Well, not yet anyway. Only a few years ago, the MeToo movement burst onto the popular scene, threatening to complete the establishment of the gynocracy and the Helotisation of men. But MeToo didn’t quite work out as the covens of feminists, with their eye of newt and ear of bat (metaphorical, of course, what would PETA say) had hoped.
Thanks to MeToo every man in the West was soon losing sleep about all those drunken nights at Uni, worrying whether he had kissed some equally drunk girl who was well up for it anyway. Perhaps he’d let a hand slip onto her hip while dancing; enough now, to see a man crucified. Let’s be honest, there were a fair few nights I can’t even remember and I don’t think I’m alone.
Sexual transformation from boy to girl has always been hot. Enter the girly-boy: the transsexual or TS.
The oldest records we have prove the early existence of TS individuals, often priestesses or shamans. Their direct descendants are in the hijra of India, the kathoey of Thailand, the bekis of the Philippines, the travestis of the Americas, Blanchard HSTS and a host of transsexuals, trannies and shemales across the planet.
From the ‘Dancing Boys’ of Afghanistan to the kathoeys and baklas of Asia, from down-town Sao Paulo to Paris, in every culture, all through history, boys become girls in order to attract men. The beautiful girly-boy has always been with us, and she is not going away.
(Note: This is a light-hearted, humorous article. If you are a Usican, a feminist or a Western Autogynephile, you might need a humour transplant before reading it. Just saying. Everyone in the pictures is over 18, thanks. Those capable of taking life with a pinch of salt, and wit, read on.)
This is a good interview, very enlightening, that shows how the misbegotten cult of Communists work. Their cult mindset underpins the social disaster that is overtaking the West today.
Characteristic of cults is that the followers do not think, they only follow the ideas of the leaders and parrot their soundbites. Anyone familiar with debating these people knows that it is like talking to an answering machine; they have not one single original thought in their heads.
The Weathermen, which was the cult this lady was in, was a violent, extremist, revolutionary cult made up mainly of disgruntled middle-class whites. It was established in the 60s, but the Communist cult mindset infected every political movement that developed from then on. It is replicated now in modern cults like transactivism, the BLM movement and many others.
In an oral culture — one that is not written down — mythology evolves as it is passed from storyteller to storyteller. The Jesus myth was created in exactly this way, pasted together from earlier sources. This process is called ‘syncretisation.’
There is no fixed record of an oral tradition, by definition. In an oral culture or tradition, myths grow and develop to reflect the lived experiences and cultures of the people telling them. It was only when writing was invented that these traditions could be codified and by that time, they had been evolving for thousands of years. This means that there are many versions of the same myth, as different peoples carried it forward.
So we cannot say that, because detail differences exist between two similar myths, they are different or have different origins.
Brian Macmaster is a journalist licking the wounds of a divorce in Paris where he hopes to recapture the flame of his writing passion. One night in the bar of the Hotel Pavillon, where he has rented a room on a monthly rate, he meets two women, Anna Maria Schiavetti and her friend, Rafaela Evangelista de Vargas.
Macmaster is immediately attracted to the newcomer. But there is a problem: she’s transgender.
Despite this, Macmaster finds himself falling for her and this leads him into a spider’s-web of intrigue, deception and extortion, finally culminating in a political scandal that overthrows the French government and also lands him in prison. This is a sexy, powerful, relentlessly paced novel that is not only a page-turner but explores one of the most fascinating subjects, not to mention taboos, of contemporary culture.
Bastille Day is a huge celebration in Molinot, the village where I live in France. While the festivities are less impressive than they used to be, it’s still an important day. But in the early years of the century it was a huge affair, and the children from the village school all took part and put on a mime show. As always, willing adults were drafted in to help.
In 2002 the theme was The Wild West — with a very French flavour.
You can read about these in my hilarious French Onion Soup! series of books. The second, Croutons and Cheese! will be launched in September 2017. Meantime why not score a copy of the first, to get all the background detail?
Weddings are a rarity in the village now, but this was nice. It was the last wedding we saw here.
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On the 25th of February, we went to Malolos, the capital of Bulacan, to see a ladyboy parade; but it never appeared. Ladyboy levels of disorganisation are, of course, legendary, in addition to which, they were probably working on Filipino time, which makes ‘manana’ sound urgent. Still, a couple of nice cold Red Horses and some good pictures.
All Pix: Rod Fleming
Street photography, long established as an art and a specialist form of photojournalism, requires very similar techniques to those needed to photograph field sports, notably football (soccer, not that American nonsense). You need sharp reactions, complete confidence in technique and total reliance on reflex. As soon as you see an image, it’s gone, so you just have to go with it.
Markets everywhere are wonderful for this sort of thing. They’re very colourful and people are concentrating on selling, not watching the photographer. I was using a DSLR for most of these, with no issues. As usual with digital, you have to watch the exposure. I find using the old tranny technique of underexposing by 2/3 of a stop is useful in holding highlight detail.
Gallery 1: Malolos
Gallery 2: Malolos Palenke
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An action-packed tale of love and life, humour and romance, played out by an unforgettable cast of characters with genuine Scots voices, Poaching the River will make you laugh and cry out loud.
It’s a quiet afternoon in Auchpinkie, a tiny fishing village on the east coast of Scotland, and in her Corner Shop, Mae and her cronies are setting the world to rights.
Suddenly a furniture van draws up outside one of the houses along the street. A beautiful young woman is moving into Etta Swankie’s old house. But no-it can’t be-that’s Rae, Etta’s daughter, and Etta always swore she’d disinherit her!
Over the next few days the action races to its riotous climax, as Big Sye, Rae’s cousin, poaches the River Pinkie in a daring adventure, the village public convenience is destroyed by a freak explosion, and the parish minister is baffled by the sudden religious conversion of two formerly heathenish young lads.
Behind it all a spider’s web of intrigue is woven, as the villagers conspire to get Big Sye and Rae together. But there are things going on that none of them ken, and secrets that only Rae’s old friend Izzie knows…