Last Tuesday, on the 26th of July, my cousin Will and I awoke at six o’clock, and boarded a coach at quarter-past eight o’clock bound for Victoria Station, London from Exeter. My good friend, author, dramaturge, poet, and all-round man of busyness, David Parry, had been urging me for months to make this trip to London — the other side of the country, mind you — to speak at a monthly event known only as “the Extremists Club.” As it turns-out, it was a trip worth taking and an event which, for some reason, feels rather significant for me personally — a milestone, if you will.
The coach journey there was pleasant enough, and didn’t drag on overmuch. My cousin and I conversed about English history — I told him about how the Wotan-descended brothers Hengist and Horsa came to England and betrayed Celtic king Vortigern. I also explained the role of Saint Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People in the endeavours of Alfred the Great and his mission of unifying England under one God, one king, inspired by Bede’s retelling of the story about Pope Gregory I, and by extension, God, sending a mission to convert the Anglii to Christianity. It’s incredible how much of our own history is kept from us, hidden in books we never read and stories we’re never told.
We discussed London and what I could talk about and howso; when we actually got to London, however, we were put silent and still. We were transfixed by the landscape, this one of monoliths and black glass, concrete and plastic; of billboard advertisements on the sides of officeblocks thrust violently into the sky; the highway weaving and circling around old housing estates, as a serpent encircling the churches and homes, preparing to constrict. As we neared Victoria Station, we observed the ornate, old hotels above dirty pavements trodden by brown faces. This is contemporary London. The modern anthill-city; that which never sleeps, never rests, never stops to think; only endlessly convulses, churning-out the one-hundred pound notes by the millisecond. As two lads from the southwestern countryside who’ve only ever visited London briefly in our youths for family reasons, this was a new experience, although — as much as I hate to admit it — the cities in the southwest are increasingly mirroring these sights; slowly but surely, globalism is creeping upon us as a vampire, maw open and fangs gleaming. But what defence is there when every traditional pillar of identity and meaning are being eroded before our eyes? The family, the hearth, virtue, the divine; even manners and etiquette are fast disappearing from the world, being replaced by the coarsest politically-motivated speechcodes and regulations which press down upon civilisation instead of express it.
We stepped-off of the bus and into the waiting area of the station. A quick phonecall to David and he emerged behind us, jovial and warm; a stark contrast to our surroundings. Engulfing us were millennials loitering and smoking, Africans gibbering, the cold stares of rugged strangers — and to think, two miles north or so from where I live in Exeter, one can encounter small hamlets and villages where little old ladies leave their doors open and everyone passing by says “Good morning!” with a tip of the hat.
The air of London, the atmosphere, the vibe, was hot with energy and yet paradoxically cold and inhuman; there was the buzzing of noise and bodies, and yet there was a greyness to the scene before us as David led me and my cousin to a tube station. The interior was bustling with people; I needn’t describe the image as it was but more of the same — nonetheless, it’s this image of massness, of sheer quantity, which I must implore the reader to consider. And although this grey uniformity may appear as a kind of “order,” I must remind the reader that it is representative of one force: money. We may wonder of a society that produced anything of note which was comprised of so many competing, contradictory elements (spiritual atonement aside); but remember that these elements are dulled by the intoxicating nature of capital — diversity sacrificed on the altar of capitalism: money, that great faux-unifier; not actually bringing people together, but numbing them of their differences and rendering all equal in service to piggybanks and employers alike. Any differentiation which exists in a place like London is pushed down à la the currency symbol assuming the role of commonality and community-in-greed.
Regardless, at around half-past two, David had to depart for a few hours of work-related commitments, leaving myself and my cousin to wander and do as we wanted for a while. We walked a bit, and eventually sat-down outside of a “fish and chips” restaurant — and I place such words in quotation marks because in such a place as modern London nothing is genuine; all is an imitation, an import, a falsehood. It was there I released my netbook from my rucksack and laid-down a short entry to collect some thoughts in preparation for this very relaying:
As I’m sat here writing this, I relax outside a chip shop run by South Asians. I’m with my cousin William, and we’re in Leicester Square, London.
It’s 14:58PM, and in about two hours I’ll be meeting again our guide, David Parry. I believe the scene before me is an adequate parallel to the depths of Hell itself — and I do hope David can act as our Christ, conquering this darkness in some manner and dragging us into the light.
We arrived in London by coach at around one o’clock. As we entered the city we were met by the intimidating shadows of monoliths and rows of black glass and concrete.
There are foreigners everywhere — yellow, brown, black faces swarm the streets gibbering in broken tongues. Overweight people, too, fat on American burgers and cheap food. The chips (yes — “chips,” not “fries,” you dim Yanks) my cousin has are chewy and salty; monstrously inferior to the full-bodied, moreish chips found in actual fish and chip shops found on the southwestern coast where we’d ordinarily find such foodstuffs.
Scantily-clad English girls walk past, ripe-thighed and braless. The scene contrasts strongly with the skinny and malnourished beggars who huddle beneath the faceless crowds of nobodies.
The massness of the scene before us is hardly describable; just body upon body, shuffling to and fro’, in and out of shops, eating-halls, everywhere. Like a virulent cancer this horde seeps-into every orifice; this city, like a husk of its former self, is filled with the blood of an imposter; the host withers away and forgets itself, assuming the form of the sheer quantity within — this is the modern city, the soulless gargantuan that only lives to consume and fornicate.
My cousin Will — bless him for accompanying me on this excursion — is nowhere near the opinionated deviant I am, yet he too could sense the sheer materialism of the shuffling bodies and endless shops. “It’s odd how allegedly the most ‘British’ of places in Britain somehow feels like the exact opposite.” he said to me, and indeed he was right. How somewhere could be covered with so much history and so many Union Jack flags, and yet be so dull and alien was, to a degree, unnerving. As I wrote in my little entry at the time, it was as if this creature had been assumed host to a foreign parasite which, as it multiplied within the host, eventually came to constitute more of the creature than the original creature itself. And it may appear as I’m lamenting merely the demographic shifts which’ve taken place since the last World War — London’s overall population being sixty-percent foreign as of this writing — but that’s only half of the equation; clearly something has eroded within the native population prior which facilitated this situation beyond the Two Wars. To a degree, London has “always been multicultural” as the progressives and other bastards are so eager to spew (a couple of centuries isn’t a short period, we must admit), but these past seven decades have been particularly rapacious, not only in the sheer number of people who’ve come to London, but in what constitutes “multiculturalism.” We now find ourselves lacking genuine culture and ancestral continuum, beholden to the constant process of twenty-four hour news media, twenty-four hour business, and twenty-four hour working days; trapped in the here-and-now, the modern is detached from all which is prior and properly foundational, left adrift to the mercy of hollow ideology and temporary currency.
Contemporary citizens have become more deluded in their servitude than any previous generation. Somnambulant automata, many critics have observed, sadly allowing slavery to be packaged as liberty; the chicanery of cheap alcohol, soft drugs and casual sex making most Englishmen mindlessly thrall to the type of trivial indulgence which prevents a full flowering of the inmost Self. Such a populace, it hardly needs stating, is estranged from all notions of a historical continuum that doubtlessly emancipate a man. In fact, they are merely members of a restless political un-dead. Believing, quite inaccurately, that their deeply disoriented wits have found a futurist’s utopia through the medium of cultural dissolution! Cut off from antiquity and psychologically disabled through elitist machination, such narcotised natives taste little apart from death between their already dry, blackened, lips. ~ David Parry, Deconstructing Mount Athos
Further, the hyperindividualism moderns wallow within inhibits any particular bonds even for the thinnest veneer of community taking root, and it is only within the smallest circles where some awareness of this is even made approachable. For most people, it’s just about the hum-drum day-to-day and working to put bread on the table, and all the while elements in the higher bourgeoisie work to replace the native population (whether intentionally or not is irrelevant) and perpetuate the money flowing into their own pockets — this is not a state of affairs that can last forever, of course — and it just reminds me of a question Jonathan Bowden once raised regarding notions of social progress; “…are they [the people around you] progressing and moving upwards or are they just dullards led by a few people at the top who manipulate them?” His words ring true, loud and clear, in a place like contemporary London.
Moving onwards with our day, however — tea, walking, conversation, and David remaining shocked at how I young I apparently look (must be that wonderful country air) aside — we reached half-past six in the evening: time for my speech at the Extremists Club.
“What’s the Extremists Club?” I hear you ask, to which I can respond: a gathering of opinionated bohemian-spirited types held on the last Tuesday of every month for drinks, discussion and debate. Righties, Lefties and Neither-ies are all welcome, provided things are kept orderly. Headed by David Parry and London Forum organiser Jez Turner, The E.C. could be said to be a bridge between Left and Right, between that which is politically correct and that which is politically incorrect — and of course that which doesn’t belong to either camp at all.
Before I began my speech, for instance, we had recitals of reconstructed early English poetry of a rather lewd nature receiving plenty of smiles and giggles from the audience. Then we had readings of liberty and law followed by discussion about said topic, some of which became rather explicative. The audience was quite a diverse mix; one rather over-inebriated gentleman clearly of a populist-nationalist type; another gentleman a Sufi; another a libertarian; et cetera — an open intellectual salon held in a west-London pub contained within it more sincerity than perhaps I’d encountered the entire day up to that point! But I was glad to be there; there was an honesty, a cosiness; drinks and smiles all-round, even at points of people shouting over eachother in disagreement (though David, as chair, did have to interfere at a couple of points with impressive authority).
The environment was comfortable and inviting, and it was here I delivered a short, improvised speech, draft-titled, “Moderns Against Modernity”; the first speech I’ve ever given, actually. As for how it went? Surprisingly well.
NOTE: There will be a YouTube video soon of the speech, hosted both on my YouTube channel and that of the London Forum, and once it’s available for me to watch I’ll be writing a transcript and publishing it here at West Coast Reactionaries.
In my talk I spoke of the meaninglessness of the modern world, and how in an egalitarian, materialistic society, there is something lacking which creates an unsettledness; people — especially young men — are pushed to the radical inevitably by the lack of order and tangible meaning present in the contemporary Western world. It was well-received by the audience to say the least, and thereafter Jez invited me to speak at the London Forum later in the year alongside Greg Johnson and others. I shan’t dwell-upon those things here, however, though I will say that I am deeply honoured by the response, and I’m very much happy I made the trip — it was well worth it.
The stark contrast between the E.C. and the broader London my cousin and I navigated earlier in the day was clearly visible. Walking through London you forget that these are human beings alongside you — irrespective of caste, quality or creed — and that although the fact that someone walking along could drop dead on the spot and no-one would bat an eyelid, it not being their “business,” this is not something to grow bitter of, rather, one should look down with pity upon such an occurrence; and should no-one stop for the fallen, you do it yourself — standing tall amid a world of ruins. Being angry with the world only counts for something if that anger is directed towards a constructive end; and with the world as it is, it’s not surprising that lots of people are incredibly angry — especially concerning the past week or so — but we must keep our heads held high and our eyes open, and not let ourselves fall victim to the blindness which envelops so many of our fellows. Even after my speech, wherein one of the things I mentioned was modern man’s inclination to murder himself in order to escape life’s meaninglessness, on the tube on the way back to the coach station after the meeting, the announcer said that a line was down due to someone having thrown themselves onto the tracks before a train. David, who has lived and worked in London since the eighties, told me and my cousin that these things happen more frequently than they used to.
Regardless, for good and bad, it was an important day for me — and I was especially happy to meet some of the lads from YouTube at the talk; thank you for coming to watch and support me (and thank you especially for the fan to remedy my overheating problem — you know who you are). It put a lot into perspective and really felt like a catalyst for my endeavours.
On the coach ride back home I collected a few more thoughts:
… Jez Turner, Mick Brooks, Stead Steadman, David Parry — all the big dogs — very much enjoyed my rambling. Not bad for a first try, I suppose. Good grief; Jez has asked me to speak at the London Forum alongside Greg Johnson and some other big dog whose name also escapes me. I said a “maybe” to orating, though I’ll likely do it. It’s just the shock of all this which is quite flummoxing — I am of course humbled by the opinions of these wise and important men, though my abilities are where I perhaps have my reservations (though that might just be a lack of confidence speaking).
I hope this coach journey isn’t too long. Me and Will — provided we don’t fall asleep — will likely go past twenty-four hours of staying awake. Quite the feat, though likely not in our bests interests. Getting back to Exeter at five o’clock and half-consciously stumbling two miles back home might be a pain in the arse but I’m sure we’ll manage. I still have that ale in the fridge, come to think of it.
Maybe a little more on London? It felt like a husk; a thousand faces but no persons, no beings; just a mass of number and body and endless flesh, stumbling through deadening corridors. All of them lifeless yet moving — good grief, the number of Africans we saw was quite impressive. Now we know why the west African economy is in trouble: all the workers are abroad! I jest of course but such a money-obsessed environment clearly draws all the zombies out to feast and shamble about.
It’s 00:05AM. We’re on a motorway, presumably the M5. This coach ends-up in Penzance — let’s hope the driver remembers to stop at Exeter, however briefly! …
I’m getting travel-sick looking at this damn thing. I might have to draw this writing to a close and leave the rest — as well as a proper West Coast Reactionaries entry — for tomorrow (though I’ll surely reuse some of this).
We arrived back in Exeter at about quarter-past four in the morning. Unlike London, which was just as busy at close to midnight as it was midday, Exeter was quiet and still. It gave us the calm needed to collect our thoughts, and as we walked back to my house, we were glad because of our friends that we went, and glad because of the inhumanity that we left.