8 Years a Slave: An Homage to England

Cheers to my fellow Brits, a bunch of weak-minded, self-loathing cowards.

Lemmy of the band Motörhead is a rock-God, an icon, his face-warts run Prada. Having played in Hawkwind, he was told by his doctor that he had done so many drugs that he could die if he didn't stop—he has understood the quanta of cosmos and the infinity of our interconnected molecules over ten times it is safe to say; his skin exudes love, tolerance, and face-warts, and yet even he has said that the only emotion in England is resentment.

The average IQ in England is 65, a shocking thirty points below the rest of Europe. Its people are fed a constant diet of hyper-violence, sex, football hooliganism (where "Ahpen 'im ahp" is a term of endearment and men piss with their legs meters apart), and soap operas cast exclusively of pedophiles. Their women are self-loathing klaxons who devour gossip as a means to overcome the embarrassment of having to adorn their vaginas in Pritt stick and glitter, their men misogynistic groups of grunts spurred by alpha-male propaganda and wishing pedophilia still had its day in the sun.

In living the injustice of human nature, films depicting its ugliness become your best friends, reminders that you are not going crazy.The majority of the English are sadly almost entirely inhibited by emotion. Ask any sportsmen or women who represent England, and they'll tell you the English are flaky, demanding, and odious. Being so run down by their environment of self-loathing and hyper-violence, they do not understand the power of words, speaking them without meaning—they literally cannot speak their own language. They do not have the intellectual capacity to be either self-aware or happy, and thus nurse bigotry like it's a virtue.

It is best that I start from the beginning.

About eight years ago, I was a heavy pot-smoker. I was a recluse. I would play nine hours of guitar a day, eat pasta and cheese followed by Kinder chocolates and milk, then masturbate into socks, because when you're high the fabric burning your glans when you cum is like the phoenix from the ashes.

As students we smoked probably an eighth of skunk a day; some people can handle this, others can't. Personally, I don't know the rubbish they spray it with but I know its effects. For two years I was a chronic smoker, and I missed lectures like I miss colonoscopies.

Towards the end of this two-year career, I was introduced to a young woman who I might as well call Mega Toxic-Cunt but shan't because I am a gentleman; every man in the bar she worked at and all of her student friends wanted to fuck her. That's kinda how we talk of women over here in England, especially those with exquisite vaginas. This is important as it set in motion the rage from insecure women and men alike—the constant self-hate corporate maelstrom propelled by our consumerist culture telling us we need to be alpha and dominant.

In using The Widowmaker, a four-way bong filled with vodka, I went crazy and suffered a psychosis. I thought that I was Jesus; specifically, I thought that I was the original Adam, and that Mega Toxic-Cunt was my Eve. And thus, my downward spiral began. I won't bore you, but I wrote her a letter professing my love and madness, and she told me that (despite openly flirting with me just days before) she loved her boyfriend overseas—a natural response, considering the nature of my letter.

First, I met her boyfriend, word having gotten around, and he didn't lay me out cold when he should have broken my jaw. Second, this woman rallied a nation of sycophants to stand against me because, well, why the hell not.

And so my ordeal in finding a woman separate from the pack mentality orchestrated by Mega Toxic-Cunt began. I was looking for a real woman, someone who could be herself and not worry about the psychologically-induced conglomerate rape of our economy, or rather whichever way ol' Mega Toxic-Cunt pointed because, to her credit, she was outwardly very beautiful and influential.

Science fiction slaves
Her vagina wrote ghastly science fiction under the nom de plume "Ice Box".

And then I met her: a woman who was engaged and unavailable. Having learned from my mistakes, and for my own sense of self... my own sense of what was moral, I knew I couldn't get involved, as difficult as that was. Unfortunately, "none of your business" does not apply to a mob of miserable people feverishly searching for appraisal without the patience to learn a hobby.

Here is the thing: the hatred of the mob is directionless and unaccountable—as long as they feel validated, as long as there is a release for its members who feel constrained by law and all the ways the economy is telling them they are unworthy, then that is the premise governing it. If the English were a politician, they would be a dildo at the UN nervously swaying from left to right and occasionally glancing up at India, eyebrows raised thinking, "Too soon?"

Shirtless English hooligan
"DAHN'T GA TA AFGHANISTAAHN, VEY DAHN'T EAT ‘UMANITES!"

Had I pursued this engaged woman, the mob would have accused me of being a deviant for breaking up the marriage, and she would have hated me anyway and become subject to living the same ordeal I was. She would have been treated as an unfaithful, probably unclean woman by a society that harbors great resentment towards its women, and the husband would have been left heartbroken (probably lauded a superhero because the plebs love a tale of overcoming obstacles). There would have been no happy ending, and I would have still been attacked for doing the wrong thing. It doesn't matter how they hate, so long as they are able to hate.

I loved her, I loved her fiercely, and in so doing, I stayed away. This was the logical choice for me, having grown used to the nation's gross lack of compassion; she was safe and happy while I loved and lost for what I felt would be on my own terms. For a collective that believes solely in destruction, though, such was not tolerated, and in less than twenty-four hours of making this their business, the mob of her supporters and admirers set into motion their mantra.

I was thus once more labelled either a gay or a cunt, whichever the flavor of the month.

The strength of character required to endure a collective so unabashedly vitriolic, especially when you are in love, is absurd. I'm not saying this out of pride—I did what I had to do, what any normal human being would when faced with the abolishing of their civil rights—but of course the question is resilience. Can you do it long enough without killing yourself? I turned to drink and rebelled harder than I ever have before. Love can make that of a man, righteously deranged.

I distrust white people. There is nothing I believe they are incapable of, having suffered such an outrageous degree of cowardice here, in this country of England. In living the injustice of human nature, films depicting its ugliness become your best friends, reminders that you are not going crazy, that this is how the species operates: nobody goes against the grain, for fear and morality caves as soon as genetics show any sign of being rejected by what is considered the norm.

Brighton and Hove fellates itself for its tolerance as one of the gay capitals of the world, yet I found my sexuality here being a serious point for debate to the extreme that this mob screamed homophobic abuse at me. My typical day was "He is," "He isn't," "GAY!" "gay," and "fuck him," no matter what. To exemplify, I once travelled up north to visit my mother who was ill. Six hours to travel up there, I saw my mum for several days to confirm she was unwell, then travelled back for six hours, and as soon as I got off the bus, "GAY!"

Gay British man
"Oh, and your Mum?"

Once, when I went to a Quentin Tarantino fancy dress party in black-face as Jules, a woman first remarked on my blotchy skin before realizing that my arms were white. She then told me that what I was doing was wrong, despite the circumstances under which I had blacked up: as a character from a film. More of note was that she told me this AFTER realizing her stupidity and gesturing in a way that would certainly offend anyone who is mentally handicapped.

In the case of my abuse, I'd estimate about 98% of the hate I went through was from white people—black people, maybe five-to-ten have actively shouted at or ridiculed me (that's a total number of people, in eight years), and three have looked at me sternly. That "my ancestors worked hard to alter people like you" kind of look. Little did they know that all of my writing using hate-words white people desperately struggle to ban was in rebellion, a fight for my own freedoms as I'm sure black people must have and still do faced. Face. I don't mean black-face.

I distrust white people. There is nothing I believe they are incapable of, having suffered such an outrageous degree of cowardice here, in this country of England. As soon as responsibility is no longer an issue, they become just as barbaric as they've always been, otherwise simply told what not to say and what to do to be "accepted." Our civilization has progressed on the backs of the suffering of "outsiders," and morally we become degenerate the larger the collective operating to our favor.

English man in vagina costume
"Nnuuuuur."

The powers that be do not allow it to be anything more; everything in our culture portrays the unachievable, that there is always self-improvement in the next hairdryer, the next futon, the next backhanded comment. If anything should teach you that the powers that be don't give a fuck about what you want, then look at George W. Bush's inauguration or the stain-campaign against Barack Obama, the first black president who, as first black president's go, was in all likelihood denied power to do a lot of those things he said he was going to do because the economy could not allow it.

Barack Obama smile and point face
"Jam Master Jay's Unreleased Hits please. 10 billion pressings over Africa. I'll be in my office."

I have, as one man, stood against the atrocity of a corruptible human collective, thankful that lynching is a thing of the past and knowing all it will take is the correct ad campaign to bring it back into fashion. They have shouted abuse at me up to my window where I live, in the pubs I go to relax, in the gym, everywhere you can think of. It is incessant. It is pointless. The worst part of it is, none of it is personal—it is all about them dealing with their shit. Without someone to pass judgment on they would lose.

In an age where the death of tyrants is celebrated without realizing that we are obnoxiously celebrating death, where people do not intervene in assaults but rather capture them on five second snippets from exorbitant technologies and then share them on YouTube to be commented on, it is futile to give such people credence—they are the smallest of humans, defying that in all of us is something we know to be worth fighting for, just as we know the insides of Paris Hilton and that hamburgers taste good.

I stood for what I knew to be right—such a weak-minded mob of directionless hate can never take that away from me.

You are a coward's nation, England.




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