France Is Bring to a Standstill. How Could They Tell?!

Si. Is the Future King of Lyon!

I am watching with disgust and pleasure the vaguely general striking in France yesterday. Did you see it? Was all most very amusing and also a big disgrace.

In general, as you know, I am always opposed to the insurrectioning by members of the lower classes, such as schoolmistresses, nurses, trainworkers, coalminers, office staff, shopkeepers, and all the other minor people whose functioning, sadly, we rely upon for our victuals, heat, health, and so on. Some people argue that the sooner the whole of society is automated the better, and we can have robot staff to do everything and the global population can be allow to return to its much more natural size of 400,000 or so, mostly concentrated in Switzerland. I am not one of those sorts of people, you may be surprise to learn. I find abhorrent this kind of thinking. Yes, I confess, I find working people as appalling and loathsome as the next man, and I find the indulgent, romantic, sentimentalizing of their culture repugnant; here I am at variance with my own Catholic Church, I know, which I espect make me some kind of heretic. So be it.

However, here is the nob of my thinking: In a futuristic society with no robots, is no space for the noble human spirit to test itself, is no space for tradition, is no space for suffering, is no space for piety, mystery, misery, or proper Christian values. Is no space for correct feudal relations between men and women, between men and animals, men and nature, men and insects, or bewteen men and foreingers. Is better therefore for society to have the lower classes, even if they are an inconvenience. As the Good Book itself is saying, "the poor are sent to try us!"

I am welcoming this insurrectioning, however, on the grounds that it is about time the decadent bourgeois Masonic democracy in that benighted country was finally overthrown so that la Belle France can return to its true nature as a feudal monarchy. As you are no doubt aware, the proper ruler of France is a Spanish man. His name is Luis Alfonso Gonzalo Víctor Manuel Marco de Borbón y Martínez-Bordiú and he live in a house. You can see a picture of him above. He is the Duke of Anjou and head of the French royal household and also great grandson of King Alfonso XIII of Spain. But what is more important, and which not many people know, he is also great-grandson of El Generalísimo himself. Si! What a miracle! Is almost as if he was sent down by the good lord himself to be a ruler of lesser human beings.

The Duke has been waiting in the wings, living right at this moment as we speak in exile, which is in Venezuela, with his wife, and I am sure he is just awaiting for the call from his spiritual homeland to return to rule France with proper iron discipline and a firm handshake. Our Spanish king, Juan Carlos, is not mad keen on the idea of a Louis XX next door, but I think this is because Juan Carlos is a liberal pussy king who tolerates democracy in his own country and would not like people to be drawing comparisons between him and the go-ahead young upstart next door reintroducing public hangings, abolishing the railways, declaring manned flight scientifically impossible, and returning France generally to the Stone Age.

You can read all about the handsome future king of France here at his dignified and understated Web site, which also have some beautiful photos of him with the real pope, photos which incidentally thereby demonstrate his legitimacy to the throne. If he is good enough for John Paul #2, then he is good enough for me!

With a bit of good fortune, this global crisis will be returning all of us to the Stone Age, and feudalism will be the norm again and human beings will return to their basic true nature of fallen beasts. Then man will be clamouring for people like the Duke to step in and maintain order at the head of a well-trained falangist military with the blessing of the church. Already, I know, armies across Europe are being trained in the counterinsurgency techniques for dealing with social unrest, and if God smiles upon us, they will have a chance to use them.

We must pray it will be so.

Is The Art of War!

Is the perfect Christmas gift: A book of war posters!

I was not having the space or the time last week to discuss another of my Christmas present which my inconsiderate brother Hornolo give for me and which you can see above. He tell me that he was in the city a few month back and he see an exhibition of posters from the Civil War for Golf, and he know how much it mean to me in terms of its significance for the salvation of Christian civilization and the defence of the True Spain, so he go inside the gallery and buy for me a copy of the catalog in order that I can have it in my library of books, magazines, weapons, toys, and so on of the war. I was already at the time very happy with my Manual del Cadete that he give me below, as you can imagine, so when he present me with this book, I was too overwhelm with emotion to espress my gratitude proportionately.

As it transpire, this was a very fortunate thing, because I have now had a chance to look through this catalog, and I see that it is rubbish! Is a whole entire travesty of the reality of the war, and if you look at it you would think that Fascists was not able to draw at all! You know, this is just the kind of rewrite of history that you would espect from atheist communists, and sure enough, when I look closer at the catalog, I see that the exhibition is sponsor by the Fundación Pablo Iglesias, which is a leftist front organization for the Freemasons. Is no wonder there are no decent pictures in the book. It is all shite. Pictures like this, for esample:



which is rubbish posters of the anarchist homosexual lesbian organizations the CNT. They could not even shoot straight, let alone draw straight!

And even the pictures they do have of El Generalísimo is rubbish. Look!



They look nothing like him! Go back to my very first post on this blog here, and you will see what a fine handsome pious devout man El Generalísimo was being. Can you see the difference? I can, and that is because I am not blind.

And now I will show to you esactly how bias this book is. It even have a picture of new American president, the Black Obama, in it:



You will have to be a demented imbecile or else English to tell me that you have not see this poster all over the America in recent month. Here it is again:



You see?! All they have done is remove the helmet so that you are not knowing that Obama fought for the atheist communists during the Civil War for Golf. Fortunately, is only a matter of time before the truth come out. The truth always come out. Escept when it does not. Which is why I write my blog.

And as I am telling you, the truth is that Fascists have always been much better artists than Communist Socialist Anarchists. Adolf Hitler, for esample, make the lovely watercolours that any mother would be proud to have hanging on her dining room wall along with flying geese and Child of Prague on dresser. Picasso, on the other hand, did not even know which side of the nose the eyes should go! And the so-called Socialist Realist art of Communist Russia could have been paint by a five-year-old. And a five-year-old child at that!

If you want a perfect instance of the socialist attitude to art, look no further than the retro-communist organization the Khmer Rouge, in Cambodia, which cut the hands off anyone who had fingernails and poke the eyes out of anyone wearing glasses. They was a vicious ill-mannered gang of killers who have no appreciation for classical music or opera or Real Madrid. Anyone who know how to hold a pen was an intellectual and therefore a member of the urban cosmopolitan sophisticate beohomian decadent scum and deserve to die. This, of course, is a view I agree with, which only go to show that even Communists are not all bad, but if the Khmer Rouge had been around in the 16th century which they try to take Cambodia back to, it mean they would have been killing Michelangelo, Raphael, El Greco, Fra Lippo Lippi, Dick Van Dyck, and all those other wonderful painters of devotional religious Christian works, and that therefore would have been bad.

Because they was not tolerating artists, it mean that the Khmer Rouge did not have anyone to draw the police Identi-kit pictures or artists' impressions when they want to make WANTED posters or to keep track of all the people they have in custody for torturing. Very cleverly, or sneakily, since they are Communists, what they did instead was to get a camera and make detainees take photographs of one another. This was sneaky because cameras are very modern technology, even more modern than tracing paper, which mean that anyone who know how to take a photograph was thereby confirming the suspicions of the Khmer Rouge that they are persona non gratis. Was very clever! They take a picture of a fellow prisoner and thereby condemn themselve. Is genius if it is true.

Anyway, I have take up enough of your time, and I am not wanting you to think that I am such an ungrateful recipient of gifts, just in case you were thinking of sending me any. Is all I ask that any gifts you send are age-appropriate and also do not contain nuts or Marxists. And especially not Marxist nuts!

Is a joke!!

En Busca del Tiempo Perdido

Those were the days, my friend!

There is a well-known story in the apocryphal Gospel According to Saint Shaznay, which tell how, one day, when Our Lord Jesus was just 12 years old, Our Lady chance upon him hiding in the reeds along the bank of the small stream that run close by their home. At first, she is surprise to see him there and is not understanding what he is up to, but when he begin fumbling around all red-face in his undergarments, it dawn upon her all of a sudden that he was knocking one out and that this was the only place where he ever get any privacy. Saint Shaznay recounts how Our Lady run off in embarrassment with young Jesus running after her, his Y fronts round his knees, leaving behind the stream, where all the fish had turned to solid gold after coming into contact with his holy sperms. Jesus is soon out of breath, however, and does not catch up with Our Lady, who finally reach home, and in melancholic despair, she burst into big heaving fit of tears, because she is knowing that her little boy is becoming a man and therefore that the day will soon come when he will no longer need his sandals laced or his satchel packed with sandwiches and also that soon he will be crucified and ruin everything. How precious are those childhood days for mothers!

Our Lady continue to cry for two whole days, Saint Shaznay tell us, and eventually the whole village is flooded, with the result that she kill all the second-born children there (King Herod had already killed all the first-born children in his unsuccessful search for Jesus, which meant that the second-borns were now the shortest peoples around, so they were the ones who get drowned.) Also her tears kill all the village's Protestants.

I mention this story because the memories of my own glorious childhood came flooding back to me this Christmas just like Our Lady's tears upon seeing Jesus spunk up. This was because I go back to our family home and spend my Christmas time with my wastrel rich good-looking brother Hornolo. We spend several nights reminiscing over bottles of Cardenal Mendoza and re-enacting some of the bullying scenes and the sexual esperimentation from days gone by, escept, of course, without our dear departed sister, Candelería, which would have been sick (also, necrophilia is still illegal in that part of Spain, and while Hornolo can afford to scoff at the law, I cannot). And then, on Christmas Eve when we eschange presents with each other, it transpire that my shallow purchase for him of a season ticket at the Bernabeu could not compare with his gift to me, which, as you can see from the picture above, was my old cadets manual from the Frente de Juventudes, the Falangist youth movement. I had no idea what it was until I unwrap it from the brown paper bag Hornolo give it to me in, and then it was a big wonderful wonderful surprise. I would show you a photograph of the look on my face when I open it escept that it was late in the evening and neither of us was able to hold the camera without shaking nor stand still in front of it without falling over. Hornolo did manage to take a picture of me lying in the fireplace after I fall over, and then he make a video of it also after making me stand up and fall into it again, but eventually he do the brotherly thing and help me up off the logs once he had put his asbestos gloves on and finish his drink.

The Manual del Cadete bring back many beautiful memories of camaraderie, singing the Falangist songs around the campfire, the ritual initiation ceremonies that involve estreme pain and dog poo, the marching through Spain's glorious countryside, the dreams of dying in battle for the greater glory of the nation, and of course, my favourite bit, Mass (You thought I was going to say shooting our children in the reeds, like Jesus, didn't you?! Ha ha ha. No. That was only my second-favourite bit.)

I spend the rest of the entire Christmas holiday re-reading my Manual. It is a hefty 240 pages long and with small font and not many pictures, but it is both inspiring and enlightening. It contain a history of Spain, a history of the Falange, information about the geography of Spain, finding your way in the dark, and the Morse code. Here is a not typical page, because it have pictures:



You can see here it is very instructive, esplaining to the young boy all he need to know about the emblems of the party. The party is having emblems so that its members do not have to learn to read. Is a shame they put them in a book, really. Here is another nontypical page:



This one is having all the knots that you might need for tying a recalcitrant sheep to a fence, an uncooperative anarchist to a goalpost, or a smelly gypsy for hanging, and so on, although, you understand, this is entirely theoretical and we never ever encountered any smelly gypsies or anarchists because Franco had already had them all shot.

There is also a very useful chapter on dealing with haemorrhages, broken limbs, knife wounds, and animal bites, which I have already made a photocopy of and now keep in the glove compartment of my car in case of breakdown or boredom at the traffic lights. I will practice sutures on my thighs.

I am wondering now why this book have not been reprinted in recent years. Lord knows that the world is crying out for things for children to do, and organizing them into an unthinking, well-oiled quasi-military force in short trousers would do them no end of good. I personally know several former priests who would be only too happy to give up their free time—who says community spirit is dead?—as part of their rehabilitation, to take young boys camping in the woods. I know myself what a formative esperience those times were for me. They make me the diminutive pious self-respecting upright decent citizen that I am today, and who can argue with that?!