Never, ever forget the power of the Western Rite. Yes, it's more austere than its Eastern equivalent, perhaps less emotional, but cold and without feeling? No, it has all the power of the Crusades, of Charlemagne, of the Western Empire converted.
Of course you may well prefer a praise band, and that's OK too, if you must, but here's our music, the music of Western Christendom, playing out in Oxford, Solemn Vespers (Evening Prayer, all you Anglicans):
Europe, said Belloc, is the Faith. Both are under attack right now, egregiously. Rise up and reclaim your homeland as you, with the Immaculate Mother of God magnify the Lord.
I've always loved Mr. Nelson's Stardust, how could you not? For me, it brings back memories of grown-ups slow dancing in Denton in the '70's. Beautiful and I guess the album was new then, a far and magical cry from foggy, wet, Oxford. Behold:
Of course Willie's a local man and this little slice of rural paradise has produced a mural, don't call it a "muriel," that'd be rude. BTW, the older women of the church remember Willie and thought he didn't smell too good, "Needed a shower," was the consensus. Dam hippie.
Drive about 45 minutes out of Calgary and you get to High River, which is "a vibrant, People-First community and the back door to the Kananaskis." Marketing aside, it was fun to get out of the city and visit family within sight of the mountains; there they were, at the very end of the road, and you can imagine the toughness of the people who pioneered this place, in the winter. Like Texans but Brits and Scots in the snow for months.
what a daisy
War against the Weather aside, I was knocking about in the backyard, watching the grass grow, when all of a sudden I spotted a Daisy lying nonchalantly against a wall. Yes, it was loaded, and there was a tin can.
Put two and two together and what do you get? No, not maths racism, but a backyard shooting range, so I set to, practicing abominably rusty off-hand with the little BB monster. Big fun, watch that can pop around the lawn. It brought me back to my youth and an air gun, a BSA pump, in Oxford. Sorry, birds, I genuinely apologize.
gotcha
No sooner were hundreds of BBs exhausted than feminine cries echoed from the kitchen, "Please, please get us Poutine! It's just at the end of the street!" Huh. Off I went to the end of the street and there were the mountains, most majestic, but no poutine shop, so I recced around, miraculously found the place, and all was well in High River.
note horse totem
Maybe I need to invest in an air gun when I get back to Texas, just for backyard plinking and keeping the eye in, sort of thing. Shooting is, well, shooting, eh?
Relax? Yes indeed, good Lord we all know we need it, and here's Ray Wylie Hubbard.
"Are you absolutely sure, LSP, can you claim this, are you not from the twin cities of Oxford and St. Petersburg?" Well yes, of course I am, via Denton, Texas. And does Texan ancestry count on your Mother's side, a bit like Judaism, perhaps? Of course it does.
We were driving from Wooton near Woodstock to Oxford, and I was a precocious 8 year old. "What was it like," I asked the driver, doubtless some kind of prof, "at the end of the war?" He replied, "The Germans, even in retreat, were incredibly disciplined," I was struck by that.
And here's the thing, and it played a part in my decision to join up, the people of my age now were, back in the '70s and '80s, WWII vets. They'd been through it, that awful, cataclysmic fight. And here we are again, baying for blood in the name of... what?
Transgender rights? No, that's a risible rainbow smokescreen. How about massive amounts of money flowing to and from the MIC to our beloved rulers of whatever party. Pay up, serf, so we can be richer and you'll get the consolation prize of a tranny bathroom. Or die, at the front.
Years ago I used to get a ride into Oxford from Wootton, near Woodstock, in a half-timbered Morris Minor. "What was it like, at the end of war?" I asked the driver. He paused and, doubtless taking pity on me because I was eight years old and a child replied. "They were incredibly disciplined, even in retreat," and on we drove.
Pan to the Bakhmut pocket. Do you think, mind-band punters, that history rhymes? Russian guns, it seems, are a constant, as is the West's perennial push to take out and own Moscow. All hail the Panzers. We nearly got there in '41, and then we didn't, Rudel and Wittman notwithstanding.
Stuka Rudel
Today? The West finds itself on exactly the wrong side of the bet it's wagered everything on. Viz. We'll never, ever, ever have to fight a conventional war again ever again and after all, all those immigrant votes don't come cheap. Doubt me? Just examine the risible state of UKLF.
Whatever and oops, 30,000++ shells a day argue otherwise, all you Ivy League, OxBridge morons. And here's a thought, maybe you'd be better off organizing tranny pantomime than FORPOL.
Panzer Whittman
In the meanwhile, Bakhmut's heading for a fall, despite Russia's lack of ammunition, computer chips, fighting ability, supply lines, common sense, people, slavic idiocy, corruption, washing machines, (enough - Ed.).
So, and with utter respect to the fallen on both sides, perhaps history rhymes.
I'll just let this repost stand as it is except to say that when I was a very junior LSP I asked a WWII vet "what was it like" when they surrendered. We were in a Morris Minor on the way to Oxford where he taught and I possibly pre-school learned. He replied, "They were incredibly disciplined, even in defeat." That's stuck with me over some 50 years.
Again, a babysitter from Germany in Texas (!) 1972, who had been in Berlin around the end. "What was it like?" She replied, "The Fuhrer would speak to us in the underground from speakers, 'Fight! We will win!'" Maybe it was Goebbels instead of the Fuhrer, and we know how his family ended. Again, an old, hoary and civilized diplomat, "I heard Hitler many times and never thought him anything other than absurd."
Make of this what you will, and if you want something uplifting check out Love The One You're With by the unwashed CSNY.
Just roving the streets of this bucolic Texan haven and thanking God that he's called me to here. Just think of all the metrosprawl alternatives. OK, for many that's fine, and I don't judge, but I'd rather be in the country and I have to say, I miss Oxford and London. (What? Ed.)
Behold The Heinous Architecture of Our Overlords
Well who the hell wouldn't, so-called "LSP," if that's your real name, which we doubt. Hey, watch that tracer and see if it lands in Georgiana. If it does you're all invited.
In the meanwhile it's a fish fry here at the Compound and all the more awesome for catching it yourself. Striper. Ferocious beasts they were too.
Nothing to See Here
In other news, check out sartori in Norwich, yes, it's a thing, and buy bullets. You never know, they might prove kinetically useful or, if not, you can always swap them for food.
Good and bad? You see, there's a difference. On the one hand there's good and on the other, there's bad. Sometimes the two different things masquerade as the same thing, we see this in politics and also in the church. Here, look at this.
That's the bishop figure of London, pretending to be something good, a bishop, which she doesn't believe in anyway. Bad. And here's a couple of clowns celebrating Yewkrist at Trinity Wall Street.
Sinister, don't you think? Go on, receive unholy communion from the clown; sorry about the children, they don't deserve such abuse. But it doesn't have to be this way. There are alternatives.
You can worship God without blasphemously clowning around. Good. It's been done for a few thousand years and's still going on today. Perhaps you need to search it out, it can be hard to find, but it's there and it's worth it.
I say worth it, maybe you'd prefer something else, something more attune to the spirit of the age, something like this:
Why? Because, you know, wymxn priests are gonna fill the pews. Speaking of which, church attendance in England continues to plummet.
At the time of writing, the number of old wymxn on the venerable Church of England's Bench of Bishops is unknown.
Consideration of the virtues not aside, an old pal who's been boss of a seminary in Oxford for ages says that his students tend to be "fragile."
I can believe it, such is the snowflake generation who cry at the drop of an incorrect personal pronoun but seem to be down with Pink Moloch infanticide.
Whatever. Here at the Compound we're all about solutions and staying positive in the fight, so here's some helpful advice from Texas via the Mine.
A weepy student requests a "dialogue." Aristotle, Ze feels, is "systemic racism." Big problem. Solution? No need for words, pass the little snowflake a crying towel and indicate the door. But what if the snowflake's been harmed by someone's insensitivity and wants to tell you, the Principal, all about it?
Easy. Produce a plastic rodent and put it on the desk, then take an axe and chop it up exclaiming, "No one likes a rat." Pass the bits of severed rat to the student and instruct them to take it home. Throw in a towel for good measure, why not, there's no "rule."
Inspired by moonshine posts on various sites my mind ran to a friend of the family who lives in Oxford, England, the 'City of Screaming Tires.' He's a literary critic and writes books, which is a fine job if you can get it, but his American forebearers in the 1920s weren't so grand. No, one of them was a bootlegger with a mobile still which he'd move about from location to location in his old Ford truck.
All well and good, business boomed and the product was good, so good that its purveyor felt compelled to sample his 'product' from time to time. You know how it is, quality control is key, and the quality in question was excellent, it really worked, so much so that still, truck and bootlegger ended up driving full tilt into the Courthouse in the center of town. Serious offence and what was he charged with?
An illegal still? No.
'Moonshine'? No.
Reckless drunken driving? No.
Destroying the Confederate War Memorial? Yes.
I'm sure he got time for that and doubtless well deserved. Enough 'Memorials' - off to say Vespers, shoot + ride about on horses.
