A RARE PICTURE OF MISS DREAMY DISAPPEARING INTO A HOLE IN THE EARTH...

But to what purpose?

To rediscover the vanished city of Atlantis?
To return to the scene of a crime and bury the corpse?
To undergo an overdue gender realignment?
To fulfil her demonic compact with what was a former Faustian pledge?
To ponder why there are so few women at the highest level of science?
To find and formulate The New Theory of Knowledge?
To find a shortcut to the golden sands of Copacabana beach? (ohh yes, please).
To solve the Riddle of the Sphinx?
To slide down into the womb of Gaia, with no objective in mind save for infinity and oblivion?

One wonders...Nobody seems certain of the origin of Miss Dreamy’s acumen or the extent of her abilities, but if the former is rumoured to be mystifying, the latter is totally unambiguous. Give her a fulcrum and she will move the world. Possessed with the gift of second sight, this virtuous, unprepossessing maid will launch herself into the most challenging task imaginable: To prepare a series of scholarly, incisive and wide ranging lectures on moral philosophy, analytical psychology, sexual profligacy and natural philosophy etc., that will effectively terminate the world we’ve come to know and despise, and usher in a newly invigorated Age of Enlightenment ...

For the meantime, I do commend the mating season to your endearingly one-tracked minds and entrust my memory to your ever unfailing indulgence...

Back in ten days, boys, be good!

Dreamy xxx

Things you always wanted to know and were forbidden to ask...

# Hospital admissions from drinking have doubled in just over a decade to more than 200.000 a year.

# 163 children a week are being seen in hospitable because of alcohol related illnesses or injuries.

# More than 30% of the men in our prisons are from care homes.

# 34% of UK female inmates are Jamaicans convicted of drug smuggling.

# Nearly a quarter of undergraduates failed to complete their degrees or gained lesser qualifications .

# The Central Middlesex hospital in northwest London said that on average its contractor charges £ 210 to install an electric socket.

# Nearly a third of children in Britain now live in poverty, substandard accommodation or “unacceptable conditions."

# Some 37% of North Korean children are chronically malnourished and prone to disease.

# MPs expenses average £ 136,000 per annum, more than twice their salaries.

# MEP's expenses show they and their spouses are entitled to mud baths and a 21 day thermal procedure.

# Citizens of Cuba may now carry mobile phones legally & stay in luxury hotels.

# The average salary of Cuba's citizens is £ 8.70 a month, and hotel rooms cost up to £ 100 a night.

and finally:

# The birth rate shot up in 1942 occupied Paris, even though 2m Frenchmen were locked up in camps.

(courtesy of the public domain)

NAOMI CAMPBELL - The Memorandum on Race

“They have lost my f****** bags, get me another flight, get the press, get me my lawyer...“

Oh yes! It sounds grim enough and no doubt was. The bawling, the shrieking, the thrashing, the high Cs and cacophonetic vernacular. A classic example of the assertion that Blacks, whenever possible, see themselves as victims, and while resenting their victim status, nevertheless tend to wallow in it. Naomi Campbell exploded with a rage that was in fact an outrageous proposition:

“It is because I am a black woman, you are all racists...you wouldn’t be doing this if I was white...I am going to f*** you!“

The prejudice of ascribing character and ability to race is so obvious it barely requires repetition. But the truth of the matter is nevertheless, that, for better or for worse, humans have long colluded in an ideal of Western beauty. Already, Helen of Troy was claimed to be the most beautiful woman of classical antiquity, and to this day we have continued to buy into a collective epitome. We‘ve been conditioned, no less, by the classical perception of beauty and reinforced it with the type of female role-model that can be seen every day on television. The television attracts mythomaniacs, people who wish to convince the world of their superiority. But almost inevitably, it gives other "inferior” people an often unattainable ideal of beauty. And while this may be a simplistic view, it is nevertheless deeply felt, and it certainly needs to be taken into account in any analysis of the antagonism which plainly exists between people of African origin and their Caucasian light-skinned counterpart.

If you can never inhabited an ideal, naturally you feel resentful of it.

Promoters of Western beauty products determine everything and it doesn't do any good for the psyche of another race to be presented with an ideal of beauty that is inherently inaccessible. It is a dilemma that proves insoluble. Stark African faces with Negroid features are instantly recognizable. Michael Jackson took the hard way out. He bleached his skin and gallantly modelled his face on that of Elizabeth Taylor. Naomi Campbell, of course, has long since been accepted as a natural beauty by a public to whose commonplace priorities and prejudices she always gave a glamorous setting.

“When two races meet,”, said Charles Darwin, “they fight each other.” And until the black man comes to terms with the fact that he’s not white, the problem of racism will continue to persist. Indeed, it must be wrong to legislate against it. Far from having been an interlude of racial reconciliation and mutual consolation, the damage done by the race relations industry to this country has been incalculable. The campaign of racial grievance was not a conciliatory one. Nor is the problem one of prejudice, it is one of inadequacy. Accusations of prejudice are the defences thrown up to protect a deeply wounded personality which has never recovered from the savaging it received in its colonial infancy.

The situation in America is even more remarkable.

As if to underline a change of status, race is no longer about skin colour. It is about the consolidation of a phenomenon: black culture, or ghetto prophets who preach a brand of thug philosophy or gangsta rap sociology. One may doubt its motives, and indeed sanity, but in the mind and psyche of the gangsta it is payback time. Appropriately, one in nine black men aged between 20 and 34 is in prison, while the average 17-year-old black student has the academic skills of a 14-year-old white pupil, compounding what appears to be a decided racial imbalance, and leaving blacks intentionally forbidding and self-consciously antagonistic.

So, can all their problems still be blamed on the familiar evils of white discrimination?

With every other major race, Chinese, Indian, Asian, the atmosphere is cordial and relaxed, but the Negro has made it plain that for him the problem is not simply one of creating prosperity. Nor will he ever bear a joke at his own expense. By all means, call me ungenerous, but any tribe of people who are unable to laugh at themselves is deprived indeed. This notwithstanding, James Watson, the discoverer of DNA lost his job as director of the Cold Spring Harbour Laboratories in America after suggesting that Africans were less intelligent than Europeans. In fact, when I was a student the climate was already intimidating. You weren’t permitted to talk about racial differences, even though the very idea of a universally conform racial intelligence is bound to be a fairy tale. Critics may complain that one is “racialising” intelligence by claiming that some groups are genetically less intelligent than others, but clearly, human intelligence cannot be bought, found or acquired. And intellectual dexterity is a development problem, as much as it is linked to social standing. Indeed, I would find it very hard to believe that the “noble savage” of undeveloped lands might be illumined by a higher philosophy or a more outstanding intelligence than those of the industrialised West, let alone the ancient cultures of the East. Their entire history is based on the quest for knowledge, whereas that of the African seems rather unfinished and very different from the rest of the world.

A subsequent analysis of Watson’s own DNA showed that he had part-African ancestry, which, if you think about it, rather explains his “inadequacy” - at least according to his own theory.

Dreamy

GOD’S LITTLE ENGLANDERS - to say nothing of the Irish!

“The voters of Ireland left the EU’s constitutional plans in tatters last week by
rejecting the Lisbon treaty. Now the European political elite is desperately
trying to find a way to get round their verdict.”

So, inevitably, I found myself wondering just how to create international integration without giving up national integrity, when the main problem seems to be a confusion within the A-list governments as to how exactly that is to be achieved. Personally, of course, I would be quite happy for Britain to be run from either Brussels or Berlin. There wouldn‘t be many jokes, admittedly, but all the trains would be on time, people would be able to get medical treatment before they dropped dead, and women wouldn‘t have to shave their armpits.

But Alice, a diehard isolationist, said I was taking a treasonous political stand.

Although a stout supporter of the Gender Recognition Bill, she nevertheless espouses the theory that Berlin and Paris exercise a detrimental influence on the attitude of the EU towards Westminster. My own suggestion that if there was one endeavour more formidable than teaching English to the world, then undoubtedly it was to teach the world to the English, seemed to be a trifle over her head. But both Alice and I agreed on the essential point that Zeno, in 300 BC Athens, already preached the doctrine of a World State, while the Romans introduced a common currency that extended from beyond the Tigris to Hadrian‘s Wall, whereas today even a £ 10 note issued by the Bank of Scotland arouses fierce xenophobic suspicion. It was all too retro for words.

“Just get over yourselves!” I said.

Naturally, she was sympathetic, Alice said, but nothing could alter the fact that a Kraut was a Kraut and the common European currency nothing but a Franco-German plot to flood Britain with worthless banknotes, causing massive inflation and, ultimately, the collapse of the British economy. Frau Merkel, after all, had long since promised to resurrect the “core” of the constitution — whose provisions include the creation of an EU foreign minister and the scrapping of national vetoes on justice and home affairs — “despite its rejection by French and Dutch voters in 2005”. Alice’s eyes veiled with a deep melancholy. And even more ambitious plans by the German Chancelloress to revive the defunct European Union constitution had set Britain on a collision course with Berlin, “and most of the EU’s 27 member states.”

Wasn’t Britain the odd one out, I asked?

Alice demurred, less than thrilled at the prospect of sharing a common economy with an overheated, overly familiar Frog, let alone start dating a Hun and dye her arm pits as well. “And, at any rate,” she said, “God does not approve of foreigners.“

I’m sceptical of this.

Some things simply don't translate well into English. Foreign interference, foreign government, foreign relations, are all hauled into the pillory. The element of humility is missing from Britain’s protestations, however. Truth to tell, they’re murdering one of mankind’s greatest dreams. The dream of Human Brotherhood. Reasoning from a rather jaundiced post-Empire perspective, there is no notion of the common weal so heartily embraced for over three centuries. No suggestion of national sacrifice. The doctrines of moral and social progress have buckled and bowed. Once pioneers in the use of the stick and the carrot - or a “a good thrashing first and great kindness afterwards” - over time, the imperial dream morphed into a multicultural nightmare. The converted native has come home to roost. While Magna Carta has degenerated into a series of Hate Laws and “protective“ legislation, the Mother of Parliaments is tainted in her own blood by a cumulative inheritance of nepotism and corruption, which in her indigenous population has taken the form of drunkenness and delinquency.

This is Great Britain’s apotheosis - Albion is decomposing!

Having prematurely delivered her African dominions to the machete, even Scotland has begun to tire of the benefits of the Act of Union. Looking like something from an old history book, Britannia has become divided against herself, even dysfunctional, stripped of virtually every territory, a melancholy spinster weary of her suitors, badly governed, atrociously taxed, caked in multicultural make-up and massively spied upon, her post-imperial depression has been compounded by a deepening sense of what the Conventions of the European Union have done to her former moral authority in world affairs.

But, trust me on this, the people never come of age.

With the general public's unerring capacity for getting it wrong, they represent number, mass, the limitless amorphous. Nor does the pivot of history turn upon public processes of majority decision-making, but upon the effective exercise of responsible authority and independent judgement. But there’s John Bull, hiding in his garden shed, the first refuge of the thwarted egomaniac. He will rather die in poverty and misery, as all self-centred people do, then surrender to the common weal. Once the arbiter of nations and the defender of the liberties of Europe, it is hard to see him as anything other now than a backwood little Englander with a chip on his shoulder, an irreconcilable opponent.

Poor Britannia, neither by the grace of God nor the consent of the people, but by a sort of conjuring trick, she is trying to accomplish the hardest thing on earth, international assimilation - for England will never be England again, or we are both mistaken...



Dreamy

The Richard Madeley Appreciation Society Book Club Memorandum

Richard Madeley: “There’s much that terrorises me in a bookshop....Then there are the books by misfits who hardly deserve to be described as ‘a human being’, let alone deserve book contracts. Drug dealers, ex-mafia hard men, corporate swindlers, porn stars, Delilah Smith: they’re all there, demanding our money with menaces...”

Nor, Richard, do I entertain the least apprehension that literary agents are not playing a major, perhaps the principal, role in the dumbing down of our urban, cosmopolitan society. In New York some of the big noises are well enough known even to the public at large, others retain an almost icon-like status among the cognoscenti and are content to have their reputation restricted to being zeitgeist-gurus with a taste for human testicles. The biggest bunch of prima donnas in the universe, they have been called other things, less endearing, by coarse persons who do not comprehend the influence of bad writing on an agent’s heart and blood pressure. Alright already, an awful manuscript is a dire meal to consume in the middle of a hot day. My heart bleeds. But a fundamental question of principle is here at stake: what latitude should be allowed to the purveyors of our cultural heritage in the exercise of their Imperium at a time of unprecedented, indeed, uncontainable supply?

The problem, of course, is largely attributable to the pressure of agents to attract the attention of acquisition editors and fashionable magazines. For many years now, the realm of letters has lain under the editor’s shadow, unable to take an independent line. There is a predatory audience out there, hungry for every and any kind of perversity, the more bizarre the better. Perversity has become big business, a major determinant of market value. It may not be the will of God, but it’s a stimulant. Soma for philistines, a big, bad comfort toy, a daybreak primer, an instant energizer, bestowing euphoria and excitement. And don’t imagine that I am going soft on agents (never suck the venom from a bite!) The crafty blighters will probably claim that this is just a frame-up between Richard Madeley and Selena Dreamy. But insofar as I might suggest that an army of agents is masquerading as a cultural experience, part fiction, part reality series, which generates a potentially self-perpetuating industry from your failure to succeed, the agent in our time, far from being a far-reaching intellect, well read in the world’s literature, not only frequently lacks a credible background, but is often totally devoid of empathy. Empathy is not likely to exercise the trend-spotters, who have teenage delinquents for clients, drug-abusers, self-mutilators, bulimia sufferers, self-confessed serial killers, Long Island anorexics in search of designer shoes, vestal virgins who’ve never been tried for unchastity and near-impeached Prime Ministers who’ve been acquitted by the people. These are the authors from hell, because blank-eyed hollowness is the safest promotional bet - along with film and television scripts not written by people but by sponsored automatons. The publishing industry may be struggling to break out of a handful of established genres that dominate the sales, but no one appears to be in charge. Nor could any compliance look less like an assertion of free will. I know, because I am one of the compliants. I’m as bad as they come (a state of affairs for which I refuse to apologize). But I also know that the last days of the declining West have degenerated into a theory of the absurd, with the province of letters (the intellectual legacy of an entire culture) in the hands of mediocrities in positions of absolute power.

So ask yourselves this: Has the last word been said?

Is all hope gone? Is the urban decline of the West irreversible? Take it from me, low moral is the most debilitating of battlefield diseases, but no one has terminal writer’s block. The creative mind is forever finding new rules by breaking old ones. Nor would I have it appear that I undervalue great writing. Far from it. But it is not going to solve the riddle of the modern Sphinx. Nor do I get the sense that the world is rushing to regenerate itself. The whole, on the contrary, of this revolving order of things carries with it a premonition of dissipation, decline and death. Suicide by asphyxiation. Open and shut. And frankly, I am not going to be sorry to see that happen. Let’s face it folks, death is the first condition of renewal. Nor could I bear to be a renegade, suffering the agonies of the damned, if a writer were not also a seer, and the redeemer of that which must come. Which doesn’t exactly add up to a coherent philosophy, but what the heck! Not all pole-dancers are deferential...

Dreamy

THE F-WORD: "Go take a flying fuck at a duck...!!"

This particular expression was still unusual, if not unprecedented, in the speech of cultured people a the time of my own education. Nor do I feel any inducement to impress my background. But, as I explained quite recently, I have been fortunate in having received some very exacting lessons in semantic deportment at a well-known convent school in Roehampton. Indeed, it is one of the major satisfactions of my adult life that I survived a girl’s boarding school education without acquiring anything so tedious as academic qualifications. So when I met a number of academic punters at the Spearmint Rhino - equally illiterate - who treated me to that particular expression, it was cool and exhilarating. Frankly, I couldn't have been more flattered or charmed. All I knew up to that point was that contemporary semantics favoured the masterpieces of genital or pro-coital art, and that they were never intended as a compliment. Nor did I have any idea how to take a flying fuck at anything, this rather being a man’s thing, but I felt it was exactly what I had been waiting absolutely years to say. Truth to tell, if I put the hundredth part of the energy that I have put into repressing it, into unleashing it, I may never have remained a virgin.

I might have been an indolent academic, or a female footballer instead, a ladette, perhaps, of uncertain gender extraction, or a TV chef...

Time was when forbearance was the code of behaviour that had come to be seen as appropriate to the educated classes. Today, socially, there is never a moment when there is more cachet to being a common man, a yob, a chav, a slacker with a cauliflower for a brain, or just another demented asshole...

So the art of swearing has taken on a new and exhilarating significance in modern society. There is nothing equivocal or evasive about it. It is punk condensed, leaving nothing wanting in the way of force and vigour. It is a practice that high society has taken to its heart. It is an insult that has inverted its import, elevating the detested academic, the man of letters, the poet laureate, to the desired status of the common man. It therefore has an absolutely extraordinary sense of entitlement. It is Man Booker Prize semantics, the dumming down of the average. A repellent jargon, every syllable of which implies a world of brutal idiocy, it nevertheless corrupts and depraves men like no alcohol or narcotics. For among the casualties of this campaign to abolish semantic excellence have foremost been the British educated classes. In fact, this may well be the clue you've been waiting for, the key to what determined our collective character, what inspired contemporary society to have the ideals that it has, divided perhaps between exigencies that are in opposition to our noble humanity, and a humanity that is in opposition to our ignoble needs!

Go take a flying fuck at a duck...

Indeed!

Dreamy

SLEEPING WITH PIGS...

Bryan Appleyard: “I wouldn't have noticed it before, but, after
the extravagant politeness of America, it came as a shock. The British used to
mock the 'have a nice day' culture as false and, somehow, corrupt. But it's a
thousand times better than our own surly sub-culture and, anyway, if
professionalisation and training produce good manners, what's wrong with that?
And it's not cynical and skin-deep. Some of the most interesting conversations I
had in the US were with waiters and shop assistants. Here I wouldn't bother. We
have, as I wrote on my return, a problem, a dimming of our imaginations, a
closing of our minds....”

Thus Bryan, commiserating the dimming of this nation. And I am perfectly of his opinion concerning “our surly sub-culture,” which, though extremely fashionable at present, I think altogether uncivilised. For here’s a photograph I’ve taken of my local cycling-path. It flawlessly conveys the aspiration and unadulterated behaviour of the English pig in his own backyard.

The countryside is his scrapyard. And pardon my hubris - but can people be so abysmally pigheaded and still claim the status of a civilised nation? Where you and I are enraptured by the view of sweeping meadows, the lark ascending, and the tolling of bells marking out the glorious Hertfordshire morning, that don't mean shit to a navvy, mate. The age of poetry is gone. This is the age of the common man, and every day brings some sort of reminder that we are living under the dominion of a sub-culture that I, for one, truly do not understand.

How on earth did it happen that evolution passed him by?

For that he’s still living and breathing absolutely astonishes me. Perhaps if there is a moral origin to this problem it can be found in what Disraeli referred to as the Two Nations, an important feature of which was class selfishness and the domination of the landed interests before those of the common man. For in all this, one can detect not just the gratuitous scorn of the resilient, recalcitrant navvy, but also the suppressed rage and resentment of the oppressed “workhouse boy“, cripplingly conscious of his own ignoble origins - and regarded as the poorest of the poor, as savages who slept with their pigs. In truth, we only have to think of the brutality of the factory system, the high mortality amongst child-workers, the exploitation of the labour of women, the overcrowded industrial towns, dark and poorly ventilated coalmines, low wages and long hours to understand that the English worker, to this day, will come with an attitude. He’ll carry his grudge like a battlescar - livid with a strong sense of “them” and “us,” born out of centuries of poverty and exploitation. The fact of the matter is, that the England of Celts, Frisians, Saxons, Angles and mixed bands of other invaders, has never recovered from the Norman yoke which taught the lower orders to be ashamed of their roots and who, even in our time, still display a traditional sense of grievance against the ruling establishment.

Today, of course, you’re also dealing with a large welfare-class. Your contemporary peasants will be a mixture of unemployed loafers, dysfunctional families, and genetic throwbacks who regard all foreigners with ill-concealed loathing. Truth to tell, there is something undeniably retro about the statistical fact that one in five males in this country at the very least, shows potentially psychopathic tendencies, and that mental health problems cost Britain more than £40 billion a year in treatment and lost days at work.

It’s no secret.

It harks back to the days of Wellington and Waterloo, when Anglo-Saxon warrior mystique was constructed in colloquial concoctions of ‘scum of the earth’. The scumbag has a very big heart and that bulldog tenacity which makes him totally unafraid. And history has enhanced his reputation. There is, on the other hand, a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Indeed, it strikes me as a profoundly poignant incongruity that, once the material of Empire and the arbiter of nations, now dumbed down into a consumer culture with no direction or ideals left, there appears to be an entire class of people whose historical objective has been reduced to getting habitually drunk, fouling up the countryside, and beating the crap out of each other...

Dreamy

BACK IN POLE POSITION...

"Max Mosley is to remain in office as president of the
FIA after comfortably winning today’s vote of confidence in Paris. Following a
two-hour discussion, during which frank views were exchanged regarding the
68-year-old, Mosley was understood to be delighted after the result was
announced at the FIA headquarters."

Encouraged by suggestions that bodies such as the FIA are increasingly less inclined to discriminate against working girls, I telephoned Dr Max von Moseley - henceforth to be known in this confessions as "Spanky" - at his office to arrange for an interview.

“I don‘t do interviews,” Spanky said sullenly. There is nothing to tell."

What about the Nazi insignia? I demanded to know.

“That scenario,” he said, was “pure fantasy. But I love it when a woman touches herself...”

“Ok,” I said, shifting a hand up my crotch, “lets run with that...“ And owing to the fact that such proclivities seem, in my own experience, to be applicable quite generally to male behaviour, did I need any more evidence that this man was, to say the least, a totally regular?

"Come to my dungeon,“ I purred. “I haff vays and meens off making you talk...”

“I can't,“ he huffed. “You may be wired!“'

“You may frisk me.” I said amiably. I could afford to be generous, I was going to charge him by the hour.
Spanky needed no further encouragement!

A mere 15 minutes later, outside a Gentlemen’s lavatory, I might have been back walking the streets. And Spanky stood there as if he was about to salute, bloodied but essentially unbowed. He was also, I was about to find out, inordinately partial to German.

‘Es lebe das heilige Vaterland!’ he said, casting apprehensive, inquisitive glances all around, ‘Der Sieg wird unser sein!’
But when I formally put it to him that the FIA had reasonable grounds for suspecting that he was, or might be, a person who facilitated the commission of acts of lewd perversion, Spanky’s chilling reply came to the effect that all human beings were hypocrites. “Look, I'm not asking for exoneration - I just don't see why I should get any less out of being beaten up than some schmuck like Bernie Ecclestone.”

“A regular henpecked saint!” I threw in.

“Nothing less than first cousin to an ape,” Spanky replied.

“The pursuit of happiness is contained in primary legislation and the FIA have no powers to vary its provision,“ he then suggested, adding perilously, “proving that the wronged party has a reputation that can be damaged is an important part of any libel action.”

I volunteered no advice.

But he would continue to reject the claim of particular individuals that, in accordance with protocol, the working girls had been awarded the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds. It was the Führer they admired - drawn by some mysterious need of their own - only the Führer, and not some functionary of the FIA or lesser motoring association.

“I think the forthcoming trial offers the best opportunity to clear that up.” I suggested.

Spanky was dismissive. “Every man has a basic right to fight in defence of his own happiness.“

You and I, of course, would assume that the working ladies who were present that night, were just assisting him in the pursuit of his happiness, but the News of the World remembers that they had doubtful political convictions in these matters. And while I'm still iffy about duplicitous hypocrites, and definitely a convert to freedom of sexual expression, I defer to no one in my contempt and suspicion of anyone condoning clandestine stings!

Trust me on this. We can't have a situation where some individuals are given positions they're just no qualified to hold - as in our national government - while those who are eminently qualified are not allowed to have a private life - that's totally out of order...!

Dreamy

DEATHWISH...

In Africa they starve their children,
In China they dump them,
In Brazil they shoot them,
In the UK they stab them...

The full extent of Britain’s violent crime epidemic, to date claiming the lives of some 40 teenagers - including that of Sophie Lancaster, kicked to death by a pack of feral, pubescent mutants - was brought home again, when a 15-year-old schoolgirl from south London described how no fewer than seven of her friends and relatives had been murdered in the past two years.

Meanwhile, of course, we have the collective contagion of an entire country with a virus that causes its children to treat each other like feral strays; or, to put it differently, the freeing and revitalisation of precisely those atavistic instincts whose control and humanisation has been the work of some ten millennia of domestication.

Insofar as we are the product of a system of thought control so constraining that our personal compliance appears to proceed, not from our own free choice, but from this very era of “freedom” with its inflationary consequences, the question of guilt is of course beside the point. But one is justifiably apprehensive about the subversive psychological effects of years of relentless and unceasing agitation for the freedom of a permissive moral idealism as a recognizable social creed: The unflustered, cynical imagination, the nihilistic pleasure in freedom for its own sake, and the violence that has become an end in itself. As a matter of fact if freedom of any kind is anything to go by, society has a regrettable tendency to deceive itself about what is a personal indulgence and what a collective aberration.

What is indeed bizarre about it is that between constraining and being constrained it has caught men in the grip of an invisible rage and entangled them in some decidedly psychotic forces, unimpeded by any law. Forces which, almost like something alien, something not human, makes men strive compulsively and determinedly towards paranoid and deadly self-destruction. Nor are we perhaps sufficiently alert to the fact that the conventional sociology of crime is unlikely to settle the ambiguities surrounding what has meanwhile developed into the gravest forensic crisis the world has experienced, combining, as it does, martial with homicidal impulses and taking the whole subject out of the strictly criminological frame of reference by placing it into a psychologically different category, making it ominous, alien and universal: a most unpropitious preliminary for a homicidal process of “contraceptive” Malthusian attrition.

And so the pressure builds. History's biggest bloodbath is in the making!

For the ultimate cause of the conditions under which violence seems inevitable is demographic congestion. Everything takes place under a form of stress. Great rents in normality are appearing everywhere. And while there may never have been a bleaker rendition of the orderly governance of murder than that witnessed by the first half of the twentieth century, probably at no time in the history of man have so many alien communities been so bent on plans of mutual annihilation, mass deportations, civil repression and ethnic cleansings as in the opening years of the twenty-first. Indeed, it is altogether impossible to assess what this century might still be capable of in its moral, psychotic and ecological derangement. Its history has yet to be written...

Dreamy