetrates his surface, but it stops him in his tracks if I yell loudly enough at him. He stares at you in patient incomprehension, totally confused, and a little fed up, but with a smug smile lingering. It's lucky for him that the psychiatrists labelled me with all these conditions. It gives him an excuse to pin my every outburst of annoyance at his actions on some form of lifelong irrationality, which seems to support his original theory in a hideous, self-fulfilling prophecy of confirmation bias. If you don't just direct this intense wall of angry sound at him, you get the idea he'd just keep talking, on and on, insulting me all day. I'll never repair internally though as it's too late.

At least I healed as much as I could by torturing my throat through a bizarre, inaccessible, disturbingly scary, utterly uncompromising cathartic diary and autobiography on abuse and pain disguised as an 'oldschool' Electro-Industrial music project which I titled "Vore Complex" (referring to an intricate aggregate of interwoven themes concerning various aspects of hyperconsumerism and overconsumption and the bourgeois futility of 21st Century Western society, all Keynesian mass-production, globalist advertising, atomization, and the cult of the TV, and with a certain aghast disdain - bordering on consistent pessimistic cynicism - for a world increasingly made fake, shallow, and ultimately disappointing, all spirituality, intelligence and art sold-out or torn away, to a backdrop of lost friends, thwarted dreams, and my severe Autophagia). The despair and coruscating pain and bleakness in those tracks is genuine. I gave a copy of one of my 32 albums to a previous Pakistani psychiatrist who informed me that he didn't listen to "immature 'Heavy Metal' noise", and name-dropped Rachmaninoff at me. You just know he listens to ethnic Islamic music at home, if he listens to music at all. I've heard it playing quietly in some of their private upstairs offices at least. I assume someone intimidating and influential had tipped him off about the Russian composer at a staff conference and he was keen to sound the part, as he otherwise came across as a moron and could barely speak English outside of his repetitive professional jargon. I couldn't imagine this bare, puffed up overseer gaining very much from the complex sublime drama, vivid harmony, and intense textural poetics of that brilliant, violent, late-Romantic master's frenetic, technically-daunting Op. 39 piano etudes. Does he fling it on in nonchalant reverence as he's hastily mass-sigilising his unrecognisable name-squiggle onto the standard spaces of a grey, industrial block of Mental Health Act Section 3 request forms, grunting over the desk to retrieve the stiff, rubbery egg and mayonnaise sandwich he had his secretary deliver to him from the patients' canteen next-door, feeling so very, very real? As it stands, he couldn't look past the nasty sound of my project though and see what I attempting to express in the subtext, and what I was openly communicating the entire time in shielded language.

VC is not a sound I imagine anyone would ever listen to if they didn't want to either console themselves following their own hellish lives, or just wonder what stressed me out. It's firmly modernist, but not the sort of thing you could dance to in a club. I made a conscious, concerted effort with the time-signatures, verse and chorus phrasing, and beat-patterns so as to try and dissuade the milquetoast underground dance scene from commercial reactions, even before the samples and the lyrical themes were noticed, and despite the Techno superficiality. I had forgotten that they're all transexual Marxist activists these days anyway. A last, benighted trip to London's Slimelight club a few years ago to test marketing potential in an environment I was fondly familiar with as a teenager established the futility of my work resonating with this withering crowd regardless. I wasn't sure what to wear either as I tend to dress in conventional attire, with hair shaved short and black office shoes or ankle boots, all dark cotton long-sleeve shirts and suit trousers, usually with my 3/4 length Crombie thrown over the top, or various high collared military peacoats.

I wearily exchanged a business card with someone as I stood in the queue, struggling to initiate and maintain polite conversation, and was passionately informed at length about the revolutionary artistic genius of VNV Nation. I knew I was damned at that point. I don't think a taste for raw, angry, bitterly dark Industrial has survived. There's been nothing experimentally interesting or philosophically challenging to any of it for a while. Neither is it really controversial, provocative, or opinionated even, not anymore. I imagine the radical Leftism health and safety shake-down is even worse in the Goth scene. There was always an overlap between these two musical subcultures. Industrial seems to have been wholly devoured by Goth in the end. There is nothing more. Now Goth stumbles on down the street, like a fatherless late-night paralytic vomiting into her handbag, playing guitar-free LGBT pop music to a gibbering mesh of ugly, f**ked-up men in blonde wigs, neon stockings and crotchless rubber pants as a few cyber-style teenagers in expensive PPE bop about blindly in the corner behaving themselves and pretending it's all business as usual. Nothing to see here. Unironic Right-wing themes crop up in Martial music and Neofolk regularly. In the electronic Industrial artists it's usually present only as a over the top tongue-in-cheek gimmick as that seems to be the best that they can think.

I started off with a chance as I was vague enough to be general in my societal criticism. About the level of an average Punk band but with grainy, lo-fi electronic bile lodged somewhere between Atari Teenage Riot and :Wumpscut: (though closer to X-Marks The Pedwalk meets Project Pitchfork, fonder of Throbberstalk, and about the obscurity level of Scapa Flow, aping Fad Gadget. I've strayed into OMD territory at times. I also enjoyed listening to Asche, The Retrosic, Aslan Faction, and Terrorfakt. Occasional Vatican Shadow listens also, more as thematic inspiration at times. Basically, a cheap Katscan (MK2). The darker and heavier Misery Loves Co. songs in their early work moved me. You can easily guess my basic compositional tastes.)

As I learned more information myself my music drifted more and more to the Right though, in overt fashion, although this only really emerged to a dissident degree with later Bleach For The Stars, which can be openly National Socialist at times (although an early album titled "Sweatheart" plants the seeds, in a ferocious, damning indictment of institutional enhanced interrogation, cruelty, and State torture, and quite emotional at times behind it all). The first project flittered between anti-communistic exposures, moderate criticism of social justice, and a few forays into counter-Islamic and Counter-Terrorist territory, quite light and low level politically, with the usual normie conservative errors and inconsistencies, although there was always a return to the basic themes of clandestine government weirdness and totalitarianism, always anti-Establishment, and a hell of a lot of material on state sponsored sexual abuse and child trafficking. The bizarre MK-Ultra topics came up quite a bit.

The slim chance was gone by that point. I didn't want to write music that regressed my position thematically but was acutely aware all the while that the stylistic factors of the music itself would put off Right-leaning listeners who are quick to pigeonhole anything that is not conventionally recognisable as an established Right-wing sound, such as Fashwave, or Viking Folk, as degenerate. I assume the alternative scene is too well-known by now as a vapid hotbed of Leftist perversion, a sad trait that did not always seem so obvious in the past, at least not more so than in any other facet of genre-based popular music. Eventually, I decided for myself that all modernist music that deviates from traditional orchestral instrumentation and Western structuring is degenerate to one degree or another, although some historical folk is acceptable, if not quite as majestic in its genius. I write cheap-to-buy pot-boiler concept albums for the moment, with my BFTS project, as I practice and hone my skills. I don't think they're crap musically. I'm actually quite pleased with them. They're still degenerate though, given the criteria outlined above. Personally, I listen to nothing but Classical music in the house, on a daily basis, and even then, am quite picky. Much of the 20th Century is shied away from, at least once atonal composition, Jazz, and hideous postmodern Dada start to pop up, and anything goes. I've taken a particular fondness to Alexander Scriabin's Symphony No. 2 recently, as well as some of his mystical Nationalist works. I find supreme pleasure in Alexander Glazunov, Bedrich Smetana, and Niccolo Paganini.

I don't think VC was great music. Not in the slightest. It just kept me alive. It wasn't really intended as music at all, just 1001 interlinked shards of atrocious past life discomfort, and then an extended moan about the world, wrapped up in formal metre metaphysical poetry at times, and gritty, complicated slam verses at others, usually with quite a lot going on in them quietly and a lot of allusions and things to pull out at multiple levels, sometimes to a ridiculous cryptogrammatic cipher degree like a audiobook of the Voynich Manuscript, delivered at rapid pace in guttural, screeching, tortured rasps, and with a bit of sad and sinister melody, drawing from Eastern European and Arabic influences, thrown on top of a thick wall of ferocious mechanical punch beats, and with the sort of lyrics that homeless drug addicts and psych patients and pissheads in gutters and abused children running away to London might empathise with. Something a bit different, candid and honest, warts and all. I realised early on that no one would read it as pure poetry if I didn't add music. It's a pity no-one these days actively listens to lyrics, or reflects on them. They've all been encouraged just to focus on the heady passion of the instrumentation and the polished commercial value with the rest relegated to padding.

As I said in one of the songs "teeth against the afterbirth of everything you've missed." I wonder sometimes if it could have been nipped in the bud, if only someone professional had realised what the lyrics in VC are implying and trying to convey, shielded in artistic language. As it stands, they never had the time, or the intuition to do that. They could not be bothered. As education levels go down, people are increasingly unfamiliar with the language I use, and the archaic style I write my poetry in - and I think somehow, realistically, that it's closer to grimly-wrought philosophical poetry than a successful adherence to the conventions of commercial lyric writing, despite the naughty words, and the (sigh...) creepy bits. I should have named the project "TL;DR^DL". Anyone who passed that listening and yet didn't assimilate anything in the first 15 seconds or thereabouts of escalating oddness, their fear of oddness driving them to click away, could be counted on not to wonder if the 'L' implied 'Love'. A fairly succinct observation. Further, with some experience on the matter, those afraid of, at root, and before any descriptors are added to define taste, sound itself, common in the oddness of a natural world, and sometimes unexpected the while, cannot be useful in addressing stressful situations effectively, if at all. A burns ward, say, or a battlefield.

Here are 12 random examples of Vore Complex, with song titles. A kind of itemized playlist, if you like. If you can't work out the phonetics, listening on headphones makes it easier, providing you're not going for all out club bass overload. Buckle up and take care:

1. Tongue:

2. Pulp (BFTS Remaster):

3. Heartworm:

4. Badly Painted Dream (Wee Chapel of the Dawn Remix):

5. A Stone's Throw From Insanity: