Saturday, 7 April 2018

Not with a British bang, but a London whimper

I

While in London, news broke of thousands of white girls abused, raped and killed by Pakistani Muslim men in another British town called Telford.

This horror took place over 40 years without anyone doing anything to stop it. And yet, aside from a handful of polite protests, everyone in Britain seems to just shrug their shoulders. Actually, I must be clearer – white men don't care.

II

Believe me, I didn’t want to write about this. I didn’t even want to think about it. The story was just too disturbing. But what I'm most struck by is my desire to rationalise it all. To find some reason for my disgust, aside from the obvious. I reach for the politics, immigration, progressivism, academia, idealism, religion or even social welfare. I analyse and deconstruct the ruling ideology and blame the media, politicians and the -isms. I pull at the threads of society as though my disgust can be found in rationality.

But if I’m honest, I just don't like Arabs or Africans. It’s not coloured people I don’t like – Indian chicks are super-hot – it’s the coloured men. The Telford story fires the sexual competition pathways in my hind-brain in an unmistakably natural and primal way. That feeling – protection mixed with violence and sacrifice – isn’t something my brain can easily fake. I know that's a real feeling. I don’t like the idea of men who aren’t part of my tribe – or, more precisely, aren’t me – having sex with women who are part of my “tribe.” Sex between white women and coloured men, rape or consensual, stirs within me a primal competition motive in a frightful and actionable way.

A racist is someone who prejudges people of a certain colour with generalised (often negative) character traits. Modern people say a racist is the worst thing a human can be. But if I stand quietly, I know I’m a racist. There’s no other option except to lie. I could ask why, but the only correct question is: what now? Racism is part of being human, which means the true pejorative isn’t “racist,” it should be “human.” My disgust at the Telford horror emerges from a very old mythology, integral to men of all colours, which promises that if he were to fight against the Other, he could win the admiration – and therefore the sex – from the females under threat. Pick up any book, that story is what makes us human.

It is here I can see that while my racism is real, it's not the core problem. No matter how successful a man is in the sex game, he will always know that it’s a woman’s choice in the end as to whether he can have sex. Women hold the valuable prize and wear their value on their bodies. But men are interchangeable, at least initially. And although women want the highest-value man, they can’t tell just by looking. So, men must create games to sort out who is more valuable. All games have a prize, and all games have winners and losers. Men don’t want to play, we have to play, because women require it.

III

That's why I know my racism is just a defence against change.

I did martial arts for three years. I trained twice a week in one-on-one lessons with a sensei, practicing both ninjutsu and Brazilian jujitsu (merging the stand-up with the ground), not to mention the practice by myself on other days. It was fun, and I learned a lot about who I am.

The most crucial lesson I discovered was that real fighting has no rules – if it does, it’s sport. Boxing is a sport, so is MMA. The purpose of fighting is to end the combat as quickly as possible. The martial is not “art.” The ninja in Japan was always outnumbered heavily by the samurai, so on the battlefield, the entire game was to kill at least two others before being killed oneself, preferably more. That was the only way the ninja could survive. The samurai followed a long list of rules about honour and courage. But the ninja only had one rule: there are no rules.

My disgust at the Telford rapists is set in a world that is based on rules. British civilisation, of which I am a member, dictates that men are to play games to determine their sexual value for women, but they must follow the rules. “All’s fair in love and war” is tossed aside otherwise, men are told, this world would be a free-for-all and rip society apart. If every man desires the same object, then conflict is imperative. Rules ensure clarity of the losers and winners so they don't have to kill each other just to get a vagina.

Muslim men aren't playing by Western rules. They have circumvented the ritualised game of sex to secure the valuable objects (white women). But if following the rules is for losers, I am confronted with the reality only of my inadequacy to play the game correctly. It’s not the breaking of rules in Telford that angers me, it is the fact of the rules that frustrates me. My anger is revealed simply as sexual inadequacy, racism is merely my projection of it.

I can pick up women and still think I can't pick up women. I know I'm not alone in feeling like this. I'll always have an explanation for why each pick up didn't count: she was drunk, she was on the rebound, she was slumming it, she was trying to make her boyfriend jealous. I want to believe that men are naturally sexually aggressive, or that coloured men have fewer sexual inhibitions, or that society/women put limits on men's natural impulses. I don't just want to believe this is true – I wish it were true. Because then the problem isn’t my own inability to pick up any chick I want.

Notice I didn’t say “have sex with.” The point of isn’t the act of sex, it is the power to convince someone to have sex with you. It is the winning of the game – playing by the rules – that is the measure of my value as a man. The problem is not the game, it is that my value as a man is determined by someone else – the woman. The sex is irrelevant. To read about coloured men pushing rules aside and taking sex when and how they want reveals the truth: I need the rules just to compete.

I’m not able to take what I want in open combat. Power can only be taken, never given. Fighting is not sport. Telford has me asking: In a world based on rules, how would I know if I am a loser? Could I fight in a world without rules?

Now comes the answer:

No lieutenant, your men are already dead.

IV

The only question that matters is: “what next?” What do I do with this knowledge of myself?

I have never felt so alone in a city of 8 million. Every person around me has been lying to themselves for 60 years. You can feel it. Lying oozes from London's glass skyscrapers and the half-smiles of busy little bees on the Tube.

Each white man believes he is not racist, that he lives in a post-racial society. Yet this is something only white men believe. No, they’re not propagandised to feel “white guilt.” They simply refuse to accept their inherent racism because that would require accepting their inadequacy as men. Weak men never act, they only react.

London is full of Tall Children who would rather play Xbox than become. Back home, I'm surrounded by weak men who never say what they're really feeling. Men who never say “shut up” in case it offends someone. Men who won’t do what makes them happy. Men with no desire, no hunger, no anger or ambition – loving in ways they are told, not in ways they feel. #MeToo

In the void they have left, women are trying to control the world, but it's like tuna running the ocean. Men are sharks who have removed their own teeth to let tuna run the ocean. Now the tuna are sitting around asking where all the good sharks have gone because the ocean isn’t what it's supposed to be.

Tuna don't know how to be a tuna unless sharks are being sharks. Women want to run the world, but they bleed every month for no reason, have babies and sit down to pee. They want one foot in the running-things world and one foot in the regular woman world. They want to feel like they're in charge, but also want to know a man will take care of her. Women say they want a dog, and the problem is that white men at some point in the last 50 years decided to roll over and play Fido.

And it’s not surprising. Maintaining society and culture is tough work. Being a man isn’t easy. Building thing isn’t easy. Playing the game to rise above the mass just to reach the sexual value that a woman has just by existing is exhausting.

When men had the chance to let women sit in the driver’s seat, most said: “finally, now I can get back to playing Xbox.” We believe women know what they want. But tuna don’t want to be sharks. That’s why you’ve never met a happy female boss. She doesn’t want to be there. She doesn't want men to be leaders, she wants her man to be a leader. Controlling men isn’t what women actually want. She thinks you’re a bum, a loser, if you let her run your life.

V

I'm convinced this whole feminism thing is a culture-wide punk test.

Back in my suburb growing up, I used to play with other kids on the soccer field or whatever. There was always one or two kids who would turn up and start sneakily stepping on toes, bumping shoulders, then trip us up. Depending on how we reacted, the game would either dissolve into fighting or the insurgents would decide to go elsewhere.

But I remember after one particular break up of our games, a friend of mine was confronted by one of the insurgent kids in the street and had his iPod stolen. The insurgent knew he could get my friend to cough up because he hadn’t pushed back during the game. My friend had failed punk test, proving himself to be an easy target – a victim.

Women are constantly testing their man to see if he’s the man she needs him to be. For the last few decades, women asked for and got more power. They told us it would make them happy. But it was a punk test. And that means Telford is being viewed backwards. It’s not the migrant’s fault this happened, this is the result of British white men failing the punk test.

VI

UK women say they want “vulnerable” and “caring” men, or that “toxic masculinity” is, well, toxic. But now women complain there are no real men to either defend girls from rape or make decisions. Yet women aren’t fighting back against the Muslim gangs either. There are enough women to do this. If they all picked up clubs and subsumed the fury of Athena, they could chase every single rapist back into the Channel. And yet, nothing. Just silence. Why?

Women are still the same creatures they were one million years ago, with all their natural impulses and attraction mechanisms. Women say they desire vulnerable but strong men. They're goofy like that. I know they find something appealing about Muslim men, not because of those monobrows, but because those men haven't been fooled into thinking that women know what they want.

Now, there is an undiscussed factor among women called the rape fantasy. I'm not saying this is what's happening in the UK, but I must explain what that fantasy is.

A rape fantasy for a girl appears because she refuses to take responsibility for anything in her life. It is an abdication of personal agency. She wants a man to rape her so that it's his fault for her being a whore. No one can misconstrue what I just wrote. When a girl says a rape fantasy is about "letting go," that's just diversionary nonsense. Letting go means being free and letting it all hang out, but that's not what's going on. A rape fantasy is when a girl knows she's being a whore, but she wants to find a way to be a whore without being seen as a whore.

So the idea of rape – not the act of rape itself – is a convenient get-out-of-jail-free card. It's the normal female lack of responsibility for her actions. Don't let her use semantics to dance out of being a whore. She wears revealing clothes to get a man's attention because she lacks any skills to get a guy. She wants to make it the man's fault that she never developed beyond the value of her vagina.

Maybe women are powerful. Maybe they don't need men to protect them. Maybe they do, actually, want vulnerable men and not the strong, take-what-they-want men. But then, why didn't the women just rise up?

I'm not sure anyone wants to hear the answer.

VII

Weak men make hard times, but narcissistic men destroy civilisations.

If I'd asked all the white men in a 500m radius of Piccadilly Station why they pack like batteries into the arteries of the Underground every morning, I might get one who'll say he does it from a vague notion of British nationalism, religion or desire to further human flourishing.

Everyone else would say it's simply to earn money, retire wealthy, buy better stuff, send their kids to a good school (why?), build a house or go on a holiday. Me, me, me, I, I, I. Nothing exists beyond the billboard-driven self. How could any woman or immigrant think London is worth maintaining if the descendants of the men who built it don’t care?

You can't kill mass numbers of strong males in two major world wars, and not expect consequences. It’s no accident that London is full of weak men. Strong men who believed in something bigger than themselves trudged off to fight – as strong men should  – and were churned up in the maw of artillery and rifle fire. Very few returned. The industrial-scale slaughter left behind mostly the cowardly, the weak, or the lucky. Today there is something foul and submissive about white British males. It will take more than three generations to repair.

I know this is true because, like I said above, I am one of those men. I am the descendant of men who survived or never participated in the carnage of WWI and WWII. My family’s men aren’t the kind who go quickly to the ramparts. I’d like to think I would do my part if I lived then. But I don't know. I can't know. The question is unanswerable. London's docile narcissists couldn't find purpose in a dictionary with a highlighter. I couldn't help but feel lonely in a place like that.

Perhaps this is the logical end-point of the individualism. At least it would be consistent. I know some strong men but they are few and far between. Mostly, the descendants of weak white men all around me stare into the digital void all day – and the void talks back, telling them the source of their frustration is black people, women or They. Anything except the truth.

They prefer, like all weak men do, to care for the sick, the infirm and the marginalised. Weak men say we can never go to the stars while even one person is left suffering on earth, guaranteeing neither will be achieved. This is not morality. This is the selfishness disguised as ethics. It is weak men rejecting the burden of effort and responsibility. He has no time to apply himself or become something – he has a beggar to help!

In the weak man's rusting conscience, the "social" is more important than civilisation.

VIII

London’s white men have failed to care for anything other than themselves. But what else could we expect from the descendants of losers?

Their lives are pointless and barren, bereft of responsibility and the meaning that it brings. The modern weak man does not know the difference between work and a job. He can't see that a job is how he earns money, but work is what maintains the culture that created his job. He couldn’t care less.

How can they read about systemic rapes and simply shrug their shoulders? I’d call them pathetic, but that’s actually a vowel off.  They are apathetic precisely because it avoids conflict – the worst of all states for the modern weak man. Weak men may not be afraid of fighting, they are afraid of there being a fight. To a weak man, violence itself is to be avoided, regardless of the moral importance of fighting.

Responsibility is the only antidote for atrocity. I bet every single British battery on those trains would rush to flick a coin to a vulnerable beggar, convincing themselves of their virtue. And yet, a full 100% of white men failed to defend thousands of their own sisters and neighbours, not just once, but over decades. It turns out masculinity is an achievement, of which all have fallen short. No wonder London looks at immigrant rapists and hates itself for wanting what those men represent: strength and the confidence to make or break rules. We all want what we know we should have.

But I’ll admit it’s easier to blame “the system” for the Telford horror. At least then you won't be late for your meeting in Canary Wharf.


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