Americans go to church on Sundays because American culture is completely amoral. It is, after all, a nation built upon the expropriation of land from its previous occupants by wholesale violence and genocide. Slavery was its foundation and the consequences of that remain in the inequality and obvious racism and ethnicism of American society. Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, Native Americans are all routinely demarcated as different, and therefore not to be trusted. Conformity to social norms is an absolute requirement, and conformity to the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant ideal is best.
American business is no more than legitimised brigandry. It maintains a Spartan philosophy—do what you like as long as it makes money, just don’t get caught. American tobacco companies fought tooth and nail for decades, to prevent the fact that their product was packaged death being publicised. Now, American oil companies spend millions to try to pretend that climate change is not happening, while Monsanto, makers of the deadly Roundup weedkiller and chief promoter of the anti-social technology of genetically modified crop production, carries on as usual. Continue reading Why Do Americans Go To Church?→
The heroine of the Falklands, the scourge of the miners, the ‘most divisive’ Prime Minister in recent British history, maybe any British history, has finally kicked the bucket. Legions of trendy-lefty commentators are dancing in the streets, and people far, far too young to have any recollection whatsoever of what Dame
Margaret Hilda Thatcher actually did, are filling their Facebook drivel, er, pages, with claptrap about how much they hated her and are glad to see her gone.
Well, I remember her reign, and indeed it was not pleasant. But what is forgotten, perhaps wilfully, by those celebrating her death, is what it was like before Thatcher. They forget too, that without her, a great part of what the ‘British’ now accept as normal, simply would not exist. Continue reading Thatcher, The Dame is Dead→
I don’t know why it is that I have accumulated such a collection of ─ well, I suppose you might say ghost stories, though I tend to think of them in less definite terms myself. The fact is that I have never seen a ghost with my two eyes, and in fact I long ago gave up any hope of doing so. I must not be one of those gifted with the sight, as it were. However that may be, though, I seem to be a magnet for stories of the weird and the macabre, as if they seek me out─ and in the strangest of places.
The most recent addition to my collection was found in just such a casual way as all the others. I had been on holiday in France, when I was suddenly called back because of an illness─a very severe one─in the family. It happened that the nearest airport from which I could get a flight home was Lyon, so I made my reservation and got myself there as soon as I possibly could. Continue reading The Horror of the Blocked-Up Window→