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Updated: Jul 1, 2022

I used to walk to work past the Great West Road—an elevated motorway section in London. The area was industrialised in the 1920s, so Art Deco factories muddle with mid-90s demi-skyscrapers—and if you drive along the motorway you can be eye-level with the offices for a while. The area is an interstitial zone known as Brentford, an awkward post-industrial melange that exists between areas of occupation—not overpopulated from the sub-continent as with neighbouring Hounslow to the west, not semi-posh like Ealing to the north—heavy industry came and went in the 1930s, nothing ever quite replaced it. Here people live on houseboats, hippies with wood-stoked stoves and bankers with Amsterdam-built luxo barges; and both are, as that once-popular academic jargon has it, “liminal”—whether they are rich or not they live on the waterline, the tideline. The town centre is dominated by a mothballed tower-block police station built in the 1960s, the sort of place the Flying Squad might take villains to break a nose or two (“Get in there, you slag”).

This was where Caesar crossed the Thames in his invasion—and where a bloody skirmish in the Civil War was fought. Syon House, the modest local stately home, was frequented by Elizabeth’s magician, John Dee—and multi-series paperback pop novels from the mid-90s, about Irish tramps, document the many supernatural events that take place in Brentford, including the fact that the anti-Christ is buried under the playing field of the local football stadium. Brentford, a tiny club, has risen to prominence in recent years. The Brentford Bees: the bee, an ancient Indo-Aryan initiatory symbol associated with the Grail—the Milky Way, the way of honey; the deseret Mormon way, heaven is a honeycomb.

On my walks to work, I always noted an encampment beneath a motorway pillar: a little shack made from cast-off wooden pallets flitched from the local hardware superstores, flitched from the rusty cage out back—all stained black from petrol fumes. Various crude hand-painted signs surrounded the shack: REPO BEWARE – BE ASPO PLASTIC – REACH CALLA DANGER = HELL – DEVIL SATAN. The local schizophrenic had constructed his home beneath the motorway, non-stop noise night and day—enough to…drive you mad. Yet, of course, he found comfort there, either the noise drowned out the voices; or, perhaps, he could hear the message in the traffic frequency—the vibrations conveyed down the concrete pillar into his very skull as he slept and dreamed beneath the road. Caesar crossed the Thames here: the elevated road is a bridge from the city—the bridge, the pontifex; the Pope of the Road.

I have to admit, I liked his little shack: I have a fascination for what emerges organically—shacks, huts, hand-built towers; and especially if built in unlikely crannies, on precarious cliffs or beneath motorway bridges. In a modern-day Robinsonade, JG Ballad once stranded a crashed motorist on a grass bank on a motorway reservation; as with the Great West Road the traffic never stopped, so the motorist had to live like Crusoe among the cars—catch rabbits and feral foxes, hold out for a teen runaway to be cast from her boyfriend’s car to become his Girl Friday.

As with my automotive schizo, I mention Satan quite a bit—surely the first sign of incipient mental collapse. “Satan puts messages on Starbucks coffee cups; they’re very subtle about it, though. Sub-tle. They want to turn the black man transgender—then they’ll use him as a Trojan horse to mix all the races together and destroy the family. Watch Paris is Burning (1990); it’s all in there. It’s all hidden in the open.” So, what do I mean by Satan?

Satan is not the same as the Devil, Lucifer, or demons—to understand the difference, consider Hunter Biden and Joseph Biden. Hunter is not exactly someone who you would want to hang out with, but he is almost an amiable drunk—almost a loveable rogue. He is a slave to his habits: drugs, booze, and whores. He is foolish, in the negative sense—not a holy fool; and yet it is difficult to see him as truly evil. He is somewhat pitiable, with his transparent lies and his dissolute lifestyle. He mostly hurts himself and his family—and insofar as he hurts other people he does so because he is a puppet, pulled this way or that by whoever supplies his drugs, whores, or steals his laptop this week.

Hunter is almost a stock character in a Hollywood comedy [adopt baritone voiceover voice]: “When you’re the President’s son…life comes at you fast [Hunter emerges from under a duvet, surrounded by empty vodka bottles, crack pipes, and two Thai hookers]. But when his father had a heart attack, Hunter Biden was about to learn what truly mattered [picture of Hunter campaigning for the presidency]…This holiday season, Hunter Biden is…The Candidate (rated PG-13).”

So Hunter Biden is devilish or demonic; and you can almost see a little Looney Tunes figure all in red with a pitchfork and a pronged tail on his shoulder: “Do it, Hunter. Just one more crack pipe, what’s the harm? It feels so so good. You had one last week, just this once…” This is bad, cartoonishly bad, yet it is not Satanic. Who is Satanic? Joe Biden.

Now, Joe Biden has almost certainly never taken crack—and if he drinks and uses prostitutes I doubt he does so to excess; perhaps he uses neither, for he is very careful—to be a good liar you have to be careful. It might seem histrionic to describe Joe Biden as “Satanic”, but he is so. You see, Satanism is like the picture that heads this article: it depicts stratus clouds, my least favourite weather type. When the clouds are that low I always feel like I will have a migraine all day and the clouds seem to sparkle with rebarbative colours like a fractured LCD monitor, everything is depressed in the world—everything is grey, beige; and yet the greyness seems to palpably smudge itself into you, just as if dissolved cardboard were to be mushed into your mind.

The palpable deadness created by this weather is Satanic. Hence Satanism concerns concealment, concealment being the opposite to revelation. So Biden is, on paper, respectable and decent and cares a lot—especially about the disadvantaged, so he is extra good really. Yet he has this total grey quality, he is a human stratus—quite inanimate.

Compare life under Biden to life under Trump, with Trump you have the animate sun—how joyful to see the golden mane today. What will happen next? Excitement! There used to be a peculiar children’s show called Teletubbies, probably it had some baleful occult themes—yet it featured a sun that had a little baby’s face in it; and this baby would giggle and gurgle delightedly as the sun rose. This is what Trump is like, the sun with a little baby in it—when this sun rises you know the day will be filled with life. By contrast, when you wake up and look at the window and see “Biden”—low grey monotonous Biden as far as the eye can see—you just want to curl up under the duvet and smoke another crack pipe. And this is how Satan facilitates the Devil.

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