I once opened a door in a Las Vegas hotel room and found one man hunched over another’s crotch—I had caught them in fellatio, in flagrante delicto; if the former is the correct Latin I am not quite sure, it conveys the idea well enough though. This is my trouble, I always open the wrong doors and see what is not meant to be seen. I stuttered my apologies and retreated, I could not say I was disgusted—no, not at all; although, I suppose, you are meant to clearly signal that you are not “one of them”; perhaps I should protest more...Bloody fairies. Then again, there was another time—about a year later—when I was genuinely disgusted by faggy antics, though the offence was both less and more flagrant.
I was on the tube in North London, sometime in the morning on a weekend. In the semi-crowded carriage two men were locked in full-throated kiss. Now this, unlike the blowjob, truly disgusted me. I felt stomach-churned repulsion at the display. The sensation was the same throughout the carriage, for there were three white people in the carriage—me and the two fags—and all the rest were bona fide veiled Mohammedans and black black Africans; and their eyes were all slitty with disgust.
If it were not for the non-stop propaganda and the knowledge that the Met would be on them and their visas would be revoked—if, indeed, they had visas—then the carriage would have risen as one man and beaten the lovers with their shoes; or, indeed, with more than the old pavement rubber. “We want to integrate. We want to learn British values,” a Syrian told me, shortly after he related how a lesbian academic colleague had visited him, drunk herself stupid on wine, and declared her desire to “run down any bitch I see in a hijab. I hate them. Hate them.”
The kiss, a feminist academic assures me, represents real intimacy; all the psychoanalysts agree. This is why whores generally do not kiss, or charge extra for it anyway. And that is why I was indifferent to the literal cocksuckers but felt all queasy like when I saw two men engaged in osculation on Transport for London property. It made me wince and give a little shudder. Ew. “Well, you must be gay then if you don’t like it,” snaps some petty Freudienne. “My dear, I’m an English empiricist: at sixteen I called up homo-porn online, my penis remained flaccid. Conclusion: whatever they say, whatever you say—I don’t have the gay.”
What we call “the culture war” is really this: there are people, decadent people, who constantly try to enforce counter-propositional statements on society through mass propaganda—about fags, bitches, Mohammedans, etc. The propaganda is against nature, so it has to be constant; it has to push down, down, down on slitty eyes and shoe-sole justice. When, as our Americans cousins say, “da shit hits the fan,” as it did in USSR circa 1941, then we switch back to the propositional—God, family, motherland. Commissars know what counts when it comes to survival; in the interim, not being under death threat, they try to bend the national tree this way or that. The wood creaks and protests, it knows the way it wants to go—towards the light, brothers—yet the commissars drive a stake into the ground and use great black straps (much homo) to yank it t’other way.
This is all much-storied “culture war” amounts to. There is no equivalent from the right, no svelte-limbed bodybuilders on tube station posters or smart screens with right-disciplined soldiers. You do not need to tell people to be fit or that national soldiery are glorious. But you do need to say again and again and again—lest Mohammedans slip up and become unintegrated—that females kick ass and gays are great and all races love one another and all religions are one sloppy steamy bath house union.