✨Everything happens for a reason✨
The gravest of theological thinkers have heard this statement and thought, well, what can I say to refute this? ‘Checkmate, mate’. Anything else would be refuting the Divine plan: the world that has came and the world to come. Before we attain certainly of Self, unto certainty of the Will, should we not first attain certainty of History, of Destiny? So why have we lived through what we have lived through... Now, as even the most Lusotropical of men, how did the favela get me down in the dumps; how could I in 2026 be jaded, looking back at that kinetic, kaleidoscopic collage of colours that has been our age? Without rose-tinted schpectacles, one might start to see red, so let us look back with nostalgia; now, it is true, we must have reached diminishing marginal returns.
I too once looked on with a stone-faced, gurning jouissance when the Harlem Spartans shot down the Athenian dream of the ‘high-trust’ many, or 1011 ‘put West London on the map’ with their Next Up? M.V... But what has happened to our “most supremely well-adjusted Afro-Caribbean Community”, the 4% said to represent 80% of our music industry’s GDP exports? Well, the man on the Clapham omnibus could see the loudest voices of the 60s-borne tradition of ‘sticking it to the man’ now carry the flame by TikTok-store-related resellings of fidget-spinners or perhaps Shiesties, raiding the Co-op for some sweets and humiliating an aloof African security- guard in the process; Windrushers against BoriswaversTM. Others to re-enact the viral ‘62’ milk-pouring. Nonsensically, this all occurred in broad daylight, Sabbath, before the regulars on Shomrim’s South patrol had even scratched off the hair of the dog. The Mandem are head-spun & low-energy since lockdown. ‘Mandem on the Wall’ has taken a Humpty Dumpty turn-of- fate. Hole in the wall. Since John Boyega spawned forth as leader of The Community during BLM marches, since John became the only Black Man to star in Stars Wars (except a random stormtrooper cameo which I’m sure they soyfaced aplenty about), the Mandem have lost their flair for rebellion and are now going corporate. Just another brick in the wall; Daniel
Kaluuya in Black Mirror. The Mandem are wearing quarter-zips and are off to the races. NEETs the only reaction, Trump won on a favourably ‘inclusive’ platform, so spick and span and sprawling across the globe has this Communitay put its workpants on. Now, upwards social mobility through harassment, aspiring solely unto #BleachingUp. “Grey-tings” look a lot brighter; “Scuse me miss, may I axe you a question... still?”
What nation is so desperate to game us ‘protein’ pancakes, eggs, ‘shakes’, pasta, spaghetti, seeds, nuts and tofu if not one already in famine? The women have gotten prettier, but returning to famine levels of estrogenicity, means, the men aren’t short-off lactating, and the fairer sex seems to take every bite they can get.
A wise mentor of mine once said that cinema was end-stopped in 2008, le fin et la mort after ‘There Will Be Blood’ until transplanted with new, apocalyptic black-goo in genesis with ‘Iron Man’ cum-stock-market-crash and a recalculated algorithm of budget-to-box-office profit-margin concerns. Now that the Pandemic lifestyle has lived on trendily for many, I would say this has continued to a new wave, where a constant influx of Amazon Prime grey-shaded dramas on office politics between catty-men or nurses (see Severance, Grey’s Anatomy), has triumphed over the last great picture, that was La La Land. There is no winner in ‘Sinners’ leading the Oscars, only misery abound for the praise shown for lack of standards, and a Badenoch leadership-victory reminiscence about “smashing glass-ceilings”. “Mhmm- hmm” is the best of gratitude dealt for what was already felt to be owed to oneself out of guilt— same can be said of any concession to the ever- travelling reparations-circus (or, C of E service). Fortunately for us, this death-knell came at the right time for the richest man in the world to buy both Twitter and fill its ‘for-you page’ with Restore Britain synthwaves edits— finally, a reproduction of the motion picture. ‘Secretly Based’ Tony Blair Macarena edits for all, rehashed for each neo-Neocon war in the most compressed format yet. Whilst this was typically reserved for readers of The Telegraph or the most dark-triad of ASBOs, bloodlust for Arab boys have been repackaged in most efficient form, as we sojourn. The audience is held captive to the same degree as airplane food, many to chow-down on the feed.
On the topic of air-travel, let us consider the life and death of the Concorde. What has this wrought? Despite the Mayan myth-making dramas placed upon the coming sea-people, or ‘boat people’, anyone who has lived within 50 miles of an airport has noticed fashionably suitcase-lugging Yoruba families, bonnet-in-place, ready for wash-day after touching yard in rainy Britannia. To ignore the £6.4bn and growing (2025, ~6%+CAGR, by the way) industry of middle-aged women melting into desks in the hopes of securing these wanderers their citizenships By Any MeansTM... what do you think such citizens are to do after realising their naturalised Aunts & Uncs have spare bedrooms? After knowing there’s a sub-minimum-wage job lined up at a shady security contractor, or a trim lined up from barbershop? Such is the bane of modern transportation. In Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Levin argues in his thesis that even by Tsarist Russia, the expansion of transportation, then being the railway, before the Russians were to fully set their roots upon the soil lent to disastrous effect:
“He maintained that the poverty of Russia arises not merely from the anomalous distribution of landed property and misdirected reforms, but that what had contributed of late years to this result was the civilisation from without abnormally grafted upon Russia, especially facilities of communication, as railways, leading to centralisation in towns, the development of luxury, and the consequent development of manufactures, credit and its accompaniment of speculation—all to the detriment of agri[culture]. [...] other sources of wealth should not outstrip agri[culture]; that in harmony with a certain stage of agri[culture] there should be means of communication corresponding to it, and that in our unsettled condition of the land, railways, called into being by political and not by economic needs, were premature, and instead of promoting agri[culture], as was expected of them, they were competing with agri[culture] and...”
If I may continue...
“promoting the development of manufactures and credit, and so arresting its progress; and that just as the one-sided and premature development of one organ in an animal would hinder its general development, so in the general development of wealth in Russia, credit, facilities of communication, manufacturing activity, indubitably necessary in Europe, where they had arisen in their proper time, had with us only done harm, by throwing into the background the chief question calling for settlement—the question of the organization of agri[culture].”
Whilst his kvetching over “agriculture” seems debatably outdated, I have swapped that in for our deficiency: an organic, domestic culture of our soil, as well as of the people of the soil, whereby we would account for a similar predicament. One must learn to love even their troublesome terroni, without the laze of importing a more placated émigré substitute. Without pre- arranged boundaries and demarcations, globalisation in accompaniment to modernisation, with, say, 50 million Modi’ites gaining access to the internet in 83 days, leads to things such as the worst dating advice you’ve ever seen on X—now consider the same expansion of access, but to air-travel. In the grand scheme of things, Skyrim’s fast-travel has been achieved in terra yet gone are our guardians, even the Allied side of Europe having kamikaze’d cometh the piledriver of ‘modernity’ that was WWII. Pan is found dead in a ditch, new-builds upon Arcadia. This is Pan-Europa, in its regime-approved form— a citizenship scheme or otherwise fast-travel-grid of dour Kommunalkas, for legal Yorubas or illegal Mirpuris to slink into its shadows just as easily as any actual fed-up European student may traverse hostel-to-hostel, the other direction, through their interrailing ‘gap-yaa’. Whilst Nick Ans 30TM, our beloved, undergoes Kafka’s trial in order to stand up for any register which is not ‘The Sex One’, the ‘legals’ (more insultingly than ‘illegals’) are shown to their allotments with such jazz as Scorsese grooming his audience through the Copacabana, one-shot-take from back- alley to VIP-lounge. We know this, and this is not without bursary. They, for the most part, do not reside merely in migrant hotels, but doctor’s offices and the upstairs of barbershops, stamped in as visitors or signed-off as citizens.
From hereon. The solution to all of this: Conscription. Levée en masse. It is clear, The Golden Age of Hollywood is over; Polanski has already had
his J’accuse moment, and now it’s Chinatown. The time has long gone for the apex of Liberal Arts, yet midwits are still picking up ‘The Art of War’ for their ’75-hard’ New Year’s Resolution—they know something we don’t. We must filter the truecel CivNats from the Based and the Boujee, the *actual* patriotic Sikh Reform Campaigners from those merely trying to avoid the evil eye of schizophrenic deportation fears. To pull across the Turban and check for bald-spots. To SWAT a ‘Turkish’ barbershop and check between a Turk and a crypto-Kurd.
Quizzed with a British colonel’s observations on the French “where every soldier showed the nascent talents of an officer”, Napoleon was to name the distinguishing factor:
“the Conscription;
it has rendered the French army the best constituted that ever existed. It is an institution,” he continued, “eminently national, and already strongly interwoven with our habits; it had ceased to be a cause of grief, except to mothers; and the time was at hand, when a girl would not have listened to a young man who had not acquitted himself of this debt to his country, and it would have been only when arrived at this point,” added he, “that the Conscription would have manifested the full extent of its advantages. When the service no longer bears the
appearance of punishment or compulsory duty, but is become a point of honour, on which all are jealous, then only is the nation great, glorious, and powerful; it is then that its existence is proof against reverses, invasions— even the hand of time!”
— Memoirs of the life, exile and conversations of the Emperor Napoleon, Les Cases.
History is a circle in many ways, and accepting things for what they are and ‘betting long’ on the continuation of such trends in our empirical wretchedness is how you concede continually to the Hegelians. Learned helplessness, until we have nothing to accept except Aaron Bastani being the only correct man alive. The Conscription will redeem our war-hungry Rishi as supernova towards the long-awaited second-coming of Lord Indra, the Indo-Aryan steppe spirit living by the sword of Pandemic-induced MS Teams meetings, and dying by the sword of more MS Teams meetings in his cozy 9-5 San Francisco Microsoft headquarters gig— putting the Indo in the Aryan, the disembodied weltgeist into the body of the eternal Dravidic call- centre. Maybe, just maybe, is it best to risk at best another Falklands, or at worst another ungrateful Suez intervention for the sake of steadying our Nick-Ans Military caste (if he passes the physical, short-sighted and all).
Will you, young Anglopoaster, dare to pick up the phone...
132: Die for your country (Θνησκε υπερ πατριδος)
— Delphic Maxims, The Oracle of Delphi at the Temple of Apollo.