Monthly Archives: November 2008

What Empire Magazine and Total Film Taught Me About Women


AUTHOR’S NOTE: Empire Magazine and Total Film are the leading UK film glossies, featuring film reviews and articles on current and (occasionally) classic movies.


I am a subscriber to Empire Magazine along with Total Film. I am also a woman. These two things do not mix.

I got both subscriptions for my Xmas last year, although I have been both a regular buyer and a subscriber in the (distant) past. When it came time to renew, I only renewed Empire. Not because it’s hugely better, or indeed different – both magazines are eerily the same – but because it’s marginally less sexist.

If there was any other magazine that either wasn’t up its own arse with artistic pretension, or even infinitesimally less fanboy, trust me, I’d buy it. But there isn’t and so, in order to stay abreast of the one thing I truly love, I have re-subscribed to Empire. But we’ll see if I can get through a second year…

In my short year (Empire was only a nine month subscription – they think you won’t notice they’ve done you out of three mags with their a ‘cheaper’ price) I learned a lot of things about men – but I learned a whole lot more about women.

Some of my ‘discoveries’ are not original, of course, but still, I think these two fabulous magazines should take some credit. After all, they help to keep the old myths grinding. And lest any of you imagine this is an ‘It’s all men’s fault’ piece, let it be noted that there are female journalists at both mags. And I hear they’re even allowed to write the odd review as well as make the tea. One thing I will bet you, though, none of their mothers worked at Spare Rib.

So here are all the things I learned about women through reading the film mags previously known as The Big Boys’ Comic-Book Movie Digest.

1. Women never turn up with enough clothes. You’d think women, being domestic animals and all, would know the necessity of ‘wrapping up warm’. Think of all those mothers’ adages: “Cover up now, or you’ll catch a chill”, “Don’t forget your hat – that’s where the biggest heat loss is”, “Get off that cold stone, you’ll get pneumonia, piles, a kidney infection.” Why then do these movie mags always show women wearing the minimum amount of clothing? They don’t do it to the men. Actors are generally either in costume, or suits, or T-shirts and jeans, i.e. dressed. The actresses are in slip dresses, a blanket, a strip of fur, a spangly thing that has ridden up their thighs and down their shoulders. Why, Lord, why?

2. Women only have one facial expression – and it means ‘I want to fuck you’. Make no mistake, I have no problem with lesbians. Other than the two who were sat next to me at a Michael Clark ballet in Manchester sometime in the nineties – one of whom had a cold – and insisted on snogging through the entire performance, with lots of heavy breathing and snurffling (the poor girl had blocked both orifices and couldn’t get air). Apart from that one truly annoying encounter, I’m all for ’em. But here’s the rub, I don’t get turned on by pouty ladies. I know it’s remiss of me, and I don’t grudge the boys some cheesecake, but every single actress, even the serious ones? (Who am I kidding? – there are no serious ones.) I think I could forgive this if I had some pouty naked males to compensate but, strangely, they’re absent. I wonder why?

3. Women can never be serious actresses. Oh come on, it’s true. Semi-naked, with copy that reads like something out the Sun? Her credits reduced to the films she’s ‘fittest’ in? Please. The most serious thing about Empire & TF’s women is how stiff they can get you. Sadly, (see 2 above) women don’t make me that hot. Oh, I’ve had the odd quiver – who hasn’t? – but really, no, I’m afraid men are my thing. Although Christ only knows why.

4. Women are only here to play support to men. Again, when their credentials for getting into the mag in the first place are how foxy they are, and how many horror flicks or Bond movies they’ve done, with the smallest amount of clothing and/or most sex scenes, how can we seriously be expected to see them as leading ‘men’? Well, go on then, list me how many hot semi-naked “screamer” roles Hugh Jackman, Robert Downey Jnr and Daniel Craig have done recently. Thought not.

5. Any film with a woman in the lead is a chick-flick. Yes, absolutely any. Even a ‘serious’ movie with a woman in the lead is going to be considered of “interest chiefly to women”. This, of course, is nothing to do with Empire or TF, but a scientific problem. Men are unable to identify with a female lead because if they do they will start to grow a vagina and their voice will un-break and before you cay Roberta’s your uncle they’ll be poofs. True. I read it in Total Film, issue 148.

6. Women don’t like sci-fi, crime, thrillers, Westerns, war pictures, rude humour, Jackass movies…. The list is endless. Women only go to the cinema to see “women’s pictures” (see 5 above) therefore when writing about any film genres that are not vagina-centric it is not necessary to assume your reader may be female. You can phwoar your way through the on-screen totty, identify wholly with any male protagonists getting some pussy, and write-off any misogyny or sexism in the film as irrelevant. Ah, life is simple at Mappin House and Balcombe Street.

7. Women get screamy and obsessive over film stars. Men do not. No, not even over the female ones. Men are dignified fans; women become unhinged and hysterical. Don’t believe me? Compare Empire & TF’s coverage of fanboys drooling over Heath Ledger in the Dark Knight with their descriptions of fangirls swooning over Robert Pattinson in Twilight. Dark Knight is an “Oscar-deserving” masterpiece; Twilight is a “girlie swirl of obsession that will delight fans”. ‘Men’s’ movie = serious, life-changing, deep and meaningful; ‘girls” movie = light, frothy and largely dismissible. The fact that they’re both juvenilia has somehow conveniently slipped off the radar.

8. Women should be grateful to be noticed by film journalists. Whereas all the popular male actors (see list in number 4 and add Simon Pegg to it) get fawning adoration, with every bon mot and blokey camaraderie they’ve shared with the Chief Ed retold in glowing colour, the ladies only ever get the same old coverage: where they were sexy, where they were hot, where they got to be “smart as well as hot.” Our gratitude knows no bounds. Someday they might let one of us put on a pair of trousers. Or at least something that isn’t a half-inch away from revealing our obligatory Brazilian wax.

9. Women can’t lead at the box office. This isn’t just a prejudice in the homes of film journalism, it’s a statistically proven fact. Of course, it’s nothing to do with the fact that a) women don’t get the opportunity to lead at the box office, b) that even on the rare occasions they do they are still screaming and losing their children (c.f. Flightplan, Changeling, Panic Room), c) men can’t identify with female leads because of I’m-growing-a-horrible-vagina disease (see 5 above) – a night-terror that may just be encouraged by film mags that talk endlessly in terms of the gender in genre.

10. Women don’t read film magazines. I speak from experience here. Having been repeatedly told that the reason I want to see a movie is because Angelina Jolie is “still ripe”, or that “none of us can resist smashing up cars” or that getting into bed with the latest starlet is “all of our dreams”, or that being Batman is “every boy’s ambition”, or even just vicariously gazing into Scarlett Johansson’s eyes along with the journalist, I can tell you, I’m pretty much not there. And so we women don’t buy them. Or we let our subscriptions lapse. And then the magazine’s demographic shows that twice as many young males read the magazine than any other sex/age group, and so all the thirty-something fanboys round the editorial table can pat each other on the back at another job well done – while the girls arrange the coffee – and go right on running the old boys’ club, embracing that sense of wonderful self-satisfaction only rivalled by yet another feature on “Why the Dark Knight should have outsold Mamma Mia at the box office”, safe in the knowledge that hard statistical facts back their sexism right up.

After all, it’s only business, right?

Oh Brother Dearest…


As I am just putting the finishing touches to How to Write the Perfect Novel, my next masterpiece, available now from Amazon for pre-order How to Write The Perfect Novel – everything you ever wanted to ask about writing bestsellers but were afraid to ask, I haven’t got the time to find an interesting subject and write you one of my dazzling analyses – and I desperately need to write a blog.

Actually, I think I’m finally suffering DANNY 3/1 withdrawal.

I had fallen out of love with 3/1 recently, for the longest time. Felt I’d finally lost the DANNY soul-connection, and I maybe have a little bit (scary), but my lover’s tiff gave me the time to do the compiling/rewriting/editing of this book (The perfect Novel) which Mr Scratchmann had been pressing me to do. Now I’ve been working on it for so long that I’ve got to the place where I’m thoroughly fed up writing ‘reasonable’ arguments and I just want to let rip in the realms of where you don’t have to justify everything. Also there’s something basically depressing about writing How To’s when you could actually be doing said writing instead.

Also I’ve been playing it really safe in this blog for a long time now. I know people consider stuff like the Nora Roberts blogs to be ‘dangerous’, but they aren’t. It takes no effort to criticise someone who hands you everything on a plate and has a string of ‘monkey see – monkey do’ girls running along behind them begging to have a new drama to get all righteous about. That’s just plugging into staple internet fare, no effort traffic increase.

No, what’s really hard is writing something that exposes you, makes you feel vulnerable, and so, because I’m bored, adrenalinised, needing to vent, I’m going to talk about something personal, close to the bone, uncomfortable.

I’m going to talk about me and my brother.

Already I want to delete it. Stop. Go no further. Oh, my self-preservation shrieks, What are you doing?

Oh it’s not so terrible, heaven will not fall, but how much I hate going there at all.

I feel some guilt about poor old DANNY. It’s been neglected, passed over, unloved, and all this writing about ‘never do anything that matters, destroy your heart, trample your creativity, being published is everything’ is really getting me down and, oddly, making me feel like a hypocrite, even although everything I say in the book is, sadly, true. It’s just that I don’t do any of it. Everything in the book is an anathema to me. It’s such a dark, hard cynical book – and it’s meant to be funny too. God help me, I’m even dark, black and cynical when I’m writing ‘comedy’. There really is no hope for me, is there?

My brother.

I have always felt – worried – that my brother has bearing on my book. I never look at it, never explore it. To a large extent my brother is left out of DANNY, which is why I feel that he isn’t. It’s a basic psychological precept that what you most repress is the thing most likely to surface elsewhere – and where more obvious than my book?

So let’s be as upfront as I can without giving myself a nervous breakdown. I never had an incestuous relationship with my brother.

Yuk. Got that out the way. Now we won’t refer to it again.

Okay, deep breath, I can do this.

Here, however, are the uncomfortable facts:-

My original name was Jane, my brother’s Andrew. The two leads in my book are John & Danny. Jane & Andy – John & Danny. You’re seeing it, right?

Let’s move on again. Getting sweaty.

There is, however, a very major third in my book – Ian. Ian, Jane. You’re seeing that too, right?

I should maybe just tell you, although I shouldn’t because I am feeding information to the prosecution, that the names Jane and John are the same name altered for gender. I should also tell you that the name Ian is the same name as John – just a derivative. That would mean Jane, John and Ian are all the same name.

Fuck, that’s scary shit. I should also point out that I’ve always known these things since I first discovered them at around eleven or so in the back of my family dictionary. It had a section of names and their meanings. I still have it, the section. Although the dictionary went out of date eventually I kept the bit with all the names, bound up in a homemade cover. One of the very few things I own from my childhood. Is that deep and significant? Fucked if I know.

Enough CIA coincidence trivia. Let’s just plunge in.

I did love my brother, very much. Now I don’t know how real it was, only that it was real for me then. Now I not only don’t know him, but don’t want to. That still hurts. Nothing in my family life hurts me, unless I think about it in too much depth and sometimes, then, I’ll plug into something that becomes momentarily real again. But, mostly, I can just switch it on and off. Mostly it’s off anyway.

I don’t know how rare it is – but I expect not that uncommon – but nowadays my parents, family, are all just people I knew, like I knew school teachers or family friends. Curiously, they have much more of a real three-dimensional quality this way. I have no idea why. It’s like when they were still connected to me I could only see them through me and my feelings. Now I can see their behaviour in a much more rounded way, as if they exist separately from me.

Oddly, it’s shrunk them. My father and mother both – even my brother to some extent – were larger than life before. Now it’s like I see them down the wrong end of a telescope, like people I knew in a different lifetime. I suppose they were.

But I did love my brother. He was the only member of my family I felt no hatred for. He was the only member of my family I felt I shared something with. My parents had no idea who I was, and cared less. I was merely an extension of them. So much so that when I left home they had no real further use for me. It was rather like I’d been their butler and moved to a different estate. They continued to send me a token sixpenny piece at Xmas but they never thought of me from one end of the year to the other, other than the nuisance value I’d provided when I’d left their service so unexpectedly.

Losing my brother was like amputating an infected limb. Necessary to save the whole, but you never really come to terms with its absence.

Actually, it was nothing like that, but I can’t describe it for you. I am at a loss for a metaphor – make a note of the date.

Let’s try again. It was necessary to remove him, but I fought long and hard for him – for a while. For even longer I hung onto the idea that he might come back to me. But I knew even as I did it that it was an illusion, because he had never been mine.

Anybody seeing Ian and John yet? Well you should be.

This is the truth of my relationship with my brother. My brother never loved me. Never ever. All my brother’s heart and eyes and lungs, and every fibre of his being, craved his mother’s love. And I’m sure his father’s too, but just not so much. I think even Andrew, blindsided, neglected, forgotten and overlooked as he was, knew that expecting my father’s love would be like expecting Jesus to come down and save you. Only less likely.

No, Andrew was so desperate for his mother to love him, notice him, that he simply didn’t have room for anything else.

I realised early on that parental love wasn’t going to be forthcoming for me, and I believe I had the inklings from a surprisingly young age that I wasn’t going to give it either. I know I went through a brief faze – I estimate about two or three years – where I actively hated my mother and despised/despaired at my father. After that I accepted my lot and took to eating instead of fighting. A bad decision but what can you do?

Running away from home would actually have been preferable, and I did think about it, all the time, but I lacked the courage. Mostly because I’d been so brainwashed – I believed that an ‘ordinary’ job couldn’t provide for you, let alone being homeless – to the fact that I had no friends or family that would take me in. Every time I visualised running away I thought of being brought back home again and there was a curious horror in that, which was – wait for it – they’d know.

I couldn’t face running away because then my parents would know how I felt, they’d know about my pain, I’d be vulnerable, they’d understand things about me they didn’t know about now, I’d show my hand. And, to me, it seemed paramount that I never, ever show my hand. I’m not sure why, and I don’t want to think about it.

If my brother ever had to choose between me and my mother there was never any competition. I didn’t even get to first base; I wasn’t even in the game. I knew this, but could never accept it. Right up until I was in my late twenties I couldn’t accept that my brother wouldn’t one day wake up and smell the roses. It was only a matter of time. One day he’d see who my parents really were and come back to me. We’d have a better, stronger bond because we’d finally be on the same page, not me standing on one side of the river waving and him walking away from me, never seeing me, never hearing, forever divided by it, destined to keep separate pains when we might share them.

We didn’t. We haven’t. Oh yes, we used to share horror stories, up to a point. But after that my brother’s gag reflex would kick in and he couldn’t swallow any more.

For him my parents have always been flawed human beings who’ve tried. He’s kept a place for them in his heart, saying he doesn’t expect much from them, he just accepts them for what they are, knowing they’re not capable of more. But I don’t believe him. I never have.

My brother hangs on in there. It’s hope, and hope’s a horrible thing. To quote my own book, hope kills you by inches. I know it’s fashionable in the world of self-help, positive-thinking, ‘you can heal your heart’ guru-ism, but hope can be the biggest bastarding cunt that ever walked the face of a scabrous earth. People die of hope. Hope is the thing that wrings the last bit of life out of people who might have survived a tragedy if they’d only embraced it and so let it go.

I forget which mother it was, but one of the mothers of Hindley & Brady’s victims (a little girl) used to always be trotted out when they were talking about letting Myra out. This poor woman was consumed by the death of her child. Completely, utterly consumed. She was living in Hell on earth while Brady & Hindley were getting on with whatever lives they could muster in prison, but I imagine in no more pain than they’d ever been.

Although it may not look like it, it was hope that (finally) killed this woman. She hoped that somehow if all the hatred and bitterness she felt was turned to campaigning against Myra getting out it would right the balance of a universe that had gone awfully awry. She hoped that her child would forgive her if she made Myra’s life a misery. She hoped that she would find some redemption for herself if she could only hurt her. Perhaps she hadn’t concerned herself with where her daughter was that day, perhaps she’d shouted at her, perhaps she’d never warned her about strangers. Who knows? Who cares? Hope killed her. And everything about her. Whatever she’d been, could have been, was forfeited in chasing some horrible twisted hope that she could make the unputrightable right.

She couldn’t. And my brother couldn’t. And I couldn’t save him. And he couldn’t love me. And I have no idea if any of this is really what DANNY is all about.

But just one final thought, because this is going to run to a hundred pages otherwise.

My father had a brother called John. I never met John, not in my memory. John died at 40. No-one seemed to know much about John, and no-one talked about John. To me, John had no history. He looked different from the other brothers, had a curious look about the eyes that they lacked. I always looked at John in the one photo we had of him (a tiny figure in part of a group) and wondered who he was and why no-one knew him. I always felt there were secrets around John and no-one was saying.

My mother had a brother, Ian. Like my father’s John, Ian was an outsider, the third wheel on an odd triumvirate of her, her brother Bobby, and Ian. Ian the fat drunk, the one who went off up Benbecula, or got blotto and drove his tractor off the pier on the isle of Coll; who was fucking a different woman, and sometimes more than one, every time you saw him; who abandoned his daughter to an obnoxious child molester because she cramped his style. Ian who always had to be life and soul of the party and who sulked if he was upstaged by a child. Ian who everybody had to love, or else. Ian who was really, really angry – if you scraped even the barest layer of skin off his facade.

Or maybe it was my uncle Danny: black sheep, musician, foul-mouthed, misogynistic antichrist of anarchy.

Is it one of them, all of them, or is it just me and my brother locked in the “Why don’t you love me like I love you?” nightmare scenario forever?

I don’t know, and I don’t want to. Not yet.

And that’s more than enough self-revelation and discomfort for one fucking day, thank-you very much.

P.S. Please forgive any clumsy, ugly, awkward or just plain disorganised writing in this piece. I wrote it, I posted it. If I edit it I’ll delete it. So you either get it like this or not at all. It’s your call.

Why I Love America


You ask me why I love America…

Well, actually, you don’t, but I feel as if I’m always saying bad things about the poor old dear and it’s time I redressed that. So here goes, the reasons why Chancery Stone loves AMERICA!

1. Burger King. Understand, I don’t like beefburgers, never eat them at home, and don’t much like chips (that’s fries to you across the pond) but, and it’s a BIG but, there is nobody in Aberdeen who offers food as cheap with a reasonable amount of protein. Also, Burger King doesn’t give a fuck if you share, eat the Kid’s Meals, or any other damn thing. They cook food that feeds you, try to accommodate your weird demands – like no ketchup and cups of hot water without tea-bags – and don’t charge you the price of small electrical goods for a meal (yes, you can buy a toaster or a kettle for what it costs for an average restaurant lunch consisting chiefly of white flour and more white flour.) God bless America.

2. Movies. Yes, Hollywood makes utter crap. Yes, they are driven by the mighty dollar. But who isn’t? As someone who spends her whole life trying to make art sell, I sympathise entirely. No bums on seats = no movies. Compared to British movies, Hollywood wins hands down. Of course, it has to be said that Hollywood is really built on the back of immigrant middle European Jews but hey, they created a product that is now peculiarly American, not European, and I, for one, love them for it. Go Hollywood!

3. TV. American TV versus British TV? No competiton. I own about two British TV series (four actually, I reckon), but I own a hell of a lot more American. Yes, a lot of them are HBO, but I also have a lot of Fox, and a couple of strays I can’t remember. Whatever kind of TV it is, the Americans do it better. More money, more drama, more outrageous behaviour, even, paradoxically, more reality. With the exception of period dramas, which the British still do better, I would not swap my one packet of frothy American soap for fifty buckets of British suds.

4. Accents. Oh, don’t you just love them? There isn’t an American accent I don’t like. Except the extreme ends of Texan, particularly religious Texan, which seems to get so oily you feel you could squeeze insincerity right out that there sleazebag’s tortured vowels. And severe Southern Belle can be both annoying and ridiculous but, on the whole, love ’em. There is something perversely elegant and colourful about that huge range of accents. It’s like having the entire continent of Europe gabbling together but with a commonality of understanding. Exotic but comprehensible. Ayuh!

5. Made-up words. God, I know I shouldn’t but I just love the way Americans make up words. I do. I know their verbification of nouns can be intensely irritating (incentivize anyone?), but, truthfully, I can’t get enough of it. I pick up words like a hoover. I annoy the hell out of Max by adopting words off the web, out of books, off TV programmes. I just love those great weird and wonderful words. I think the Americans’ disrespect for English (which many of them genuinely believe they invented, in spite of that word ‘English’) is bracingly healthy, and for every mangled verb there are three new-fangled nonsenses that tickle me pink. It was one of the first things I loved about Stephen King, his characters’ speech patterns. Stephen, who is an immensely gifted writer, can convey language patterns like no other writer, except perhaps Dickens. Ayuh again!

6. Junk food. I don’t actually like any of it, with the exception of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, but their junk is just so colourful and outrageous. I had been reading about Oreo cookies for years (via Stephen again) before they were finally imported into the UK. When I first had one I was bitterly disappointed – nasty dry Bourbons with biscuit that tasted like gravy browning and ‘cream’ that was just sugar, but hell, they were Oreos. American junk food typifies America, all Disneyesque icing and sprinkles, selling a fantasy that is pure Wizard of Oz: nothing but a plain little confection amplified by a lot of smoke and mirrors. But it’s like Xmas, shiny and somehow comforting, the triumph of imagination over reality, and there’s something admirable in that.

7. Fat. You’ve got to love the way Americans have just embraced fat. Only today there was a news feature on the British government’s fear about rising obesity in Britain. They’re doing (yet another) campaign to try and convince people to eat less and do more. But not America. Hell, no. If anyone so much as whispered that their government should interfere in any way with “free enterprise” i.e. the right to sell bigger and bigger portions, more fat, sugar and additives, then there would be questions in the senate about the infiltration of communists. Americans make the rest of the world feel good about those few pounds of fat they’ve been carrying since last Xmas. Americans are carrying, on average, the weight of a small boy, rising to that of a full-grown man, as they waddle down the street in shorts and halter tops – or no tops, in the case of the men – eating ice cream cones with four scoops each, defending it staunchly as their right. Being fat has become part of The American Way. Well, roll me in butter-drenched popcorn and feed me to the couch potatoes.

8. Tack. Yes, we have tack here: Blackpool hen parties, edible g-strings, Ann Summers underwear, Poundland party feather boas and sparkly cowboy hats, but we just don’t have it as a lifestyle the way the Americans do. Sure there are old ladies in Bournemouth with flamingos and flashing gnomes in their gardens, but hell, Miami? Florida? Texas? Trailer parks and Las Vegas? Elvis chapels and religious ladies with foot long eyelashes? No, America’s got us licked. And there is nothing so glorious as tack. Tack ridicules art. It takes it and wrings every last ounce of fun out of it – then it puts a red nose on it then lights it up and makes it play the Star Spangled Banner. Tack is an opportunity to wear every sparkly thing in your wardrobe and still be outdone by a septuagenarian with pink hair and a stuffed dog. A real one. That sleeps on its hand-knitted lurex Elvis rug in front of a wagon wheel and buffalo hide fireplace. Tack, I love it. May it never go away.

9. Madmen. From serial killers to holy rollers to presidents who, straight-faced, can say a blow job isn’t sex, there is no country on earth that can rival America for madmen – except maybe the Middle East. What’s more, just like their arch-enemies the ‘towel-heads’, the Americans just love to give their madmen power. In Britain we like our eccentrics. We have one in every other street, building strange things in their allotments and wearing slippers to go swimming. In America they elect them to office – any office – into their churches, to gun groups, little communes in the desert. Yes, the Americans are nothing if not egalitarian. Paradoxically, they think other countries like Britain are eccentric, admiring such ‘quirks’ as drinking tea and eating scones which, apparently, is much stranger than having flags pinned to everything that isn’t breathing – and even to some things that are. America is just one giant Bedlam with the rest of us spectating from the gallery. Reality TV goes continental.

10. Gypsies. America is probably the only country in the world where a certain admiration is retained for rootlessness. Perhaps it’s a leftover from their pioneering days, but where most countries loathe itinerants there’s a little warm niche kept for them in the US – as long as they’re not some filthy tramp with a shopping cart. Americans actively laud taking to the road in a camper van. Yes, it’s perceived as a redneck/middle-aged/laughable thing to do, but they do it. In Britain the idea of roughing it is unthinkable. With the exception of some moorland and most of Northern Scotland, there are no wilds to escape to. And, trust me, escaping to Scotland’s wilds would not necessarily be an enjoyable experience. Even (Irish) road building crews are looked down on here, well-appointed as their caravans may be. They are seen purely as “dirty gypos” and that’s that. In America there are hippies and mystics, old ladies and leisure painters, travel junkies and ‘alternative’ lifestyle gurus all sharing the same routes, parks and lifestyle. And in big motherfucking vehicles at that. The Americans resemble nothing more than original carnival folk – a dying breed here – who carry some very posh shit around on their backs and who are, truthfully, Kings of the road. I have long had gypsy leanings, (and, allegedly, a smidgen of Romany blood) and it’s always appealed to me as the way to see America. Yes, fuck with me and you fuck with the whole trailer park.

And that is why I love America.

COMING SOON – Why I Hate America. (Oh, come on, it’s only fair…)

Debbie Schlussel – The Hitler for Modern Israel!


“Kapo was a term used for certain prisoners who worked inside Nazi concentration camps during World War II in various lower administrative positions. The term is sometimes used to describe self-hating Jews and Jewish anti-Semites[1].
Kapos received more privileges than normal prisoners, towards whom they were often brutal. They were often convicts who were offered this work in exchange for a reduced sentence or parole, however they were usually murdered and replaced with a new batch of prisoners at regular intervals.”


How do you make a Nazi Jew? I don’t know, but old man Schlussel managed it, making a fabulous little Klanner out of Debbie.

To see all that is good and right with the American right – hell, America itself – go take a look at Debbie. Jewish & Fascist is the New Blonde.
But I warn you, she is oddly fascinating, like any alarmist racist with a real need to be top dog. Even if it’s, somewhat bizarrely, top dog for the old blood Ivy League America that fifty years ago wouldn’t have let Miss Schlussel, or any other Schlussel, within 500 yards of their club house, other than to provide the catering.

I have no idea how I fell over Debbie. I was googling Sharon Stone one minute, next thing I know I’ve followed a link and ended up at Debbie’s page. I do this all the time, and it’s a good reason for never spending too long on internet searches. It’s a black hole of hate, you know.

Debbie is a virulent racist of the old-style Ku Klux Klan model. There is only one difference, Debbie is a Jewess. What’s more, she is also a militant Jewess of the State of Israel Can Do No Wrong Mould.

Although Debbie hates Muslims with a passion, she also doesn’t really like blacks, or leftists, or anything to do with sex. In fact, if we could only take that annoying little slash of Hebrew out Debbie’s Jewish princess face she’d be a perfect WASP.

Debbie’s (dyed) blonde. Debbie is an attorney and has run for office. I don’t know which office and, frankly, who cares? American politics is as American politics does – lying and backstabbing de rigueur. I wonder if anyone’s ever done research to see how much American politicians have influenced the Hater generation that has grown exponentially on the net? I reckon the correlation between the two would be amazing.

Debbie makes the Nazi party look tame. In fact, you could take Debbie’s ‘writings’ and just transpose the words Muslim for Jew and you would probably have word for word Hitler speeches. Personally, I think Debbie is Hitler, reincarnated.

Nothing comes out of Debbie’s mouth that isn’t a spew of hate. Even when she’s talking about ostensibly unrelated subjects such as Bono’s alleged philandering she refers to the teenage girls with him as “skanks” and “hos”. The irony is, on the comments on one of her other blogs she criticises someone for using the term ‘ho’ and sneers, “it is spelt W-H-O-R-E”. Obviously, semantics Debbie herself hasn’t mastered.

Every woman that Debbie dislikes – if you can call Debbie’s vitriol ‘dislike’ – is a skank. What they wear is skanky. They are trashy (and that’s something from a bleached blonde Jewess masquerading as a WASP), of dubious morality and often “traitorous”, “Muslim-loving” or “lefties”. Commonly all those things, plus a few more.

Debbie is an exemplary redneck and you can’t help feeling that if she’d been part of the Holocaust, instead of her grandfather, she’d have been a ghetto Kapo, shopping her friends to the Nazis so she could sit out the war in safety, after which she’d promptly switch sides and become one of those terrifying Nazi hunters tenaciously hunting down some collaborator to Buenos Aires and insisting they were deported to Israel to be hung drawn and quartered, live on television, for showing in primary schools so that six year-olds can burn the fiery cross and lynch some of those Muslim niggers that are “ruining America”. Yes, she is that confused, so full of hate that it lashes out in all directions like a fallen power line snaking lethal voltage at all and sundry.

It’s not that I find hate strange (actually I do, I’ve never understood it, and never will), but that it’s so comprehensive, so directionless, so all-consuming and completely ill thought-out. No part of Debbie, for all her education, aspiration to politics, daily blogging, is reasoned, intelligent, rational or informed.

She is every inch without intelligence, consideration or respect. She doesn’t care about facts, the pursuit of truth, arguments or tolerance, she just wants ‘them’ to die. Something must die, someone must pay, in order for Debbie to feel better.

Debbie occasionally answers her commenters back, and when she does she always does it in block capitals. LIKE THIS, YOU RABID STUPID SKANK OF MUSLIM. Indeed, she often writes things not dissimilar to that. Her one concession to not being The Hitler for Modern Israel is that she stays away from MORONIC BAD LANGUAGE. Like all the smart boys who run the National Front, the Klan, and Guns for American Children she has at least learned not to use the actual cuss words of a bitchin’, screamin’ racist hick. Otherwise, however, she sounds exactly like one and not saying fuck is the only thing her personality profile is missing.

Understandably, she gets a lot of hate mail. Her comments are divided roughly fifty-fifty; half saying “You are so rite Debbie, Muzzlems are ruining this country. We shuld bom those towel-head pigs!” Which brings the equally knee-jerk retorts of “DEBBIE, YOU HO BICH RACIST . FUCK U!!! FUCK U YOU JEW BICH!”

Debbie loves those, and practically faints with pleasure when she gets threats – death or otherwise – transparently feeling vindicated at her own righteousness and positively purring that the Muslims have now ‘proved’ they are all terrorists with death in their hearts.

She’s actually had precious few death threats when you consider she spews this venom out on a daily basis and has done for years. In fact, her continued existence and unstoppable big mouth is a wonderful argument against the reality of Muslim terrorism. If there really was anything to fear from terrorists and Muslim extremists Debbie would have been car-bombed years ago and I, a non-capital punishment touting pacifist, would have felt both no pity and a little safer in my bed.

There is absolutely nothing about Debbie to like. I enjoy colourful characters, outspoken people, anyone who bucks the system, flouts conventional and popular opinions, but Debbie is just a great big ugly ball of hate masquerading as some kind of political über-white messiah. A Jewish establishmentarian one at that. It doesn’t get any worse.

You can only begin to imagine what her upbringing must have been like. Holocaust survivors often reacted in one of three ways: 1. Never ever referred to it. So much so, their children and grandchildren did not realise they were ever in camps. 2. Talked about it, wrote about it, started museums and the like, determined that people would never forget. 3. Became Nazi-stalking activists.

In other words, some felt compelled to bear witness, some wanted to forget and some wanted revenge. But what the hell went wrong with old Grandfather Schlussel?

Obviously the man had to be on a hate/revenge kick. But how severe was it to have passed down two generations to reach Debbie in this toxic state? And why Islam? To my knowledge, Hitler had no Islamic blood. In fact, he was a negro-hating, commie-hating, queer-hating, gypsy-hating Aryan purist. Not a lot to differentiate him from Debbie there then. So how did Grandfather Schlussel manage to produce an heir who seems to have adopted all Hitler’s chief characteristics, including the hate speeches, the talk of racial purity, the loathing of moral ‘lowness’ (Hitler didn’t like sex either, unless it was ‘admiring’ young blonde boys in his army), the general timbre of “I really hate the world, it’s shit on me, someone must pay.”?

You’d think Grandfather Schlussel might hate Germans, or protestants, or Lutherans, or men with moustaches – but Muslims? WTF? – to use some netspeak (seems oddly appropriate).

I have to go back to the fact that Debbie is a Kapo, in a long line of Kapos, all sucking up to The Man, longing to be ‘white’ and respected, buying their way into his favour so he doesn’t send them to the camps, either literally, or figuratively. It’s the only way they could have produced this odd belly-rolling WASP girl Republican who loves all things American, conservative and anti-semitic. Her loathing of Islam is donned like a mantle of respectability copied from the true-blood Boston-bred Protestants she aspires to be, like her mother aspired to be before her, and her grandfather before that.

They are all deeply ashamed of being Jewish, and wish more than anything that it could be lifted off them like a stigma of shame. They can’t denounce the ideology of their ‘masters’ that threw grandfather in Belsen – after all, isn’t their next door neighbour a Lutheran of ancient lineage? – so they go for the far more acceptable face of anti-semitism – Islam. Oh yes, the Holocaust was Islam’s fault. Suddenly Hitler isn’t a white guy with good Aryan blood (actually, he wasn’t; he shared quite a few traits with the Schlussels), Hitler has become a ‘black’ guy in a towel, bombing innocent children and determined to kill all Jews.

Debbie simply cannot shake her inner Kapo off. Grandfather was a Kapo informing on fellow Jews for an extra rotten potato. Mother was a Kapo, making like the good little housewife for her Vietnam vet husband, and Debbie is a Kapo, working as a sports agent, being their blonde cheerleader and geeing on Middle America’s fight against Weapons of Mass Destruction.

It has to be one of the saddest statements of humanity that there is no bigot like someone who has suffered bigotry and no hater like someone who has suffered hate. Debbie is living proof that the one thing history teaches us is that history teaches us nothing.

Heil der Mutter!