Reconstituted from a corrupted file I retrieved off one of my external drives on June 6th, 2023.
I've had an attempt made on my life three times in the past two months. It's been troublesome. I think I'll just jot down the circumstances. I have bigger things to worry about, although I felt it ok material for a short diary post.
The first time was along the road by the back of my house. There's a quiet, wooded stretch in-between the new traffic camera on the corner leading to the A120 and the wide-view CCTV pillar on the entrance road leading down directly to the Ferry Port Security Office and the Railway Station. Hamilton House has cameras also, but they're placed to scan the building perimeter only. That place always reminds me of something administrative you'd find on a camp, or barracks, or a domestic intelligence building. That stern, square, red brick imposition of wartime architecture.
I was walking back from my friend Dave's house, on the left-hand pavement, approaching the bend. I was wearing my British Army Mark IV (60s) helmet at the time, and some kit-bashed webbing and camo combination, with my headphones draped around my neck to allow me better situational awareness. Not the most subtle get-up, but I like to test out various items now and again. I had been listening to Symphony No.6 by Sir Arnold Bax, playing quietly in the background.
I felt the low rumble of an engine behind me and turned round to look. The long bonnet of a grey, glossy BMW estate was bearing down on me, leisurely, having mounted the curb. The windscreen was tinted full black. The driver didn't seem to be in any great hurry, but he wasn't slowing either. There was nowhere for me to go as I was backed up beside some piles of brick and garden refuse. I made a "stop, I'm right in front of you!" hand-gesture but was ignored. I wondered if there were problems with the breaks.
Within a couple of seconds, the car was right on top of me, brushing my calves. I banged on the bonnet in annoyance. Still, he continued to power forwards, pushing me along a little, into the piled brickwork. I undid my helmet and chucked it hard at the glass on the driver's side. It didn't shatter, but there was a resounding "thunk!", and the car finally ground to a halt. I stared at the windscreen for a second in annoyance and then edged over the bonnet and disappeared back around the corner up the road to my house.
When I went back later the car (and the helmet) was gone. I would have thought, had it been a genuine car-accident, that the driver would have reported it, or at least got out to see what was going on, or, knowing Essex, to scream at me and raise his fists. Since I wasn't reported to anyone either for flinging a helmet at his car, it leads me to wonder if there was some nefarious intended conclusion. I let the matter be. I'm not well liked around here. The feeling is very much mutual.
The second time was more easy-going. Lax, even. Walking back at night from the local corner shop another car drove right into me, coming down the road towards me, and veering in, mounting the pavement to the left a foot past the tips of my boots, and causing me to leap out of the way against the right wall, clutching my shopping. A grey hatchback this time. The car proceeded to reverse out, and then sped off on the same trajectory. It makes you wonder sometimes. I'm not in the habit of utilizing the 'services' of the corrupt, sinister British Police, as I have as much contempt for them as I do for most everyone else around here. They would have just questioned my sanity had I done so, perhaps leading to a bonus sectioning to render me safe for a month or so, or indeed hung about to see if there was anything else they could capture their favour neighbourhood ‘far right extremist’ whipping boy over.
The third time took the biscuit. Another night-time walk taken down to the shops. Approaching a side street junction one street along, I heard steady acceleration down the main road through the village. Another hatchback, dark blue this time, coming from behind me. He drove past me as I was crossing the side-street, then stopped at the opposite rim of the junction some metres ahead to my front right. I peered in and met eyes with the white driver. He didn't look very pleased, although more stern than angry. Short brown hair. Fairly nondescript and forgettable. There was a little 610 driver’s light shining. He stared back for a second, and then began to reverse, accelerating the car around the corner, and back in my direction. As the car was about to strike, I side-stepped out of the way, missing the rear bumper by literal inches. The momentum carried the vehicle past my right shoulder. I figure the impact would have knocked me down and broken something, at least. The car was set to run me straight over. I decided not to look back as I heard the tyres skidding off, and just continued my walk, attempting to be as nonchalant as possible.
Having returned from the shop, I had a little think about all this, and then decided it wasn't worth worrying too much about. It's not the first time someone, or some group, has tried to take me out. Oddly enough, that hasn't happened for quite a while though, and was in somewhat of a different context. Somehow, I preferred those civilians, just about.
I doubt these sporadic ‘road-rage’ and ‘careless driving’ moments will be the last, much as I’d be prepared, perhaps, to question the relatability of the third example, knowing the locals don’t like me either. Having the driver’s light on wasn’t exactly ‘professional’. There were some locals milling around outside Skippers Fish & Chips shop. They'd noticed the attack, or so I’d hope, but were too busy staring into their shared smartphone, drinking Frosty Jack's and listening to Hip-hop on a streaming internet radio (or perhaps YouTube, as it’s easier to locate and it’s pretty hard to f**k up with the interface if you’re trying to make the fewest hand-actions possible).
I've noticed that the proprietors of Skippers don't like me either. The frequency with which they get my family orders wrong is stunning, and portion size is somewhat diabolical given the price. The portions keep getting smaller and smaller. Very small indeed at times. I'm wondering if my recent unsolicited comments to them on Christianity - which seems quite popular locally, more so that I've seen elsewhere in Essex - and Jacobin politics might have rubbed them up the wrong way. It's positively Cromwellian around here in places. The Mayflower-era yokel puritanism hasn't quite gone away. It's a little bit like that bizarre movie, The Village, even down to those Massachusetts trees by the river on the other side of the roundabout. My mind thinks of Gummo also, particularly out in my little cracked-tarmac segment at the edge-land boundaries, amidst all the used nappies, fag butts, and rusted car frames, those scatterings of plastic bottle rubbish across the outer woods, and of course the dogshit. Oh yes, and the people. Inevitably you could make Lovecraftian ‘Innsmouth’ comparisons, or a slight hint of the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. A budget remake of The Wicker Man from the perspective of Edward Woodward’s team and their island, yet respectfully mimicking the same narrative plot events and eerie sacrificial methodology, you know, just to be fair.
Ever since I attempted to shame a local Conservative politician with fierce, incensed letters of detailed (if overcomplicated) covid-19 anti-NHS criticism whilst re-highlighting his family-friendly nudism fascinations and his notorious expenses scandal to the internet, and since I noted that the district council delights in withholding Green/Smart/Global/Third World area plans from the public, discussed to us post-consensus at their dreary question and answer sessions, and invite-only social club soirées, and with the full propagandistic support of local agit-prop newspapers, all of a very Fabian and Marxian tone, gushing nepotistic lower middle-class Statist praise for the establishment and for the system, with the amateurish writing standard of a Girl Scouts newsletter, and always those sensationalist front page grumbles to keep the local population in fear, suspicion and hostility towards each other, usually of the “White British Man Caught Doing Something Terrible” theme, I have sensed that I am no longer welcome around here.
I was hardly welcome in the first place. It's like walking into a Potemkin amusement-park and experimental citizen research enclave set up by the Tavistock Institute to abstractly glorify the philanthropic charity works of Nicholae Ceaușescu. A real sense of cold, windswept decay. Sussex University's former "technetronic" future-shock research facilities are not all that far away after all.
Police came to my door recently also, as if anything I needed something like that, yes. As I was passing the Home Bargains store in the industrial shopping estate 400m from my home, I came across a black man walking in front of me. He'd just stepped out, getting totally in the way, and seemed intent on dawdling along oblivious to the surroundings. He had a visible walking impediment, something I would call mild-moderate "bandy-legs". On a frustrated whim, I asked him if he was familiar with the Game of Thrones Unsullied, and whether his predicament was in fact brought about by his prior castration.
He had the middle-class liberal look about him, unlike the 3rd or 4th Generation Nigerians lounging outside the supermarket now and again, smoking their suspicious rollies, cans of drink tucked nicely away in black parkas, listening to yet more asinine Hip-hop, making a lot of noise to their friends in their upmarket vehicles, and scowling at passers-by. He didn't respond. I take it he's unused to that question. A pity.
As I reached my front door the two female PCs were standing there. A twenty-something and an older woman, both with blonde hair, yet very English faces, by which I mean, you could tell they were from Essex, and raised reasonably locally too (or at least London satellite suburbia) and had been to a State comprehensive. It’s about the opposite of Jane Austen territory, more like the weasels from The Wind in the Willows following a few windfall generations. It’s hard to get the sharp-faced office shrew look out. I immediately got up onto my step. They were both looking up at me intently.
I was informed that a member of the public had reported a racist remark and requested a welfare check as he was aware that I was mentally unwell. Great, I thought. Since when is asking someone if their walking stance is dictated by their lack of testicles any character slur against their race? Correct me if I’m wrong, but GoT’s Unsullied do seem to legitimately appear black, so it’s hardly a totally unrealistic visual comparison. Also, though I don't doubt or deny that I have bouts of ill-health, often poorly distinguished from genuine spontaneous eccentricity (or just ‘having a sense of humour’, as it used to be expressed), artistic and creative moments, a wild, wide set of interests, and, explicitly, a politically-persecuted anti-establishment bend - a little like Solzhenitsyn in reverse; albeit never quite escaping the initial arrest - when's the last time anyone genuinely concerned for a person's wellbeing ever requested a welfare check from Statist forces, given the gross institutional negligence and sadistic, family-wrecking power-play of Police, NHS, psychiatric, and social worker minions, and their activist judges, and assorted bent accomplices? One might think a black man familiar with systemic native racism to such an accomplished degree might be vaguely aware of those sorts of institutions, quite a familiar topic of CRT and BLM complaint in the UK, surely.
As it stands, they left me alone, bar, one assumes, the obligatory write-up later for governmental surveillance micro-management, and to forward on so they can give the Met a little more muck to chuck at me if needs should ever require. I stated to them, as I do every time, that I'm engaged in amateur research, albeit of an often historical, cultural, and scientific bend. They stared inquisitively at my partner, who had come out to stand next to me, and she confirmed that I was ok. I've noticed the female-centric trust and evaluation long-term, at the full expense of anything I have to say on the matter. I'd shudder to think what would have happened if Abby had been in a bad mood at me that day for whatever reason, and decided I wasn't ok.
Later, I wondered if the two blonde women were single, or, if not, if they were in mixed-race partnerships (or lesbian as well?). I can't imagine so. They looked single. It's interesting to consider though, and would certainly bias their viewpoints a little, for obvious reasons, even before the daily barrage of official narrative inclusion propaganda from the State media and their own long-cherished institutional Freemasonic Rotary Club ideals for a progressive, diverse, non-discriminatory white-free global future totally neutered them against the native citizens of their own country.
I returned to my garden. The radish crop has not taken well. I'm glad the olive tree is beginning to flourish though. I had not expected that. The rest of the fruits, roots, and vegetables are nestled down. I phoned Ali and tried to talk to him about the need for contingency plans, and resource management with an eye to developing new underground trade networks 6and supply depots to counteract this gross, totalitarian behaviour monitoring and social engineering system, especially, and very important now, understanding the exponentially deteriorating global economic collapse into full long-term depression, a very worrying matter indeed.
He brushed me off though. "I'll deal with it if it happens, Ben."
"But, um, what if it's too late then, Ali? Do you not think informing yourself in advance and adjusting your decisions based on long-term trends, global public-private partnership announcements and independent observations on politics, population movements, government, economics, the physical environment, logistics of all sorts, and quite some worrying data patterns might be of some use?"
"No." came the sullen reply. "If it was anything to worry about, they'd say on the news."
I gave up at that point, and we just talked about his recent cricket adventures and his complaints about his salary. He occasionally asks me what I think of certain politicians, or who I intend to vote for. I tell him I'm not interested in any of that, and that it's insult-puppetry for morons, a consensus trance false institution to maintain a mono-minded successive branch party regime's status quo under a very long-lasting ideological paradigm that has destroyed us.
In almost all our serious conversations for about 10 years (and getting more unmanageable as the years go on) Ali presents with the petulant, doubling down denialism common to London LBC News presenters, if confronted with a true statement that he doesn’t like. If I tell him he needs to investigate the issue more before immediately responding to deny me, ridicule me, shoot me down, or otherwise patronize me (in his trademark schoolmarm reprimand, “you’re so rude! I don’t know what’s wrong with you; you’re a horrible person!”) having politely proffered quite a lot of new information, and at depth, a gratis interactive lecture to save him having to pull away from me to check on his phone thus interrupting the call, he cracks, and becomes exceedingly obtuse, and especially so when I tell him off for his apathy, immaturity, hypocrisy, broken promises and routinely missed deadlines, his genuine rudeness, and in firm, dominant language, laconic for once, and a commanding tone. Unbridled masculinity in conversation seems to scare him.
Then there’s the steady derailing of adult conversations back to talking about Games Workshop miniatures (and mainly how the company’s doing, and what new, hard to acquire bunches he’s picked up on eBay, etc., and how cheap they were for what they are, and inevitably what they’re worth) and me confronting him about this and pleading with him not to be boorish, or immature, and to talk like an adult, which really sets him off at me, declaring me “so offensive,” and seeming genuinely taken aback.
It’s usually at this point that he starts to throw his weight around as “a qualified engineer!”, or to remark in disgust on my lifelong unemployment, and how I “don’t do anything.” I take it he’s simply immune to accurate verbal censure. I am too used to the immediate response if I ask him to qualify himself to make sure we’re not at cross-purposes (and to remind him to step off the pedestal and put his money where his mouth is on something), and to openly doubt his knowledge to his face, having noticed that he’s fobbing me off, or avoiding something, “woah… Ben! Ben, Ben… stop. Just Stop. Actually, I have researched this. It’s you who needs to do some research.”
And then another 10 minutes of straight London media regurgitation from him, and the subtle itching to get back to talking about companies offering re-cast Games Workshop ‘classic’ sculpts from the early 80s, sometimes for up to an hour, and I go “oh,” and “oh yes,” and “oh I see,” bored to death by him, and zoning out, unable cerebrally to bear his monotony, his inane, plodding tone, and the sheer idiocy of it all stimulating terrible psychological agonies in my mind, forcing a little politeness for old-time’s sake as a childhood friend, knowing it drives me insane. Having to be in the company of argumentative, resoundingly boorish, firmly unintelligent people for any length of time is well known as a legitimate psychological torture for a more active philosophical mind to experience. It’s impossible to express how painful it is.
I grit my teeth at this conspicuous insincerity, yet probe him further on my original point, with an “okay, so if you know this topic in detail why do you come out with the ignorant and superficial responses you do? Would you mind telling me what ‘xyz’ term means, or what ‘xyz’ concept represents, or what happened at this or that occasion, or what this or that classic academic wrote, or what history shows from then, and what it implies now, or what this tentatively suggests at least, or could you repeat my argument to you back to me in your own words, and would you mind briefly arguing the position you’re putting forward, given that… etc.” but his only response then is “there’s no point. It’s obvious,” and I am forced to give up in frustration and move on with the flow in accordance with his pace setting and conversational dominance.
I hate it when my name is over-used like that in that hideous, condescending manner, as if it’s me who somehow is the one in need of patient weathering and containment. I’ve known a few people other than him to do that with me these days, mainly Abby’s male teenagers. On a side note, he’s another one who I haven’t once, in all my life, got a ‘sorry’ out of. I suppose everyone knows everything then, and knows how to do everything too, and when to do it, and knows it from day one, hence why they are superbly equipped as confident authorities and industrious saints (all apart from me, naturally).
I was glad he avoided vaccination himself. It didn't seem to be on account of any worries about totalitarianism, or medical fraud, or a crippling excess death rate, completely covered over and denied, or a huge, anti-citizen hate campaign by a worthless media of louche, hypercritical snobs and true believers, or any thought as to how it would tie into the deliberate – cack handedness to this degree is no longer an excuse – destruction of the economy. No, he just doesn't like going to the doctor as he thinks it's weak/pathetic, and because he has a profound disdain for socialized medicine.
I can't quite blame him, much as a disabilities payments safety net – provided it was to a managed medicines system ‘pot’ and not as private individual bank account payments – and a semi-socialist medical initiative is one thing I would hope could be retained under the future National Socialist state paradigm I like, even as a post-collapse recovery stop-gap, although I’m very much against an economic welfare payments system, and don’t really believe in ‘benefits’ as a concept (much as, frustratingly, I’m too set back by life physically and mentally to work, at least for the moment). After all, I've reluctantly pulled my own teeth out before sans anaesthetics and dealt with a few hasty sutures and cauterized wounds elsewhere, despairing of overcrowded A&E queues, 18 month waiting lists, and clogged phone-based triage systems, used to electronic mismanagement, and being lost by the current system. A roll of duct tape was useful once to stop my throat falling out. I've given up trying to explain the blood-shod situation, or the ten years spent fusing with my right boot on a weekly basis, limping down the pavement with a stinky sole, and then the inevitable howls of ruptured agony later in the scalding salt bath, red as unjolly. Meditation and breathing control can only go so far. I tend to press things in these days too, or, you know, just cope with it maybe, rather than head in to be abused by them.
It's lucky I finally found Ernst, my very professional, un-judgemental, empathetic, somewhat world-wise private dentist. It's a pain in the arse being, through long surgical familiarity, resistant to morphine but I suppose it saves addictive reliance on opioid painkillers. Sometimes the dental analgesics aren’t even quite strong enough. I spend most of my time in there gibbering away excitably to him, bemoaning the broken NHS and psychiatry’s ignorant focus on isolated symptoms and not the full physical health picture, then screaming in agony, left whimpering in the chair, and then anxiously apologising for being exhausted and in chronic pain. He knows me quite well by now, and is always very soothing and sympathetic. I’m in regular tooth pain, constant toothaches at times for months on end, and some of the procedures have been quite complex and extensive. The ongoing appointments for extractions, fillings, and heavily infected jawline multiple root canal draining and filling work is the most painful discrete recurring sensation I’ve ever experienced, which might be surprising given all the rest of them historically, much as the psoriasis is more painful and intrusive as a long-term daily drain. It’s lucky I got to him when I did. I have a sweaty fever at times from the pain, and congested nausea and a sore throat, and my heartbeat is laboured, my brain foggy, and this atop the throbbing, and the awful taste, and of course the direct pain sensation itself.
I've focussed recently on just repeating to Ali, as often as I can, that the Western elite and political classes (i.e. politicians and public-sector young professionals respectively) don't have any regard for their native European citizens whatsoever, and are, regardless of political affiliation, unanimously – bar one or two idealistic and impotent outer circle backbenchers in the wrong career it seems – working hard to wipe us out within a few generations (one could say two) via a greedy, dispassionate system of cold, utilitarian soft genocide policies, all neglect, humiliation, and trauma. Already pretty much at third world living standards in places, or at least what one would have encountered in the last days of the Soviet Union, from the perspective of a grotty, urban wasteland satellite state. Not too far off Holodomor conditions, just you wait. Royalty has disappointingly devolved to the status of full upper middle-class, barely that even, and a true European race aristocracy is hard to pin-point at times, with a distressing lack of Norman mercenary warlord families, let alone anyone purely Nordic, and the former rulers should perhaps have done more in extinguishing Anglo-Saxon power altogether in England rather than a mere three centuries of half-hearted Norman subjugation post-conquest, with this violent, historically ruthless iron-grip feudalism and heavy taxation fading all too soon, concessions made almost immediately, a civil war within 70 years leading to a ruling house regime shift, and then a couple of useless 13th and 14th century kings.
The only people in this country that politicians genuinely care about are the big industry capital providers, the oil company bosses and pharma groups and agribusiness leaders or whatever, and those internationalists that can do something to advance them and their personal luxury interests, and thus need sucking up to. Non-Europeans are useful idiot block voters and an incentivised slave labour force, handy en masse to bludgeon the natives down with, but otherwise easily manipulated, and too stupid to seriously plan revolt. It might be good for him to consider the trademark attitudes and practices that arise in the full implementation of that too familiar, unexpectedly capitalistic Bolshevism. It’s an (inverse) totalitarian corporatocracy with a well-presented propaganda department out front. The attitude of the everyday people themselves is the prime factor in facilitating its continuation, as is the way with all historical examples of totalitarianism.
He scowled at me (I heard that scoffing pant down the phone, and the weary, long-repressed pregnant pause), and made his goodbyes, curtly and abruptly as always. Obviously, he had no idea what I was talking about.
I can't say I'm used to getting through to people at all, not just him. All so complacent, and so thoroughly demoralized and insular. They just drift along, totally oblivious. Literal slaves, with slave minds, and not actually too unhappy about it, or indeed about anything. In general, I never feel prepared enough.
I was away for about a month. Next time I phoned Ali, he didn't pick up. It went straight through to voicemail. It's been that way since. Very frustrating. I never leave messages, and just rely on someone to phone me back. Same way I don't pick up on first ring, if at all, unless I'm confident over who's ringing me. I will not answer private and withheld numbers, and always utilise caller ID. Maybe he's on holiday. He has my email address. Even given his dire, stubborn, switched-off wilful ignorance, you'd think if he had a new phone that he'd eventually twig to contact me from his email box, even if only to ask for my number again, for the billionth time (much as I am obliged to remind him constantly of my email address when he does have it). Silence though. Having tried quite a few times now, over a few weeks, and all in vain, I'll keep trying periodically. He was regular in his contact, and it had used to be about once a week, him always – without fail – picking up within about a day of me calling.
Perhaps he's annoyed at me, and has, somehow, finally, had enough of me, after a close 35-year friendship. I hope they haven't got to him. Perhaps he is just as unreliable as ever, and distracted by his job, and his forced enthusiasm vapid social life, and his disappointing lack of a shag and someone to complain to, and his little mundane arrogances, and being particularly rude, even more so than usual. I'll just have to wait and see.
I wish they'd left him alone altogether, as he seemed a little distressed and set upon when he recounted the “Hi mate! Can we pop in for a quick chat?” interviews to me later. I trust him, even in his full ignorance, not to betray me with suggestions, or inadvertently sell me out, busy giving them his opinion as an expert and a professional engineer, or informing them what’s what, prompted and led unbeknownst, playing straight into their due process manipulations, confidently sharing a piece of his clueless mind.
I shall just hope he's safe, and ok.
[Note: He turned out ok. I phoned his Dad. Ali’s phone was stolen from him by a migrant gang when was on a hockey-tour holiday in the Netherlands. Thankfully, the Police there sorted it out, somehow.]
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