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167. The well (III)

I arrived on the 11th floor of a central London law office with my colleague in tow. The room, set for some entertainment event, was crowded with men in dark grey suits. I felt the crush of suits grow tighter and tighter around us. My colleague, a blonde with a reasonable body, drew the men to her; she was surrounded by a tangle of grey sperm vying to impregnate. I struggled free and moved to the centre of the room to contemplate the blonde blackhole that drew all male matter to it, sucked in by the prospect of being sucked off. A little dejected, I watched the musician in the corner, a hired street musician—the only black face in a white room.

Humans are attracted to the distant in time and space, to the rare and unusual. This is mostly a weakness of the political left. Pay attention and you can amass a steady list of naïve leftists who exoticised “the Other” and ended up chopped to pieces by Jamaican drug gangs, or liverless in a Cambodian death camp. A horrible way to die, watching a trio of starved gooks eat your liver before your very eyes—it is, I understand, among the most nutritional parts of the human body.

The left recognises this tendency itself, hence its obsession with policing its members for “touching black hair” or enjoying pictures of large black cocks too much. Yet the right also has its own version, though, being conservative, they exoticise the more nearby. So, for the right, it is the tradesman and the white working class that form the exoticised Other. The tradesman, the electrician or plumber: he is pragmatic, practical, cheerful—he loves banter. He has no use for abstract ideologies; he loves his beer, his mates, the footie—simple as. There is truth to this stereotype: the trades make good money and plumbers are rarely interested in religions. However, all is not as the romantic intellectual conservatives would have it.

The right likes to claim people are brainwashed into leftist ideas in the universities, but if you want to see a real victim of brainwashing spend some time with the daughters of plumbers and electricians: the type of girl who lives for the club, the Greek summer holiday, and going out with “the girls”. There you will find people who axiomatically believe every tenet of the state ideology: after all, the footie stars that their man idolises say, “Black Lives Matter”—so what’s your problem, bigot? The Insta star she follows is very worried about her “trauma” and these girls all know that we need to be “decent human beings, talk about mental health, sweetie. Yolo xxx (smiley face)”. If you talk to her “fella” about ideas he will curl up and hate you, because this social class hates and resents intelligence: “Bit of a ponce, isn’t he?” They hate beauty and intelligence, because they do not understand these things.

University students are rarely brainwashed to the extent that the lower orders are. They are capable of some abstract thought; they are aware that there are and have been alternative models for society. They have usually, depending on the subject, been exposed to different books—they are not pure products of Instagram. It is the intellectuals and journalists, the people who are not quite scholars, who are the beating heart of leftist ideology, not the universities—the media is the enemy. Orwell was wrong when he said that hope for resistance to Big Brother lies with the proles: the proles cannot conceptualise a different life.

Those on the right who suggest that youngsters should go into trades instead of university are involved in a virtue signal: a person capable of that level of abstraction would be miserable in the trades, and not welcome by his workmates—even the poorly paid humanities degrees are worthwhile, because status is more important than money; and humanities degrees teach people about the creation and management of status.


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