Do Not Panic. Kill All Actors!!

"No point getting toilet paper. It will be miles away by now."

Here is Leonardo Da Capo and Kate Wimslet above from the new movie Contagion!, which is already spreading like an incurable rash across box offices near you. The movie is telling the true story of how actors travel all around the world making films and in the process carrying with them virulent deadly diseases such as the lurgy, rabies, pimples, syphilis, and popcorn. A lot of people have already made the point that the movie is not meant to be a true story but is only a metaphor that is meant to warn us about the dangers of immigration, and therefore that we should close all our borders, including the bookshops, but the irony is, and I don't believe in irony, that more than 30 people died during the making of the film, all of them from illnesses contracted because they went abroad. But you won't hear that mentioned in the film, will you? Oh no. And why not? Because it is a work of fiction.

In fact, the correct way to look at the film is this, my way. Rather than the film's message being a metaphor for clamping down on illegal immigrants, those deaths of the various crew members (including two best boys, one first grip, and Miss Wimslet's fluffer) should be seen as a metaphor for the Hollywood movie industry and the way that it spreads its evil testicles through foreign cultures, the subcutaneous implicit insidious liberal value-system that Hollywood embodies infiltrating and undermining locally constructed belief systems such as voodoo, Copernicanism, creationism, heart-warming fascism, and, in places like Australia, Bananas in Pajamas and penis puppetry. These long-held and much-cherished vernacular worldviews struggle in the face of the virulence of Hollywood liberalism because of the latter's technological know-how, its shiny newness that appeals to all primitive, innocent savages, and its loud bangs and large-breasted women, all of which distract and confuse the former penis worshippers so that they do not notice the sneaky subtext being slipped in underneath: the sympathetic portrayal of Jews and freemasons, the blatant feminism, the tolerance for inferior races, the anthropomorphizing of Muslims. All of these things are there, if you look closely, but nobody does because they are all still recovering from the shock of seeing an elephant fly.

You are probably thinking now, "Well that's all true, Manuel, and well observed," but how does this fit into the correct fascist view of the world? Surely inferior races with their stupid worldviews and religions will just be wiped off the face of the earth in the struggle for survival like that appalling race of human beings in Independence Day. To which I would reply, "Did you not see the end of that movie?! Also, you are confusing Catholic fascism with Social Darwinism, you inbecile! Fascism does not want people to be killed. No! That is just a typical Hollywood distortion of its actual, true message, which is stay where you are, don't immigrate, open your hearts to Jesus, and export your resources to Spain."

You see, we in the Falangist movement appreciate and understand the importance of societies retaining their own cultures and sense of place. The peoples of all societies have developed their cultures and values so that they are appropriate to where they live—Islam for the desert, Buddhism for the rice paddy, Christianity for the battlefield, and cetera—and which is why they should never be mixed up together. However and neverthenonetheless, having said all that, it is also clear that 1) Christianity is correct and therefore we have an obligation to take Jesus's Good News to all human beings regardless of their ability to understand it, and 2) it follows that there is a natural hierarchy between societies, specifically those superior ones which have received Jesus's message first, and the inferior ones which are not in Europe.

Sadly, then, it is cucumbent upon us, the European Christian West, particularly the Spanish, to shoulder the white man's burden of subjugating other cultures and, like benevolent but strict schoolmasters, guiding lesser races in their quest to be just like us, which they never can be. This is a great and onerous burden, which is why we require so many resources from foreign countries to carry it out properly, what was incorrectly called the "circle of life" in that doicumentary The Lion King, yet another piece of schmaltzy liberal Hollywood schlock that totally misrepresented Nature. And don't not get me started on Bambi.

Contagion! thus carries a confusing message. It talks about contagious infectious death-dealing plagues as if they are a bad thing, when in fact it is movies that are the virus and therefore a bad thing, and the truth is that some plagues are actually a good thing, such as missionary work to unenlightened countries and The crusades. Therefore, in conclusion, Contagion!'s true message is that we are all dead in the long run and we are in a race against time to make sure everyone catches the virus of Christianity before they die.

There. Now you will not even have to see it. Me neither.

#Occupy_Quality_Street!!

Don't Mention the Chocolate War. I was Mention It Once, But I Think I am Get Away with It.

Unless you have been living in a yurt (which is a tent containing pro-biotics), you will have by now have heard of the assortment of people, made homeless by predatory borrowing, who are making themselves at home on the various streets of the Western world, in imitation of the homeless Arabs in the Israel/Illuminati-inspired Arab Spring Surprise, which, coincidentally, was take place last spring. These actions are being called occupations, which is ironic because all these people involved do not have occupations, being generally unkempt, hairy, unable to get out of bed on time, having a bad attitude, talking back to their boss, probably Humanities graduates types of people. Of course, these are always the first types to get hit when a recession takes place; it is a myth that the poor take the big brunt of economic crisises, and the reason is because they are always poor, and therefore they have inbuilt stalwart coping mechanisms already in place to deal with their powerlessness and poverty, such as alcohol, bingo, cigarettes, and church. They do not have any espectations whether the economy is shit hot, or just shit, of any improvement in their lot, whereas during a boom time even Philosophy graduates can find work of some description, even if it is just in the fashion industry, where their feeble bodies are regarded as ideal and their feeble minds regarded as genius.

Now, as you are well know, I am by no means a fan of modernism, modernisty or modernart, but one of the top best things that modernisty ever produced was something called the public square, an idea nicked from the ancient Greeks and ancient Romans, who also invented modernisty. The public square is a place, or a Place, usually in the middle of the city, where can be concentrated all the ne'er-do-wells, the moaning Minis, the carpers, the pikeys, the breamers, and every, Tom, Dick, Harry, Sam n' Ella, thereby keeping them out of the way of hard-working decent ordinary apolitical and non-political people, the so-called backbone or cervix of society, who can therefore get on with their lives of quiet desperation undisturbed by rabble-carousing hordes. In Germany, always ahead of the herd, they went one better: Rather than a Public Square, they have instead the Public Sphere, invented by the Frankfurt School of Design and named after the famous and brilliant Nazi architect Sir Albert Sphere. This not only concentrates the city's malcontents, it is also sound-proof, so nobody can hear them scream. In Morocco, on the other hand, rather than a sphere, they have the ram's bladder cup, which contains all the piss and vinegar but is open to the sky, where their Gods live.

These present-day malingering occupants, however, either have not realize that they are meant to use the public square, or else they cannot read a map. Or also, a further possibility is that they are like the zombies in the Evil Dead movies returning to the shopping mall, but instead of the shopping mall they are returning to the places where they use to work or where their money use to be, namely, banks, offshore covens, golf courses, the pockets of short-armed bondtraders and cetera. They are milling about aimlessly, not knowing at all where they are going or what they are moaning about, also like zombies. This, incidentally, is what happens when you have a leaderless movement. In the old days, when there was things like useful trades unions, well-disciplined communist parties, reliable propaganda mechanisms, the idiot proletariat could be relied upon to march properly, all in a line behind their smarter but still idiot leaders, through the weekend streets when the offices are all shut, and all the way to the public square, where they was then entertained by tedious speeches from the platform, vacuous polemical haranguing, and Bono. Then they would go home and try to spot themselves on the news. When the cold war was ending, however, and capitalism no longer had any use of the useful idiots leading the useless idiots up a back alley to nowhere, then the unions and communist parties was all put into cold war storage, like the delivery boy in Futurama, only perhaps to be brought out again in a time of crisis when it looks like the peoples are starting to get ideas above their station. Or even next to their station.

Thus, no doubt soon you will probly hear soon some business leaders or pretend potential self-appointed communist leaders lamenting the lack of organization of the #Occupy movements, describing them as "in choate" (which is a kind of wide penis with no head), or "udderless," or "lacking discernible goals" (like Sporting Gijon). What they are really mean is that there is a ferment of new ideas that therefore could be dangerous and must be curtailed, or at least curtopped. After all, nobody has any idea where a march that goes nowhere might end up. If these peoples weren't too feckless to emigrate we could at least lure them onto a ferry with the promise of jobs in Australia and transport them there. We would never hear of them ever again! But while they are there, in the midst of ordinary, heads-down, knees-back God-fearing punters, fermenting theories without limitations and trying out new processes, such as democracy—never a positive development—they constitute a threat to our docile, passive, obedient way of life. They must be stomped on by square-headed baton-wielding riot police, preferably from up the country, before any new ideas seep out into the public body at large, like a ball of ideological pus.

The one advantage of having these malodorous obnoxities stay in one place for the time being is that the virus which they represent cannot spread. What is more, it will be actually possible to sow a virus amongst them themselves. Not an ideological one. A proper one. I am not wanting to imagine for one moment what the sanitary conditions must be like on Wall Street, for instance, but it will only be a matter of time before the first spores of anthrax ripple through the throng; there must still be some of them left over from the biological research programs carried out by those involved in Farm Warfare (the CIA training facility, not the band from Liverpool). I have already been told that there is a cockroach cluster assembling in Battery Park which has been trained to sneak into protestors' sleeping bags and deposit there a cough and cholera strain (possibly I misheard and it is a "cuff and collar" strain, equally deadly to these workshy recalcitrants. Or perhaps I am confusing it with the Tie Flu.

You would naturally espect that countries like Italy and Spain, with their soft-centred atheist anarchist cosmopolitan populations, would soon fall for this sort of protesting. So far, Paris, home to the crunchy Frog, has not surrendered, but it is only a matter of time. Saddest of all is the news that even in Holy Pissing Ireland they have a couple of #Occupy sites. This is the sort of thing you can see and hear if you go to the one in Dublin. Is a big disgrace! I am mortified. I think.

In fact, you know what? I think you should go down there right NOW if you are in Ireland and tell them what you think. And tell them Manuel sent you!

Irritation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

Didn't You Kill My Brother?

As goes the old saying

Big fleas are having little fleas upon their backs which are bite them, and little fleas have even littler fleas, and so on until you get to the littlest.

What I am referencing here to on this occasion by my witty apothegm above is the recent case of plaguerism in the Irish media spotted by Brian Whelan (Hack), who has been uplifting the veil yesterday to show how (allegedly) the Irish Esaminer columnist and ghostwriter Steven King has been publishing articles that are eerily similar to those which are also being written by former atheist communist Brendan O'Neill of Spooked Online, also known as The Dustbin of History. King, who was previously a political adviser to Nobel Peace Loyalist and First Minister of Northern Ireland David Trimble, probly espected that nobody would remark upon the identicalities between his own words and those of O'Neill because what he was saying was esactly what you would espect from someone of their persuasion, whatever it is, and therefore people's eyes would glaze over before they got to the second paragraph. However, for anyone who could be bothered to look closer, such as the indefatigable Whelan, the resemblance is almost uncanny, as if O'Neill and King were of one, collective hive mind, like the Phoners, which ironically enough appear in King's book Cell, or also the Borg, or else the Gerulaitis. King also knew that O'Neill was previously belong to the Revolutionary Communist Party, an organization which was notorious for the fact that its members have never had a single original thought in their entire lives—indeed, since that party disbanded all its members have become The Institute of an Idea—and therefore that what O'Neill wrote had already been thought before, only probly more eloquently and more lucidly by fascist writers such as myself.

Which is where I am come in. Because recently O'Neill was write what some people believed was a very witty parody of one of my own past blog posts for the British Empire newspaper the Daily Telegraph. This was an article in which he lament the death of bullfighting in Catalonia. You can read the article here, although you must forgive the typos, such as where it says "Brendan O'Neill is the editor of spiked, an independent online phenomenon dedicated to raising the horizons of humanity by waging a culture war of words against misanthropy, priggishness, prejudice, luddism, illiberalism and irrationalism in all their ancient and modern forms," where it clearly means to say IN FAVOUR OF.

This is O'Neill in full flight:

To put a bull into a bullfight is to ennoble it. As a participant in a strange, centuries-old ritual, in a violent dance-off between man and beast, a bull acquires a significance far beyond its own natural existence. In fact, the only "purpose" in the life of a bull is that bestowed upon it by picadors and matadors – it is through their efforts, and their efforts alone, that a bull is transformed from being a rather pointless, instinctual beast into a noble creature worthy of being watched by an audience of thousands. In this sense, bullfighting is humane rather than cruel, since through the endeavour and labour of the bullfighting brigade a bull is given a use and purpose nature could never have designed for it.

What is a bull but a grunting creature destined to live a rather sad and short life of munching grass and impregnating cows? Through the humanity of the matadors, bulls selected for a bullfight are spared this terrible fate and are given something they could have never, in a million years, discovered for themselves: a purpose in life.

and here is me, writing in June of last year:

If history is teach us anything, it is that the majority of the world's species alive today would not be alive were it not for the fact that they serve some purpose to humanity. The Dodo, for instance, is a prime esample. Once it had serve its purpose to mankind, in providing food, then it become estinct. Ecologists, sociologists, theologists, and macrobiotics are all unanimal on this: There would be no cows or pigs or sheeps on this planet, were it not for mankind husbanding them, wifing them, then killing and eating them. Is because mankind have a vested interest in their perpetuance that they are still around, whereas other animals that are not so tasty, such as the unicorn, are long gone. Why are you think Noah did not bother putting it in the ark? Because they are taste like shit! (And also because their horn could make significant damage beneath the water line if they broke loose and went on an escapade). Imagine what the world would be like with no cows, pigs and sheeps. It would be less smelly, certainly, and we could have a much better road and rail infrastructure once we had concrete over all those fields, but on the other hand, you would not have no hat. Nor sandals. Both of which are made from cow. You would have no bacon sarnies, no electricity, no pork scratching, and girls would have no pigtails, because they are all made from pig. And there would be no sheeps.

In similar, if you are to ban the corrida, you will be in ultimate saying goodbye to the bull. Not, however, in this case because the bull will estinctify. No! Let us be honest. Throughout all time, we have know that the bull is mankind's natural enemy, after the Jew and the Muslim, that there is always been a danger in keeping sustained the bull population. But that was always the price we pay for the corrida. The bull is an estremely fierce and proud and big-balled beast. He lives for the corrida, for the opportunity to do battle with Man, to chase around the sawdust a multicolour curtain and diminutive hero with sword and lances and things. There is nothing finer, more noble, for the bull than to compete in the corrida, to choke slowly on its own lifeblood knowing that it have given everything in a carnal, cathartic orgy of agony, lust, muscles, meat, power, yearning, thrusting, and an object lesson in mortality in front of a crowd of appreciative Spanish aesthetes.

Si!! Is almost as if a ventriloquist had come into the room, inserted his hand into Brendan O'Neill's anus, and then used his other hand to type an article having the same views as my own. After having had lunch with me. And washed his hands.

Now, I am not the sort of person to cast aspersiums or to even claim to having had any original ideas of my own. I get a lot of them from Top Gear. But I merely draw to your attention how those of us such as myself with small minds (by which I mean we have no audience of readers), can be sucked off by other slightly less small minds, and so on and so on up the food chain, like mercury. Is like a form of edmosis, in which partially formed ideas slowly crawl their way towards the light, similar to a scary foetus, until eventually everyone has got the same idea but have no idea where they got the idea from. It was me!

And therefore to those people who say that there is no point in me blogging my fascist views for nobody to read, I direct your attention to The Irish Examiner, the Sunday Independent, the Daily Mail, and, to a lesser estent, everything printed by News International, who may not have necessarily been hacking my phones but, well, they was hardly had need to.

I am not sure that I have any case to sue for any damages, but I console myself that the damages caused to society by my writing will more than compensate. I merely am sew the seed.