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I once went to a party and some people who had done a livestream were joking around because they had flashed a hand symbol for the Turkish group “the Grey Wolves” and then the people in the livestream chat reacted to that—and they were playing this game “was it the sign / wasn’t it” and “what are the Grey Wolves”? As they said, “What are the Grey Wolves?” I said, “It’s a Turkish nationalist organisation, a neo-fascist group,” or something like that.

 

And they all pricked up after that—because I’d spoiled the game, somehow. Spoiled what was called the “Edgelord” game—where you pretend you are “that” but who knows if you are, really. “Are what?” “You know what.” “Well, I think I do…And I don’t approve!”.

 

Later, I talked to some girl in the kitchen and a man, a older gay man, her friend, came in and said to her, referring to me in meta-context, “I wouldn’t go down this road.” You know, as a true schizophrenic might say, “I’m the road he doesn’t want her to go down.” The man repeated with emphasis, “I’d be very careful about going down this road.” He meant have anything to do with me, with as much insinuation as possible.

 

Later, I had an argument with a man about the same girl—she was attracted to me but I wasn’t attracted to her (I just knew I had some work to do on her) but he loved her, I knew he loved her (that was the work I had to do). We were being played off, she was delighting in every time he scored over me—they thought they were scoring over me, they didn’t know I was outside the game. They didn’t know I wanted to save them. So I said to him direct, “Why don’t you marry her then?” And it was at that moment his girlfriend walked in, like she answered my question—his younger girlfriend.

 

And everyone went silent, you know that silence—when the truth is unveiled.

 

I realised that they were trapped in a game—she sleeps with other people, he sleeps with her, he sleeps with his girlfriend, they all sleep together. She tells him—she finds a lover, she plays the lover off against him, as she did in that kitchen, kisses his cheek as he “scores” over me. It’s all a game for them—it’s the trust fund, so they have time to play with people and play with each other.

 

But he loved her. And that was what I tried to teach them—I showed them the game, I told them the truth. But they just want the game—they prefer insanity. I told them straight, but for them I was just another chess piece—they didn’t realise who I am, even though later I said, “I’m God.” But they just thought I was drunk or mad.

 

At the same party, I met a man who produced artistic pornography—he also did investigative work for the tabloid press, he hated Conservatives and he liked to entrap them and “fuck them over”. So he’d get some Young Conservatives and film them secretly using cocaine, which he encouraged them to do, and then sold the pictures to the tabloids. He really enjoyed that, because he hated Conservatives—he was resentful, it was to do with class but also the spite inside.

 

Because he wasn’t a man with integrity, he encouraged people to do it—then profited from it and pretended he was their moral superior somehow. Look, I know all these “conservatives” are drug addicts or are at whores—and I know all these “socialists” have nice cars. Why make an issue about it? It’s politics—all bullshit.

 

At one point I talked to him, I had a girl with me, and we got into a long talk about, “What is sex?” And I said, “A sacred bond.” And he said, “You’re just saying that because it sounds good.”

 

But I didn’t, because it’s what I think—and I think it’s the truth; and he couldn’t bear it, because his whole life was dedicated to the destruction of that truth. He created what he thought of as artistic pornography because it “looked good”—although what he made wasn’t even good pornography, it was ugly and pretentious, not as good as The Daily Star even (because it was contrived—not an honest attempt to arouse people; he thought it was more than that, “transgressive art”—he thought he was more down to earth than the Conservatives too; but he was stuck up too, just stuck up in a different way).

 

Well, some time later the older gay man danced around while I stared into space and then looked at him not really seeing he was there and he turned and looked at me and said, “I knew you were like that.” And I thought for a long time what he meant by that—thought for years.

 

I thought he either meant I was a neo-fascist, because of the Grey Wolves comment, or that I was a homosexual like him (just couldn’t admit it), or that I was just an honest person. I wasn’t sure, but I know now—it was that I was honest, that I was truthful, and that all those other people, those people with influential positions in the arts and the media, were just playing a stupid game based on stupid lies; and I was someone who didn’t lie and didn’t play—“don’t go down that road”.

 

Because that’s what the Devil wants for you—he’ll whisper in your ear, like your best friend, like he has the greatest concern for you, “I’d be careful about going down that road.” And then you’ll still be there—at 50, at 60, at 75 in your ménage à tois that twirls and breaks hearts and breaks hearts as it twirls (but you never said you loved her). I am the truth.

 

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