As I’m sat here writing this, I relax outside a chip shop run by South Asians. I’m with my cousin William, and we’re in Leicester Square, London.
It’s 14:58PM, and in about two hours I’ll be meeting again our guide, David Parry. I believe the scene before me is an adequate parallel to the depths of Hell itself — and I do hope David can act as our Christ, conquering this darkness in some manner and dragging us into the light.
We arrived in London by coach at around one o’clock. As we entered the city we were met by the intimidating shadows of monoliths and rows of black glass and concrete.
There are foreigners everywhere — yellow, brown, black faces swarm the streets gibbering in broken tongues. Overweight people, too, fat on American burgers and cheap food. The chips (yes — “chips,” not “fries,” you dim Yanks) my cousin has are chewy and salty; monstrously inferior to the full-bodied, moreish chips found in actual fish and chip shops found on the southwestern coast where we’d ordinarily find such foodstuffs. Scantily-clad English girls walk past, ripe-thighed and braless. The scene contrasts strongly with the skinny and malnourished beggars who huddle beneath the faceless crowds of nobodies.
The massness of the scene before us is scarce describable; just body upon body, shuffling to and fro’ in and out of shops, eating-halls, everywhere. Like a virulent cancer this horde seeps-into every orifice; this city, like a husk of its former self, is filled with the blood of an imposter; the host withers away and forgets itself, assuming the form of the sheer quantity within — this is the modern city, the soulless gargantuan that only lives to consume and fornicate.
Well, the speech went well. There will be a YouTube video soon enough.
In my speech I referenced suicide, and the propensity for moderns to murder themselves out of loneliness — amid a place like London or somewhere similar, it is shocking that a man would kill himself out of loneliness considering how surrounded he is by people. Yet he lacks something integral, and it is this integral element — meaning in life, existential calm — that the modern lacks and cannot find amid the quantity of a large city.
Awfully enough, on our way back to the coach station, as myself, David and Will boarded the tube, the announcer said that a line was down due to, though in “professional” language, someone throwing themselves onto the track. A tragedy, but it merely proves one point in my speech right. A habit I’m frequenting.
Embarrassingly, we missed our coach by ten minutes due to my mistake in reading our tickets. We had to fork-out seventy bloody pounds to sit on a coach for several hours. It’s extremely fortunate that we had the cash spare — that was all of mine and Will’s notes gone. We hadn’t eaten much during the day and, as I write this at 23:36PM, we long for home and somewhere quiet to sleep.
Looking down at the screen like this isn’t making me feel excellent, though it must be done to capture my thoughts here lest I forget the details.
This coach is full of millennial drones. The one sat next to me seems intelligent enough, reading a book in German (he sounds English, though) which stands-out enough.
I should talk about my speech a little bit.
Once I listen/watch the recording I’ll write a transcript. It was totally improvised on the spot, though my experiences added to it of course. I spoke of meaning, modernity, hierarchy, etc., just as I had aimed to. All things considered, it went extremely well and was well-received. Ollie (A.K.A. Skeleton) and others were there, which was nice. Unfortunately the guy from that gallery whose name escapes me didn’t seem to show-up — in-part possibly due to the timing of the evening going back half an hour, and also it being held in an upstairs room which may’ve appeared to any onlooker as off-limits.
Some drunk cunt decided to try to tackle some of the arguments I was making, using phrases like “logical fallacy” out of context and just spewing incoherent blather all about the place — he was well-intentioned but ultimately too fucking pissed out of his skull to say anything substantive.
Jez Turner, Mick Brooks, Stead Steadman, David Parry — all the big dogs — very much enjoyed my rambling. Not bad for a first try, I suppose. Good grief; Jez has asked me to speak at the London Forum alongside Greg Johnson and some other big dog whose name also escapes me. I said a “maybe” to orating, though I’ll likely do it. It’s just the shock of all this which is quite flummoxing — I am of course humbled by the opinions of these wise and important men, though my abilities are where I perhaps have my reservations (though that might just be a lack of confidence speaking).
I hope this coach journey isn’t too long. Me and Will — provided we don’t fall asleep — will likely go past twenty-four hours of staying awake. Quite the feat, though likely not in our bests interests. Getting back to Exeter at five o’clock and half-consciously stumbling two miles back home might be a pain in the arse but I’m sure we’ll manage. I still have that ale in the fridge, come to think of it.
Maybe a little more on London? It felt like a husk; a thousand faces but no persons, no beings; just a mass of number and body and endless flesh, stumbling through deadening corridors. All of them lifeless yet moving — good grief, the number of Africans we saw was quite impressive. Now we know why the west African economy is in trouble: all the workers are abroad! I jest of course but such a money-obsessed environment clearly draws all the zombies out to feast and shamble about.
It’s 00:05AM. We’re on a motorway, presumably the M5. This coach ends-up in Penzance — let’s hope the driver remembers to stop at Exeter, however briefly! I’m also curious to know exactly what my neighbour beside me — he might be reading this — is reading. Is it fiction? I want it to be Nietzsche, though that may be too bold of me. Probably.
It’s warm in this coach, even with the air conditioning on. I’m sweating slightly which isn’t too pleasant. Maybe I’ll cool-down shortly. I don’t know.
There were a couple of hecklers after the speech — well, more “let me make a statement”-ers, in honesty. It was a little irritating due to the fact that very little of what these people were whining about had anything to do with the content of what I’d spent a good while saying.
I’m getting travel-sick looking at this damn thing. I might have to draw this writing to a close and leave the rest — as well as a proper West Coast Reactionaries entry — for tomorrow (though I’ll surely reuse some of this).
The featured image is a picture of St. Charles Road in Exeter at nearly 5AM.