TALES OF GENIUS WHITE MEN: 1) BEAU BRUMMELL – INVENTOR OF THE SUIT AND TIE

TALES OF GENIUS WHITE MEN: 1) BEAU BRUMMELL – INVENTOR OF THE SUIT AND TIE

If you’re a typical gentleman of the Caucasian persuasion you may have on occasion donned a suit and necktie and admired yourself in the mirror.

At some point in this extended period of self-gazing, your thoughts may have drifted from contemplating your own reflection to wondering whereabouts the men’s suit came from and asking what of its history? Was it a look collectively arrived at, or was there a little-known fashionista who matched this with that and by doing so split the fabric-atom of menswear and ta-ra, the modern suit was born!?

Indeed there was, and contrary to what you may be thinking, he was not of African origin. As surprising as it may seem it was a White man who gave us the suit and tie.
Beau Brummell was a visionary. He was a stylish cad who charmed London society while sponging off the Prince of Wales. Although not exactly a role model, he was undeniably typical of his time, and his story, if nothing else, is beaut.

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These were virtually unknown in England until Brummell made them popular

Young Beau fit right in among the gentry from the get-go. In the late 1700s, his father — a politician and Lord’s secretary — packed him and his brother off to Eton where he hobnobbed with the aristocracy. From early on he began to concern himself with fine-dress, elegant manners and refining his natural wit. In fact, the famed cravat worn by the Eton elite was given a natty upgrade after the precocious young Beau added a gold buckle to it. This amounted to a mini cultural revolution at the esteemed college.

When his old man croaked, the inheritance he bequeathed young Beau made the dashing young squid wealthy indeed.

Cutting from Oxford after just one term, despite showing great promise, Beau requested and received a commission in the 10th Light Dragoons. There, in the Prince of Wales’ own regiment, he rose to lieutenant after joining as a lowly cornet. The Hussars were by all accounts a pack of boozing tearaways with a reputation for debauchery. They did, however, look grouse in their spiffy uniforms.

When his old man croaked, the inheritance he bequeathed young Beau made the dashing young squid wealthy indeed.

This is where young Beau began to demonstrate his considerable flair for scrubbing up shmick. It was a hard act, what’s more, considering that an officer had to fork out for his own mount, mess bills, and uniforms. The Hussars uniforms changed with expensive regularity and the mess bills were astronomical since the regiment insisted upon the best victuals and finest grog known to humanity. These dinners came to resemble sumptuous orgies.

Admired by all, Beau cut such a dapper figure and possessed such swagger, that he was granted a license to act as he pleased. Consequently, he shirked his duties, failed to make parade, and skived off — all-be-it with a paramount of style. There was little left to do but promote him. Much to the consternation of those with more soldierly leanings, Beau was elevated to the rank of captain.

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We here at UNA have the utmost respect for cads

During his time with the Dragoons, the young Beau had ingratiated himself with the Prince of Wales after toadying his way into the royal inner circle. Brummell got so close to the Prince that in 1795 he supported him at his wedding to Princess Caroline. Later, the Princess would blame Brummell and his friends for getting pissed and spoiling the reception with bawdy antics like upchucking behind curtains and flashing the bridesmaids.

Now a captain, when Beau’s regiment was transferred from London to Manchester he said, “Sod it”. Being stationed to Manchester would have been too much like exile so he quit his commission and set his sights on London society.

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James Purefoy played Brummell in the 2006 BBC movie This Charming Man. Hugh Bonneville played the witless Prince of Wales

It was there that his charm became his saving grace because it was the only currency he ever managed to save; the monetary variety slipped through his fingers like flour through a sieve. He estimated his addiction to buying clothes ran at around what would now be near enough to $200,000 a year. To maintain this extravagant habit, for a time anyway, he forewent the gambling and whoring that was the irresistible evening activities of the times. But his adventurous tailoring was turning heads and creating a stir especially among his tailors who he went to equally creative measures to avoid paying. Nevertheless, the garish powdered wigs of the 17th century were still in vogue, as were breeches and stockings. Along with the forerunner of what is now the standard gentleman’s suit, the snazzy courtier had perfected a unique necktie.

During his time with the Dragoons, the young Beau had ingratiated himself with the Prince of Wales after toadying his way into the royal inner circle. Brummell got so close to the Prince that in 1795 he supported him at his wedding to Princess Caroline. Later, the Princess would blame Brummell and his friends for getting pissed and spoiling the reception with bawdy antics like upchucking behind curtains and flashing the bridesmaids.

Today wigs and stockings are très homo, but in those days the conventions that Beau was brazenly flouting in favour of his bespoke full-length trousers and long tailored coats outraged many for their dandyish chic. Dressing as a bloke does today in a smoothly cut suit back then was the equivalent of prancing around like a poof on heat strangely enough despite dispensing with the pancake makeup and girly wigs, which were considered manly. Go figure.

However, society became enthralled with Brummell’s sartorial eccentricities. Even after leaving the 10th Light Dragoons, Beau kept sweet with the Prince of Wales, and in fact, was at the peak of his popularity with the slug-witted son of mad King George. In fact, his prized position at the Prince’s side proved useful in keeping his tiresome creditors at bay. He had long since burned through the fine fortune his father had left him.

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Dressing well is all part of the rich experience of being a White man

Beau was a wizard of garbs: coordinating colours with the gimlet eye of Michelangelo sizing up a canvas and partnering articles of clothing as though a cupid pairing lovers or a great chef creating a tantalising dish from unlikely ingredients.

Brummell claimed it took him five hours to dress in the morning. So fascinated with the ritual of putting on one’s day wear was the Prince, who had all the dress sense of a wedge of cheese, that he would spend hours at Beau’s Mayfair home studying him as he went through each stage of harmonising his wardrobe.

Before long, the whole upper stratum of London society was knocking at Beau’s door in the morning eager to observe Brummell in the routine of his toilette. They would literally watch spellbound as Beau pulled on his trousers one leg at a time until kitted out in his finery hours later he knotted his tie and fastened it with a dazzling pin. They might have been students of medicine observing a surgeon performing an operation. But the haughty Pom gents, despite the status of their class, had to learn how to brush their teeth by studying Brummell. It seems he was also pioneering personal hygiene in such innovative areas as taking a daily bath.

Brummell was thus drawn hammer-and-tongs into the Prince’s court and from there into the company of notorious libertine Lord Byron of whom the Prince did not at all approve. This coterie of gentlemen all dressed as Brummell did and the Watier’s Club, to which they all belonged, was dubbed “the Dandy club” by Byron. Having once avoided gambling, Beau was now racking up debts he had no hope of covering.

However, society became enthralled with Brummell’s sartorial eccentricities. Even after leaving the 10th Light Dragoons, Beau kept sweet with the Prince of Wales, and in fact, was at the peak of his popularity with the slug-witted son of mad King George. In fact, his prized position at the Prince’s side proved useful in keeping his tiresome creditors at bay. He had long since burned through the fine fortune his father had left him.

Beau’s success as often is the way with things heralded the beginning of his downfall. Already privately piqued that his upstart guest was more popular in society than himself, the Prince took exception to Brummell’s flowering friendship with Lord Byron. The Prince explicitly warned Beau to avoid his company and when he failed to do so the Prince publicly “cut” him. This resulted in Beau making an unfortunate quip that compounded the problem when upon their entrance and cognizant of the slight he asked the Prince’s guest “Alvanley, who is your fat friend?”

Thus far, Brummell had managed to survive despite penury on the basis of the line of credit afforded by his social status. When the Prince snubbed him, the fabric of Beau’s delicately woven society came unwoven. In debt to his fellow Dandies, Beau was booted out of the Watier’s club and he came a cropper. Skipping to France to avoid his creditors, Brummell died stricken with syphilis aged 61 at a French nuthouse.

Nonetheless, despite making a dog’s breakfast of his life, Brummell is remembered as the man who gave us the suit and tie. A statue was dedicated to him at London’s Jermyn Street in 2002. We thus raise our glasses to him. Only ours are filled with mineral water because we don’t want to end up like he did.

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The Jermyn Street tribute to the man of style

 

CELEBRATING AUSTRALIA DAY IS AN ACT OF DEFIANCE

CELEBRATING AUSTRALIA DAY IS AN ACT OF DEFIANCE

Today, really, is not a day for politics — it is a day for celebrating; a day to drink and get merry without coward-punching anyone. What are we celebrating, asks the cucked uni kid in the corner with the Abo flag on his shirt?

We are celebrating our diversity as a people; our rich tradition of multiculturalism which is an example to the rest of the world of how different peoples from diverse ethnic backgrounds and religions can exist in harmony together like all the colours of the rainbow.
We are celebrating the fact that anyone can come here at any time and instantly become an Australian by dint of just standing on our sovereign soil and expressing a liking for Aussie Rules football. You can be as brown as what gets flushed down the crapper; as black as a charcoaled tree stump; as yellow as the pee that flows after too many flutes of Yellowglen; or even White. But not so much White. Nah. Fuck that. That ain’t what it’s all about, chief.
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Arthur Calwell, a TRUE Australian
We are celebrating the beginning of a nation, but more especially, the birth of a unique people. Somewhere between Europeans and settlers Australians evolved; born of the land; born not to sink shivering into the Atlantic briny like lost cargo from the East India Company, but to dive cockily into the foaming surf of Oceania while showing off to your sheila who waits ready with the towel and Chico Roll.
We were born to a dusty, rugged environment, which offers both danger and sustenance; hardship and leisure. We have bulk wildlife that will kill the bungers out of you twice before leaving you for dead; while others, like Koala bears, are cute-as, but pong a bit. We have birds that screech worse than an angry missus on the rag, and which glide gracefully from the branches. Personal faves are Kookaburras and Rosellas.

We are celebrating the beginning of a nation, but more especially, the birth of a unique people. Somewhere between Europeans and settlers Australians evolved; born of the land; born not to sink shivering into the Atlantic briny like lost cargo from the East India Company, but to dive cockily into the foaming surf of Oceania while showing off to your sheila who waits ready with the towel and Chico Roll.

These days, however, we are celebrating Australia Day because if we don’t they will replace it with First Peoples Day or some shit.
We celebrate Australia Day like Catholics celebrated mass under the reformation — risking having the Protestants of Progressiveness bust down our door and drag us off to the dungeon for possessing an Aussie flag and a copy of Sherbet’s Greatest Hits on a USB drive.
We celebrate Australia Day because either they are trying to take it away, like the Communist Greens’ Fremantle mayor, Brad Pettit; or they are making it all about every cunt who isn’t White and wasn’t born here; like the makers of that crap Lamb ad and whoever does the selections for the Australian of the Year awards.
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A true Aussie just gets it. Or maybe they don’t, we’re just fucking around
We will get to the Australian of the Year later, but while we’re on about the war on Australia Day, we have to make mention of the Left Wing grubs and the Abos from the “Decolonise” movement.
Australia Day, to them, is Invasion Day and EVERYONE on the Left spectrum of politics joins in making out like celebrating Australia Day is the equivalent of slavery.
We shall assume, on one level, that the cry to Decolonise, is not meant to be taken literally but signifies a sort of secessionist deal where Abos who don’t like it fuck off and stop claiming the dole. Also, they never ever try to use a Medicare card or put themselves through university on the taxpayers’ tit. They just go and do whatever the hell it is they think they’re going to do.
But then again, let’s take them literally and just spend two seconds peeling apart the utter fantasy at the heart of that sentiment.

We celebrate Australia Day like Catholics celebrated mass under the reformation — risking having the Protestants of Progressiveness bust down our door and drag us off to the dungeon for possessing an Aussie flag and a copy of Sherbet’s Greatest Hits on a USB drive.

Seriously, how the fuck are you going to “decolonise” Australia you stupid bastards? That’s a bit like asking for the sky to turn yellow. Even if certain cucked types wanted to go peacefully and leave Aboriginals with everything — and judging by the performers at this year’s Australian of the Year awards there is plenty of them — what makes you think the Chinese who’ve bought up great swathes of this Southern Land are going to bend the knee and scuttle back to China while whispering, “So solly”?
The “Decolonise” movement is nothing but a whingeing valve for professional malcontents that want an excuse to have a problem with everything and somehow in the age of appeasement that hopefully, the election of Donald Trump will sort out they are being indulged. These whingers have a problem with achievement, in that they are incapable of it. They want to tear down because they cannot build. It is far more profitable for them to be a critic than to be an artist: heaps easier too.
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Funny how Abo activists are never actually Abos
So, celebrating Australia Day is also about sticking it to those hypocritical flag-burning fuckwits who’ll happily take whatever handouts the government loads them with on the taxpayers’ quid; whatever health care and free publicity for their belly aching; but won’t do the decent thing and shut the fuck up for just 24 hours in one year.
But once you brush aside the freaks on the fringe and get down to brass tacks our real reason for celebrating Australia Day is to keep it Australian while the government does everything in its power to push real Australians out of contextual relevance.
You don’t even have to be born in Australia to be Australian of the Year. This year’s NSW Australian of the Year is a Sudanese former child soldier who somehow made it through law school. He has a real sob story and he was “forced” to do it, y’all. But the great Australian dream came true for him at least, never mind any actual Australians, and now he is an inspiration for all those little Sudanese who want to grow up and be famous for being Sudanese too.

So, celebrating Australia Day is also about sticking it to those hypocritical flag-burning fuckwits who’ll happily take whatever handouts the government loads them with on the taxpayers’ quid; whatever health care and free publicity for their belly aching; but won’t do the decent thing and just shut the fuck up for just 24 hours in one year.

But let’s not forget that he is a brainy lawyer. Ho ho. Shrewd, more like. While every other Sudanese is doing car-jackings, home invasions, armed robberies and sexual assaults ‘Deng Adut’ has become a lawyer probably in the knowledge that with his community growing ever so steadily he’ll never go broke practising law.
The media love this skinny ex-child soldier who raped and killed god-knows-how-many. He provides the ultimate globalist narrative which they impose upon Australia Day.
Well, excuse us, but we would’ve thought that Australian of the Year should be an award that goes to an actual Australian and not some dodgy African ambulance chaser.
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Deng Adut, the fully Aussie NSW Australian of the Year with the pimp hat
There is nothing even grounded in Australianness about him anyway — despite the honoured title he is still all about his tribal African people.
His average day in the media sunshine is spent drumming up charity dollars to go to Africans so they can get a freebie university education while actual Aussies have to take on massive HEX debts. The upside of that is that there must be all of three in the entire country who ever qualify but that isn’t the point.

There is nothing even grounded in Australianness about him anyway — despite the honoured title he is still all about his tribal African people.

Inevitably, one day he’ll be busted with twenty-five kilos of pure Bolivian cocaine but until that day comes the Australian of the Year award is used to smack Aussies on the nose with. There is nothing in it for us. Our Australia Day and THEIR Australia Day are two separate ideas.
If UNA could grant an Australian of the Year award this year we would give it to somebody nobody in the country had heard of. This might be a tuck shop woman or an SES volunteer. It might be a salty old bloke who quietly gets around his community and helps young folk out of jams. It might be a surf lifesaver or an animal welfare volunteer. But it sure as fuck wouldn’t be some blow-in alien or anyone that the establishment has deemed acceptable for public approval.
It would be one of youse — a dead set, true blue, no wukkas, you beaut, dinky di, ridgey didge, here’s-mud-in-your-eye Aussie bloke or sheila.
Happy Australia Day!
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We hope this cunt, and all like him, get wiped out in a World War

ROB SPARROW, MAXIMUM LEADER OF ANTIFASCIST ACTION AUSTRALIA-WIDE

ROB SPARROW, MAXIMUM LEADER OF ANTIFASCIST ACTION AUSTRALIA-WIDE

Professor Rob Sparrow was outed back in 2015 by Whitelaw Towers, although the credit was filched by two others because they happened to be the only source of publishing the material at the time.

Since then Sparrow has squirmed like a skunk with worms. Futile denials have been issued, but we have laughed the hearty guffaw of the merry friar.

The days of “Slacky” playing that “dumb Nutzis outing Andy” game are over. There were some false starts when it came to identifying ‘Andy Fleming’ but finally in 2015 it was a humble reader who happened to listen to Sparrow back-to-back with a segment from ‘Andy Fleming’ on the radio that provided the breakthrough. Their voices are identical, and given the particular inflections of each timbre, it’s an unmistakable match. Anyway, the rest is history, but it is important folks never forget.

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Rob’s earrings are designed to detect racist vibes

Rob Sparrow is an extremist operating within the system and with its blessing. From his little rat’s nest in Melbourne the Monash University Professor controls from behind a computer screen a network of groups and individuals, some of whom are seeking an identity through the cosplay of Anti-Fascism. One of these, a transsexual ‘Evie Amarti’ who has been charged with three counts of attempted murder after going psycho with an axe, was a member of Antifascist Action Sydney and it is no doubt he, she, or it lived for Slackbastard’s every post. Well, that and surfing fetish sites. As you would appreciate, Antifascism is about as relevant to Australia as ski-jackets are to life in Alice Springs, but kids need subculture and Rob is just a pesky dweeb that never grew up.

Rob Sparrow is an extremist operating within the system and with its blessing. From his little rat’s nest in Melbourne the Monash University Professor controls from behind a computer screen a network of groups and individuals, some of whom are seeking an identity through the cosplay of Anti-Fascism.

Rob comes from a family of privileged socialists and radical left-wing dross. His sister, Jill Sparrow, was a founder of Socialist Alternative who once co-authored a book with Rob’s pinko journalist brother Jeff. The book, which was originally written in crayon because the authors were do dusted, is about anarchists and unionists and the kind of human mulch that Rob makes a fetish of being around.

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Rob’s Socialist Alliance sister Jill uses her kid as a human shield at a pro-refugee rally. With a bit of luck, the sprog will grow up to be a Nazi
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Allex Gollan, the Nazi-hunting paedophile school principal, in a Commie T-Shirt.
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This is either Rob’s brother Jeff, or else a mug shot of a football hooligan

Rob was a former friend and colleague of Cam Smith who was a co-founder of Fight Dem Back, a militantly trashy webpage where White posers with dreadlocks posted withering insults about anyone red-pilled to White Genocide. Cam, who underwent a major personality bypass at birth, also did some freelancing at Crikey.

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The only known picture of Cam Smith is when he snuck into a Stormfront Downunder barbie over ten years ago. Looks like a fat cunt

Sympathetic to ‘anti-bogan press’ creator Alex Gollan, Rob’s mate turned out to be heavily into kiddy-fiddling videos. Even though Gollan was caught bang to rights he tried to weasel his pedo way out of trouble by blaming “Nazis” hacking him. Gollan was an assistant principal at a Western Sydney school before being charged with 17 counts of possessing child pornography. This beggars the question of where Slackbastard stands on the pedo question: probably in concert with Salon magazine which wants paedophilia legalised and everyone to adopt a rock spider into their family home.

Rob was a former friend and colleague of Cam Smith who was a co-founder of Fight Dem Back, a militantly trashy webpage where White posers with dreadlocks posted withering insults about anyone red-pilled to White Genocide.

Sparrow delights in inciting others to violence. It was he who used his clout within the militant union movement to convince CFMEU members in Brisbane to disrupt a public event organised by Australia First Party. AFP members, including an elderly man, were later assaulted in a Brissie pub by these thugs after the march. The charges were predictably dropped and the grubs wriggled free. Sparrow practically ejaculated into his bondage trousers.

Likewise, whenever Melbourne patriots organise a shindig, Rob is right onto it like a Rabbi onto a foreskin, whipping up whatever zit-faced crack-smokers he can reach to disrupt the events.

Rob is not even a proper anarchist, which his entire ‘Slackbastard’ page is built around, as he pushes so much left-wing politics. He even admitted once to somebody posting a comment on his page that hardly any true anarchists visit his page.

We are not sure, but the Sparrow family might be Jewish.

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THE WAR IS OVER, WE MUST END THE WAR

THE WAR IS OVER, WE MUST END THE WAR

Australian Nationalists, on principle, are opposed to war, it is a consistent and long-held conviction that imperialism and globalist inspired military adventures run counter to everything we stand for.

The topic of this post, however, is not the tragic mess in west Asia currently unfolding before our eyes, we would like to propose an end to the other war, the second world war.

It is for us, the moderns, to declare that the post-war era is now at an end, that as those days pass from living memory we need not discuss the ghastly conflagrations of the 1940’s as anything but distant, historical events.

It may seem odd that we would broach such a topic, the peace was declared in late 1945, the aggressors and perpetrators of war crimes were arrested and dealt with and the societies of Germany and Japan forcibly turned into client states of the Anglo-American bloc.

The topic of this post, however, is not the tragic mess in west Asia currently unfolding before our eyes, we would like to propose an end to the other war, the second world war.

For some paranoid cliques, however, the war never ended. Fascists or Bolsheviks are said to lurk in every shadowed corner, depending on which side of the second war these enthusiasts are intent on perpetuating.

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And now for a completely gratuitous screengrab from The Simpsons just to fit our motif

Every snarky, racially charged, or just plain ignorant comment which appears on the internet is supposedly a step back down the road to Auschwitz; while the crimes of Stalin and his henchmen are laid at the feet of every loudmouthed undergraduate communist.

We could understand the emergence of neo-Fascist and corresponding anti-Fascist gangs among the children of veterans, persecuted post-war migrants and those left destitute by the war; these baby boomers would have been indirectly affected by the experiences of their parents and we could say that they might feel strongly about the issues which led to that global disaster.

It is ridiculous in the extreme, however, for lads and lasses several generations removed from the wartime experiences of “the greatest generation” to carry on the fight as if they had some direct connection to the world of their great grandparents.

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We just mentioned the war, but we think we got away with it

This insistence on reaching out, through space and time like some character from the fiction of H.G Wells, to grasp the banners of long dead movements and the politics of wholly alien peoples is pointless and frankly indicative of a society bereft of real political ideals.

Mainstream politics is no longer really political in the strict sense of the word; it is more akin to a set of personal principles picked from a catalogue of half-formed ideas; there are no notable schools of thought, political clubs, effective trade unions or even real demagogues.

It is ridiculous in the extreme, however, for lads and lasses several generations removed from the wartime experiences of “the greatest generation” to carry on the fight as if they had some direct connection to the world of their great grandparents.

It is no wonder then that young people would be drawn to the styles and rhetoric of long-dead thinkers and motivators of the masses; the bland politics of Canberra, Washington and Westminster surely does nothing to inspire the children of the White working class.

At the root of this is a defiance of nature; a rebellion against the real world and a blatant shirking of civic duty as more and more people retreat into the fantasy role-playing and safe spaces of this degenerate, post-political milieu.

Of course, it is much easier to pose as a neo-Anarchist or a pseudo-Blackshirt than it is to form a political club, become active in a union or gather a school of thought around a set of ideas; much safer to stay indoors and post-ironic memes, snipe at others from one’s safe space or play act some obscurantist Falange vs P.O.U.M melodrama.

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The greatest killer of WW2 smoked a pipe and drank bulk vodka

To the Nationalist, history has only a forward momentum, the lessons of the 1940’s were for those generations to learn and learn them they did; the world of today is one largely voted into existence by the men who fought so that their descendants would never see such a catastrophe again.

Of course, it is much easier to pose as a neo-Anarchist or a pseudo-Blackshirt than it is to form a political club, become active in a union or gather a school of thought around a set of ideas; much safer to stay indoors and post-ironic memes, snipe at others from one’s safe space or play act some obscurantist Falange vs P.O.U.M melodrama.

When we urge our reader to abandon the post-war mentality, to draw a line under the era of recriminations, guilt and the spectres of trauma and hardship, we give him further permission to rebel against the globalist order, for that order has deep roots in the post-war era.

All of the professed ideals of the globalist castes refer in some way to the tribulations of the mid-20th century; the justifications for mass movements of indigent third world peons, the supremacy of liberalism, the outrage over any expression of ethnic solidarity or national feeling by European-descended peoples, all of this negativity is fuelled by a post-war mindset.

Stop playing the globalist game, end the war, the people who had the knowhow to truly re-enact that era are now mostly dead or senile.

Us moderns have to face up to the reality that our struggle is to break free and overthrow the now degenerate post-war social order and replace it with something enduring, stable, and geared to the posterity of our people.

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Lest we forget Private Baldrick…

EUROPEAN PRELUDE TO THE AUSTRALIAN IDENTITY

EUROPEAN PRELUDE TO THE AUSTRALIAN IDENTITY

Racial Identity, what is metaphysically referred to as Blood-Memory, is the progenitor and single most important point of the ethnic tribal group, around which all other aggregates of culture form.

On the most primal level, the tribal group attaches itself to the land on which its sustenance is guaranteed, on which its people may grow. Once a people prosper, expansion naturally follows suit; new lands are scouted, taken and tamed.

On the tribal level, these lands eventually lose their arbitrary status as purely geographic conveniences and become the transcendental scenery of an entire mythos: sacred and yet still workable to the machinations of civilization. In the opening lines of Theogony, Hesiod invokes the Muses of Helicon; that is, of Mount Helicon in Boeotia.

On the most primal level, the tribal group attaches itself to the land on which its sustenance is guaranteed, on which its people may grow. Once a people prosper, expansion naturally follows suit; new lands are scouted, taken and tamed.

This is no mere mountain, but a transit which relates the divinity of the gods to the Hellenic Spirit. In a less poetic explanation, we see then a people using a religion superimposed on the land to assert authority, nativity and therefore ownership; a symbiotic relation with nature that develops the character.

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That Ancient Greece, up until Alexander and the Hellenistic period, never saw a ‘nation-state’ as we know of today only emphasizes the intrinsic power of the ethnic tribal identity. Homer recounted the invading forces of Agamemnon not as a disparate people but rather as Achaeans, Argives, and Dardanians: all synonymic for Greek. This was a Panhellenic realization.

In the vast expanse of Europe’s timeline, every people can be found to have their own racial identity, and despite that its outward manifestation in the form of the polity can be considered temporal – liable to any form of change, great or terrible – it is in the living tapestry of the Blood-Memory that the deeds of the past remain tangible and unchanging: how else could Rome still own the title la città eterna, The Eternal City?

That Ancient Greece, up until Alexander and the Hellenistic period, never saw a ‘nation-state’ as we know of today only emphasizes the intrinsic power of the ethnic tribal identity.

In the emergent Identitarian politics of Europe and the Alt-Right in America, we in Australia must ask ourselves: where do we stand? We arrive at an odd and all too misunderstood position of identity and purpose. Where is the unio mystica of people, land and faith that unequivocally claims this land as Australian for Australians?

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The ancient Dardanians might’ve worn skirts, but they fought like men!

This problematic quandary has been visited before in the likes of Percy Stephensen whose principal work, The Foundations of Culture in Australia led to the formation of the Jindyworobak Movement; a movement all too conscious of the new realities of adopting the land to ethnic identity and culture. These early pioneers of Australian culture, these tamers of the land, wanted a Mount Helicon of their own. Through a genuine sincerity, they tried to coalesce an Anglo mythos with Australia’s primeval past.

In the emergent Identitarian politics of Europe and the Alt-Right in America, we in Australia must ask ourselves: where do we stand? 

However, no amount of good intention can remove the unshakable fact that the result was throwing white paint into the bucket with black paint; leaving an off-colour grey unusable to a modern audience. The terrible importunity still seen today reveals a deep and unconscious reluctance in questioning who this land truly belongs to. Unless the full force of our original ancestors’ proclamation of terra nullius reigns supreme, we will only ever see an aborted identity compatible with the weaker tenets of lowbrow patriotism and ‘shared real estate’ with an entirely different people.

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Our DNA in architecture…

There remains in the Classical Greek world a gold standard of the stirrings of the racial, tribal identity. So too in Rome, we get a similar feeling under the principle of mos maiorum, or way of the ancestors: that purely Latin foundation upon which Latin identity and culture flourished. We may interpret a similar view in the enforcement of the White Australia Policy as preserving the ways of the founders and builders of the nation: a purely Anglo foundation upon which the Anglo identity and culture could flourish.

Unless the full force of our original ancestors’ proclamation of terra nullius reigns supreme, we will only ever see an aborted identity compatible with the weaker tenets of lowbrow patriotism and ‘shared real estate’ with an entirely different people. 

There is in European history the most remarkable gifts left to us in the past: literature, poetry, philosophy, art, and architecture; all of which are a distant echo of the Apollonian form that has harmoniously influenced every corner of our Western World. This is not a smothering influence but rather a modifier to each unique people, whom, like the Greeks, hold their own special land. This is a new Pan-European realization – and it wants Australia to join its ranks.

So when we inquire into what the Racial Identity of Australia is we are inadvertently inquiring into what the New Man of the Australian future shall be; we ought to hold an open mind in remembering that as a young nation it is entirely expected that so too is our Blood-Memory.

It is neither the case that we find no past idols nor that none shall come after them. There ought to be no despair when we struggle to find our own Leonidas, our own Bismarck. As years and decades go by, so too does the expansion of our identity and our history. The bold heroes of our nation’s future are both in the making and also yet to come; they are reliant on the revival of the European Tradition, and our willingness to keep that flame alight when, through the iron edge of the demographic knife, it seems ever so close to being extinguished.

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The ancient Greeks had Hesiod… and we’ve got… erm… anyway, give it more time