09 October 2012

Franco's International Brigades: Adventurers, Fascists, and Christian Crusaders in the Spanish Civil War

From the publisher:

'Foreign volunteers fought on behalf of General Franco and the Nationalists in the Spanish Civil War for a right-wing cause whose aim was to smash democracy. These assorted adventurers, fascists, and Catholic crusaders were on the winning side, but their role has remained strangely hidden until now. Men from Portugal and Morocco signed on for money and adventure. General Eoin O'Duffy organised 700 Irishmen in a modern Crusade; 500 Catholic Frenchmen fought in the 'Jeanne D'Arc' unit; and thirty British volunteers, including aristocrats and working-class fascists, also took up arms. Romanian Iron Guard extremists died at Majadahonda and an Indian volunteer fought in the fascist militia. There were Russians, Americans, Finns, Belgians, Greeks, Cubans, and many more. Goose-stepping alongside the volunteers were fascist conscripts from Germany and Italy, in training for the next world war. Foreigners, whether unknown individuals like British pilot Cecil Bebb or infamous figures like the German dictator Adolf Hitler, were essential to Franco's victory. Without Bebb who flew General Francisco Franco from the Canary Islands to Spanish Morocco in 1936, a journey which was to precipitate the onset of the Spanish Civil War the war would never have started; without Hitler, Franco would never have won.'

08 October 2012

la vénerie française

06 October 2012

For Your Pleasure


05 October 2012

Campfire Cologne

04 October 2012

Thank You, Christian Grey !

One you lock the target
Two you bait the line
Three you slowly spread the net
And four you catch the man
- 'Headhunter', Front 242 (1988)

Dating a 20-year old woman, as I am, is, I imagine, rather like romancing a retard. Then again American women of all ages exhibit similar stunted levels of intelligence, emotional shallowness, and cultural ignorance. There are exceptions, of course, and I reckon their names could fit on a single 3x5 index card.

The 20-year old? Well, to say I am dating her in this case is perhaps too strong a term; banging would be more accurate. I met her at a restaurant in Laguna Beach, where she works. She displays a mix of faux-innocence and eager horniness entirely befitting a hot 20-year old blonde female. She has the requisite 'daddy issues', of course, as one might expect, which she expresses most graphically during our epic romps together. (If my queen-sized ornate Indonesian bed could talk, there would be tales to tell). Alarm bells rang this past weekend, however, when, after a session, she spotted me putting the loaded Magnum condom into the toilet. She looked at me with pained eyes: "Why are you doing that? Do you think I'll take it and put it back inside me?" I sent her home. For an hour she sat in her car outside my house, texting me, pleading with me to let her back in. Tragedy for her.

Of the five (5) women I have slept with since breaking up with my hot blonde girlfriend in early August, I still don't know a single surname. The common thread amongst these women, I have noticed, is their enthusiasm for the Fifty Shades of Grey books, which are proving enormously popular with the female population in industrialised countries. My understanding is that they are full of scenes of personal degradation, sado-masochistic practises, and brutal sex. It is inadvertent testament, I think, to the female need to submit and to be dominated, a need generally unmet due to the unrelenting decades-long pussification of Western men. The natural role of woman, after all, is one of submission. My girlfriends beg to be pinned down onto the bed, their neck choked and shoulders held firmly in place, slapped and spanked, their hair pulled hard, as I pummel their cervix with deep assaults, producing an ecstatic response that would have shocked me twenty years ago. These days, with an accurate understanding of things, I am more than happy to oblige. To say I do not enjoy this state of affairs would be a lie.

Revelations such as Fifty Shades of Grey are a gift. It is up to the perceptive man to take full advantage of the feminist ascendancy, to take what he needs and what he wants. It is too easy. Modern humans, I have found, are hopelessly vulnerable, like villagers on the exposed coast of post-modernity, ripe for pillage and destruction by Viking adventurers. If you have not yet done so, adopt the corsair mindset and proceed from there.

Modern life, as I have said before, can be a sordid thing and is not without great cost to both sides. In my own case, I can confess to you here, what passes through my heart is a wash of unfeeling, a red-raw void, a sense of dislocated love and longing for something higher, from man or from God. And still, I hear the forest refrain, and the call of the attack-ships from Eleven Threshold. It will have to do for now.

Sent from my iPhone

White Elephant (Ladytron)

02 October 2012

Fate: An Encouraging Thought

Frodo: "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened."

Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

01 October 2012

bottes de cheval

An American Tale

30 September 2012

Jagdsinfonie (L. Mozart)

28 September 2012

Der Alte Fritz (Old Fritz)

26 September 2012

25 September 2012

Morning Routine

I've long believed a well-ordered life is essential to contentment and success. Good habits, as Aristotle tells us, lead to virtue. With this in mind the other evening I was reading my unique hand-autographed copy of American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. The following passage came to my notice:

"My name is Patrick Bateman. I'm 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial masque which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion."

I can identify with Patrick's daily regimen. My morning starts with a cup of tea before 5:30AM whilst I read the news or listen to CNBC. In warmer weather I'll swim 30 laps in the semi-olympic-sized pool, followed by 200 stomach crunches, 40 bicep curls, and 20 overhead shoulder presses, depending on my schedule. I aim for a lean, muscular physique; it doesn't require much effort to show definition. During colder months or when I'm feeling like it, I'll head to the local gym for 30 minutes on the ergometer or treadmill. If I wake up with a woman, I may substitute my regular routine with a round or two of vigorous sex, which works my pecs, abs, and glutes. And prostate.

In the shower I apply various body washes; my favourite at the moment is Neutrogena. My after shave lotion is by L'Occitane, which I've been using for several years. I supplement it throughout the day with frequent applications of aloe moisturising lotion with UV protection. Moisturiser is essential, as I spend quite a bit of time in the sun and water. The benefit of using it, I find, is that my bronzed skin has remained so healthy and young-looking that colleagues and girls think I'm several years younger than I actually am. In addition I wear at all times sunscreen with SPF 30 and vitamin E.

I top off my routine with a dose of scent from Creed, Truefitt & Hill, Royall, or, more recently, Acqua di Parma.

Do you have a morning routine, and if so, what is it?

Quatermain

"Well, it's eighteen months or so ago since I first met Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good, and it was in this way. I had been up elephant hunting beyond Bamangwato, and had had bad luck. Everything went wrong that trip, and to top up with I got the fever badly. So soon as I was well enough I trekked down to the Diamond Fields, sold such ivory as I had, and also my wagon and oxen, discharged my hunters, and took the post-cart to the Cape. After spending a week in Cape Town, finding that they overcharged me at the hotel, and having seen everything there was to see, including the botanical gardens, which seem to me likely to confer a great benefit on the country, and the new Houses of Parliament, which I expect will do nothing of the sort, I determined to go on back to Natal by the Dunkdd then lying in the docks waiting for the Edinburgh Castle due in from England. I took my berth and went aboard, and that afternoon the Natal passengers from the Edinburgh Castle transhipped, and we weighed anchor and put out to sea.

Among the passengers who came on board there were two who excited my curiosity. One, a man of about thirty, was one of the biggest-chested and longest-armed men I ever saw. He had yellow hair, a big yellow beard, clear-cut features, and large gray eyes set deep into his head. I never saw a finer-looking man, and somehow he reminded me of an ancient Dane. Not that I know much of ancient Danes, though I remember a modern Dane who did me out of ten pounds ; but I remember once seeing a picture of some of those gentry, who, I take it, were a kind of white Zulus. They were drinking out of big horns, and their long hair hung down their backs, and as I looked at my friend standing there by the companion-ladder, I thought that if one only let his hair grow a bit, put one of those chain shirts on to those great shoulders of his, and gave him a big battle-axe and a horn mug, he might have sat as a model for that picture. And, by the way, it is a curioas thing, and just shows how the blood will show out. I found out afterwards that Sir Henry Curtis, for that was the big man's name, was of Danish blood. He also reminded me strongly of somebody else, but at the time I could not remember who it was.

The other man, who stood talking to Sir Henry, was short, stout, and dark, and of quite a different cut. I suspected at once that he was a naval officer. I don't know why, but it is difficult to mistake a navy man. I have gone shooting trips with several of them in the course of my life, and they have always been just the best and bravest and nicest fellows I ever met, though given to the use of profane language.

I asked, a page or two back, what is a gentleman? I'll answer it now : a royal naval officer is, in a general sort of a way, though, of course, there may be a black sheep among them here and there. I fancy it is just the wide sea and the breath of God's winds that washes their hearts and blows the bitterness out of their minds and makes them what men ought to be. Well, to return, I was right again ; I found out that he was a naval officer, a lieutenant of thirty-one, who, after seventeen years' service, had been turned out of her majesty's employ with the barren honor of a commander's rank, because it was impossible that he should be promoted. This is what people who serve the queen have to expect : to be shot out into the cold world to find a living just when they are beginning to really understand their work, and to get to the prime of life. Well, I suppose they don't mind it, but for my part I had rather earn ray bread as a hunter. One's half -pence are as scarce, perhaps, but you don't get so many kicks. His name I found out— by referring to the passengers' list—was Good—Captain John Good. He was broad, of medium height dark, stout, and rather a curious man to look at. He was so very neat and so very clean shaved, and he always wore an eye-glass in his right eye. It seemed to grow there, for it had no string, and he never took it out except to wipe it. At first I thought he used to sleep in it, but I afterwards found that this was a mistake. He put it in his trousers pocket when he went to bed, together with his false teeth, of which he had two beautiful sets that have often, my own being none of the best, caused me to break the tenth Commandment. But I am anticipating."

H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon's Mines (1885)

22 September 2012

The Biltmore


Santa Barbara


21 September 2012

Tea And Parties

"...what I feel we ought to do at this juncture is to dash off somewhere where it's quiet and there aren't so many houses dancing the 'Blue Danube' and shove some tea into ourselves. And over the pot and muffins I shall have something very important to say to you."

P.G. Wodehouse, 'The Amazing Hat Mystery', Young Men In Spats (1936)

20 September 2012

Rugby Polo

For the summer season I picked up a few Rugby shirts from the San Francisco store to augment my existing collection. Here is one of them (at left). It fits exceptionally well. The candid image, snapped by my crack team of photographers, reveals part of the design. The back of the shirt contains the word 'ENGLAND' and a large number '11'. I no longer play rugby, but I once did; I have the broken nose to prove it. Still, while wearing the shirt, I've been asked if I played for England, which of course is not the case, just as it is not the case, despite inquiries, that I am a cop, military officer, nazi, or Russian gangster. I just naturally look the part. Which I suppose is a good thing. At least I'm not mistaken for a bearded academic, dirty hippy, or politician.

19 September 2012

Anse Intendance, Mahé, Seychelles

A few years ago my beautiful young bride (now ex-wife--first of several, I imagine) and I spent a week of our three-week honeymoon in a villa overlooking this, the famous Intendance beach on the southwest coast of Mahé, the main island of the Seychelles. By day we drank champagne after a large breakfast, lounged about the sun-drenched swimming pool with various European bankers and their supermodel wives, and then repaired back to our quarters for a mid-afternoon romp. Afterwards we cooled off in our private pool overlooking the pounding surf. For supper we visited one of the nearby restaurants, and then met on the verandah for wine, cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, and conversation with fellow guests. My petite blonde bride, fluent in French and Arabic, charmed the gathering and quickly made friends. We settled down as the evening drew on, the women chattering away, the chaps drinking whisky and smoking cigars and discussing the rugby scores, business opportunities in Dubai and Qatar, and the global economy. The evening wind and rain tore through the landing, giving us a light soaking. Down below the surf intensified.

All You Need Is Me (Morrissey)

16 September 2012

la plus belle aventure

"Toutes les faims mènent à Dieu"

Jean-René Huguenin


12 September 2012

Flashman: Death Or Glory

06 September 2012

Tiger Hunting In The Raj

05 September 2012

Do Something

'If you know some guys you can connect with, and who are on more or less the same page philosophically, make sure you make time for them. Set aside time to create that history and build that trust. Even women who are "like one of the guys" will have a chilling effect on that process. Men are not honest with each other in the same way when women are present, and establishing trust requires honesty. Men are going to want to have girlfriends and wives and families and other connections with women in their lives, and that is all well and good, but as I said, you can't expect men who don't really know you to help you through tough times. Put in the effort. Eating and drinking together is fine, but it makes more sense to plan tactically oriented outings. You need to learn how to read each other and work together as a group. Go to the shooting range. Go hunting. Play paintball. Go to the gym. Take martial arts classes. Join a sports team. Take a workshop. Learn a useful skill. Fix something. Build something. Make something. Get off your ass and do something.'

Jack Donovan, The Way Of Men (2012)

02 September 2012

True Light

"We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed only by myth-making, only by becoming 'sub-creator' and inventing stories, can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the Fall. Our myths may be misguided, but they steer however shakily towards the true harbour, while materialistic 'progress' leads only to a yawning abyss and the Iron Crown of the power of evil."

Locals Only !

19 August 2012

Love, Wine, Revolution

18 August 2012

Reds Don't Surf !

17 August 2012

Breaking Up

I recently dodged a bullet.

The young, hot blonde. Things hadn't been right between us from the start. Not much to talk about. Lots of awkward silences. A look of annoyed miscomprehension on her beautiful face whenever I brought up a subject about which she knew nothing, which was often. She was cripplingly boring. Once a chap finds himself preferring to spend an evening sipping cocktails instead of spending time with his girl, as I did, it's time to move on.

For this reason and a few others, our break-up was inevitable.

The sex, I can report, was great. I loved the way she gave me head--arguably the best I've ever received. And I appreciated the way she doubled-up and clawed at my back, gasping, moaning, her eyes rolling back in her head when I bottomed-out inside her. Good times.

Her family originated in colonial New England from Mayflower stock. But it was all down hill from there. Her parents were divorced. Her mother was a crazy mudshark who had shacked up with not one but two sub-hominids in Los Angeles and had a daughter by one of the creatures; the mother now lives as an old hippy in a dingy lower class neighbourhood. Her father, for his part, was addicted to little Asian slags with pasty, pockmarked faces.

During the final break-up session, when I realised it was irretrievably over, I told her certain truths about herself, about Western women, and about life that in all honesty she had probably never heard before and will never hear again. Most men are pussies when it comes to beautiful girls. I'm just a selfish asshole (her words). Which, of course, simply means I don't put the filly on a pedestal.

Modern life, as you know, is not without great cost.

14 August 2012

Brazil: Luxury Poolside

Hotel Fasano, Rio
Ah, Brazil! My parents used to visit Brazil quite often, for business and for pleasure. Somewhere in the coastal interior of that vast country there is a plantation named after my family, a tribute from one of my late father's good friends. I went to school in England with the sons of Brazilian diplomats. (My goodness, how those chaps liked to party...!) And I once dated a Brazilian girl. I ponder these escapist memories as I sit poolside in California, roasting in the heat and sweat, not always appreciating as I should the singularity of my present circumstances.

04 August 2012

Panic (The Smiths)