Saturday, December 05, 2015


The Cult with Spiritwalker.

From the 1984 album Dreamtime.

KC and the Sunshine Band with Please don't go. From the 1979 album Do you wanna go party.

Singer's Harry Wayne Casey, KC is phonetic for his last name. Band's from FLA, that's why.




 photo payday_zps8sa9wtn5.jpg

"Photo taken at the Family Allowances offices of Rosny-sous-Bois on Tuesday 4 November 2014. For those who are no geography aces, Rosny-sous-Bois is in FRANCE (93-Seine, Saint-Denis), close to Paris.

Keep working, they need you!"

I have some suspicions re the exact date because the leaves on that tree look more like it's the height of summer rather than November. But the rest is real enough.

I do not know how the situation in France is with regards to chilren's allowances, but I guess it can't be that much different from Belgium. Basically, the basic premiums (2015) are 90,28 EUR for the first child, 167,05 EUR for the second, and 249,41 EUR for the third and following children. That's not counting sundry extras here and there.

It follows that in Belgium your typical co-religionist of the women on the photo with 4 children, about the average number, receive at the very least 756,15 EUR.

But in reality that number is far below the actually received sum, since we, with just two kids, receive around 320 EUR monthly.

It is fair to say that your average muslim family with four children receives for child allowances only in excess of 1,000 EUR monthly. Add in unemployment benefits, extra support for large families and they cash in 1,500/2,000 EUR every month - for doing nothing. The picture is clear.

These women are not allowed to work. But why should they? They reap more money via all kinds of benefits and welfare checks than they could ever earn. All they are asked to do is serve as a breeding platform. Which they do with zeal, either willingly or unwillingly.

We are literally financing our own destruction.


Wednesday, December 02, 2015


Via our pals at Gates of Vienna:

Ten years ago, on this very blog, I was so to say screaming at the top of my lungs to "STOP IMMIGRATION FROM MUSLIM COUNTRIES".

I guess I was dismissed by quite a few decent, even reasonable people as a fearmonger.

Still think so?


Tuesday, December 01, 2015


Via our Waffenbruder Stefan Herre at PI-News, a video from a truly lunatic madwoman for the German Greens in Hamburg, "Dr" Stefanie Von Berg:

Because videos are so prone to disappearing after some time, I'll post here a couple of stills:

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Has Madam Von Berg made herself abundantly clear enough fuer Sie, Herr Pieparsch? Ja? War doch ganz deutlich, nicht wahr?

Madam Von Berg is prompting me to once again borrow that line from that war flick Platoon by Oliver Stoned: "The enemy is in us" - although ole Stoned did not mean it that way.

The enemy is indeed in us, among us, everywhere, the enemy is ubiquitous. Indeed, the enemy is a far worse enemy than ISIS, AQ, Hizb-ut-Tharir, islam itself. The enemy goes by the names of David Cameron, Stefanie Von Berg, Hillary Clinton, Angela Merkel, Diederik Samson, Karel Verhoeven, Kris Hoflack, Al Gore, François Hollande, Guy Verhofstadt, Charles Michel, Freya Vandenbossche, Bernie Sanders, George Soros, Steven De Foer, George Galloway, Kristof Calvo and myriads of others. On a daily basis these traitors are sapping the strength of our societies, undermining our resolve to protect what is rightfully ours, collaborating with the enemy under our noses and in our faces, and preparing a dreadful future for generations to come.

We can deal with IS. We can deal with Al Qaeda. And we can deal with islam. If only we wish, we can utterly destroy them, pulverize them, and chase the pitiful remnants back to their barren deserts where they can eat camel shit.

But we must beat the enemy within first.

This is one of those enemies:

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Gee, looking at those eyes, she does look evil, don't you think?

Prepare for Battle.


Sunday, November 29, 2015


An immortal poem, which Kipling first published in the pamphlet Three Poems (1911), The Roman Centurion's Song:

Legate, I had the news last night --my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!

I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall,
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made, here where my work
was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid--my wife--my wife and
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?

For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice.
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted

 photo kipling_zpstiajmcke.jpgYou'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending
Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but--will you e'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?

Let me work here for Britain's sake--at any task you will--
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.

Legate, I come to you in tears--My cohort ordered home!
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind--the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

In the summer of 2013, we spent a week in the Lake District, in Coniston to be precise. On one of our daily outings we intended to go to Muncaster Castle, and I figured I could get there via Hardknott Pass. Very quickly it became clear that going that way would cost us precious hours... and possibly the visit to the castle too since the afternoon was already well advanced.

So we turned back and took the coast road to Muncaster Castle.

But if we had continued, we would have passed the remains of Hardknott Roman Fort, and I feel the centurion in Kipling's poem might well have hailed from here:

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Hardknott Fort was built between about 120 and 138 during the reign of Emperor Hadrian, but was reportedly abandoned when Emperor Antoninus Pius advanced deeper into Scotland. It was then reoccupied around 200, only to be abandoned again in the last years of the 4th century. The garrison during this latter period would have been a detachment of 500 cavalry of the 6th Cohort of Dalmatians from the Dalmatian coast.

Hat tip for the poem M. Thompson over at CDR Salamander.