Coronation And Deadly Folly

What a scene, Napoleon, self-crowned and proclaimed leader of all the world crowns his Empress Josephine, resplendent in diamonds as the powers of the Church look on, scowling at the blasphemy of the thing. Triomphe! for the Corsican upstart and his Consort. Lesueur captures the moment, with pre-industrial grandeur:

Triumph indeed, but hubris met nemesis in the Iron Duke, Wellington, who put paid to Boney's scheme of a new world order with himself in charge, smashing the upstart at Waterloo. It's said that clubland in St. James was awakened to the fact of allied victory in 1815 by parades of jubilant people carrying captured French Eagles.

So much for Boney. Wellington stated, laconically, "They came on in the same old way and we beat them back, in the same old way." You can imagine the 50,000 casualties on the field of battle. Here's the Duke in older and seemingly kinder visage:

Josephine Bonaparte died in 1814, a year before her beloved husband met disaster at Waterloo.

Sic transit,

LSP

Space Force Skulduggery

 

Space, the final frontier of war, a vital component in full-dimensional, cross-spectrum supremacy, so thank Rods from God we've got a Space Force. Now, you probably see the Space Force as looking like this except with non-reflective black armor, which is invisible in space:

No, wrong. It looks like this, like Lt. Col. Bree call-sign "Tranny" Fram. Force Lethal or what:

After you've gotten over the weird and unpleasant uniform, note that Bree's on record as saying, "Inclusion is a national security imperative." Of course it is, because if we don't have brigades of trannies in the Space Force all those ChiCom and Russkie satellites won't die laughing.

Dear God, Kyrie Eleison, we've come to this, a blasphemous parody of a woman claiming transing's a key element of our national defense. Take note, Mr. Putin, you'd better start mobilizing the trannies if you're going to even think about taking out Ukraine and NATO. 

random Hollow earth ad

Wow, this is almost as absurd as the stupid old lie, "Trump's a Kremlin agent!" or "unless you wear a mask you're going to die of COVID! and kill me too!" Could it be that the Russkies, forever cunning in the dark arts of espionage and subterfuge, have infiltrated our beloved Space Force and are even now funding and boosting the trans green movement in hopes of irreparably weakening the West? 

A real Space War, let the reader understand

You know, as in "you've got no more industry or energy and all your soldiers, what few you have, are gender dysmorphic, so give us the Arctic or we'll mispronoun you. A lot. Until you surrender and cry in the battalion counselor's office."

I say again, 2024's shaping up for weird and bad craziness.

Your Most Inclusive Pal,

LSP

Happy New Year!

 

Well done, we made it to 2024, no small feat, and local friendlies celebrated the fact with whoops and fireworks which bombed across the firmament like the guns of Kursk. There was traditional gunfire too, off on the edge of town by the sound of it, maybe a pistol or two. All very exciting, and I joined in the fun by setting off a few strips of firecrackers, drawing a big round of Mexican applause.

Fun. Then it was time to head to bed and another installment of Iain Pears' excellent Arcadia, check it out. Today? A brisk walk with an excited dog to the Pick 'n Steal via the Olde Meth Shacke, which is being refurbed by Pedro and his crew. 

Wymmxn Priestesses

Gone are the days of ne'er do wells lolling shirtless and witless in their ragged pajama bottoms, behold instead the new advent of hard at work artisans from south of the border doing their thing. Good for them, though I miss the spectacle of meth shackery, being a creature of tradition. 

A Typical Fighting Monkey

Now, safely back at the Compound, we reflect on the coming year, what will it bring? Good question, and I'm not a betting man but I'll wager my fighting monkey against any ten of your wymmxn priestesses, yes, ten, that 2024 will be even crazier than bad old '23.

Cheers,

LSP

This One's For Jules - Something Good

 

Is this not the best 2016 election night video ever? Fellow blogger Jules thought so over medium rare steak, claret, silver and pistols on the mahogany of that halcyon November night. Wow. He actually got in. Far. Out. Of course the rest is history, here's the video:

Perfection? Near enough as dammit.

Cheers,

LSP

New Year's Eve 2024

 

Mexican music fills the air, Eduardo's exotic ducks are sleeping on the roof of his house across the yard and all seems well with this small rural haven in the North Central Texas Exclusion Zone. Later there'll be fireworks and maybe some celebratory gunfire. Just remember, kids, what goes up must come down.

Detroit, not far from the riverbank (2006)

Speaking of News Year's Eve gunfire, I remember looking across the river at Detroit from Canada at around midnight in the late '90s. Man, it sounded like a firefight was going on over there and I guess it was. Apparently some jolly revelers had opened up on each other with MAC-10s somewhere downtown. I know this because it was reported in the press, which is always honest, loyal and true.

So be careful out there and have a great New Year. Here's a prayer by way of resolution:

Almighty God, who hast poured upon us the new light of thine incarnate Word: Grant that the same light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

 

God bless you all,

LSP

Presidential Election- A Musical Parable

 

Sometimes it's better in song. 

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Presidential Prediction?

You Wicked Old Mountebank

Who's going to be the next President of the, ahem, Free World? El Senor Trump, Joe "Wicked Old Crook" Biden? Kamala  "The Whore" Harris? Good question.

For what little it's worth, I don't see the Crook getting too far, he's just too unpopular, despite his 81 million vote 2020 rig, and he's clearly ancient and demented as well as an old fraud and a crook. No one really likes him, even his own party, why would they. So the 2024 vibe doesn't seem to lie with Pedo Joe. But what about the Cackling Whore? No one likes her either, not a good candidate.

Orange Man Bad

Then there's the Orange Pinata, Trump. He's popular, no doubt about it, the man fills stadiums, but the Uniparty hates him, he's a threat to them. So do you see the Golden Golem of Greatness being allowed by our rulers to ascend, once again, to the Oval Office? I'd say that was unlikely, but even so, there has to be some kind of viable opposition to keep the pretense of our one two party state vaguely credible. You know, your vote counts, sorta thing, which it obviously doesn't, but whatever.

Cynical doomerism aside, who will the Power that controls us run against Orange Man Bad. The Old Witch, Hillary? Surely not, that pantsuit's already sailed. Feeble Joe and the Cackler are clearly a bust, so... who? Mitchell Obama, swooping in from Martha's Vineyard like an ill-omened bat? As a kind of final black Democrat rally before the Latino influx replaces that unfortunate demographic?

How Very Bipartisan

Possibly, but what do I know, not much except this. Trump is surely the only viable GOP candidate, Biden/Harris are a bust and Mitchell's an outlier, which leaves us at an impasse. There has to be someone, some person anointed by Power to act as the figurehead of State and preserve the facade of freely elected governance. Who will it be?

Your Call,

LSP

Hotel Food

 

The Berkley Channelling Melanis

Hotel food. Perhaps you've encountered its beastliness, pricey corporate slop served up as some kind of "treat." Huh. But I recall exceptions to the rule, the Berkley in Knightsbridge served up understated excellence and the Dorchester on Hyde Park wasn't shabby either. 

The Good Old Connaught

Then there was the famous Connaught in Mayfair; go to Mass 'round the corner and fall back to the Connaught for a roast, cell phones not allowed. All famous in their day, justifiably, but let's not forget the Stafford, just off St. James.

Sitting cheek-by-jowl to palatial Spencer House, the Stafford was all about Gilded Age luxury and had wartime cachet to boot, being the WWII Officers' Mess of various allied nations, namely America and Canada. Hence the hotel's American Bar.

The Awesome American Bar

I used to love the American Bar, where you could order up a Club BLT and get perfection, but got to know the dining room menu too well, to the point of exhaustion, it was a work thing. Pan to one night seated at starched linen and gleaming glassware. A waiter approaches and asks in a disturbing French accent, "Sir?"

A moment's reflection, "I should like a cheese omelette and chips." The beastly Dagenhamite sneered at my off the menu order and replied in fakey French, "Would sir like ketchup on his chips?" Stunned by his dam impudence I sat silent while Viscount Furness thundered, beating the table, "He'll eat what he dam well wants!"

The Dorchester, Obvs

The waiter retreated, suitably chastened, and returned with a very decent omelette.

Go to the Stafford if you're in St. James and enjoy the American Bar, I think it remains unscathed from the ravages of the last three decades. Avoid the dining room though, they've ruined it, last I saw.

Apotheosis of Awesome (Boodles)

While you're in the area, gaze in wonder at White's Beau Window and Boodles' equivalent, frown at the forbidding Whiggish facade of Brook's and take solace in the Carlton Club, formerly Arthur's, where, apparently, you're not allowed to smoke anymore. Rubbish.

Cheers,

LSP

Extravagant Doomerism For 2024

 

For an extravagantly doomerist set of predictions for the coming year look no further than 2024: Good-Times, Weak-Men, & The 'Secret Sauce' Of Globalist Wickedness, via Zerohedge. Here's the captivating intro:

“I’ve also lost patience with the Sharia of the political left taking over the entire system.”

- David Collum

Historians of the future, flash-frying peccary testicles and mesquite pods over their campfires, will wonder at how the archetypal Shining City on a Hill of America’s storied yesteryear got transformed into the roach motel that our country has become on the threshold of 2024 CE. Will they be as stupidly bewildered as, in our time, the faculty at Harvard, the editors of The New York Times, or the directorate of the CDC? Or will they figure out the score by then?

Which is: the nauseating state-of-the-nation is being driven by a cohort of our own fellow citizens lost in an evil crypto-religious salvation rapture that veils their own self-disgust, moral failure, peevish discontents, petty hatreds, willful profanations, compulsive lying, sexual depravity, fraudulence, venality, cupidity, and all-around want of boundaries. They are wrecking the country on-purpose, led by their chosen figurehead avatar, “Joe Biden,” and the horses of many different colors he rode in on.

The people running things, yanking the levers of power, managing the malign weapon they have made of government (and the law, and schooling, and medicine, etc.), have got to be turned out, and hard. Not a few should find themselves in the courts and, with proper and fair adjudication, be conducted to prison, perhaps even to the special room there where the lives of the wicked are ceremonially concluded.

You may legitimately ask: Does America deserve what it’s getting? Well, you know the old maxim about hard times make strong men. . . strong men bring good times. . . good times make weak men. . . . Our national quandary is certainly a case of that, plus the manifestation of well-known terrestrial cycles (e.g., Fourth Turnings), plus the workings of emergence as the dynamics involved in all this sort themselves out. . . topped off by the “secret sauce” of Globalist wickedness, with the aim of severe population reduction and the asset stripping of Western Civ for the benefit of the that moneygrubbing Globalist transhuman technocrat rat-pack.

My natural inclination, you know, is a kind of allergy to paranoid schemes, but one does survey the scene with wonder at how superbly coordinated the fuckery has been — much of the world locking down simultaneously for the Covid-19 op. . .  the global mass vaxx campaign. . . the fiscal lunacy and accompanying central bank shenanigans. . . the broad-based censorship operations. . . the capture of the news media. . . and the war-mongering.

So, the country is in the toilet and it is our job in 2024 to make sure it doesn’t get flushed all the way down the pipe. That’s all the throat-clearing you will hear before we get to the meat of this broadside: predictions for the year ahead.

 

You can and should read the excellence of the whole thing. For what it's worth, I mostly agree with Mr. Kunstler even though he doesn't deploy the estimable words "malfeasant," "skulduggery," "mendacious," and "satrap."  

Regardless, see what you think and while you're busy reading I'll be reheating medium rare perfection roast beef. This miracle is achieved by wrapping the jolly old beef in tinfoil, preheating your oven to 250 and then turning it off. Place your Faraday Caged beef in the oven for around 20 minutes, then take it out and eat it.

More on this culinary adventure as it unfolds,

LSP

New Years Challenge

A few years back and there you have it, I was in 'Nam, Cheltenham. It being New Year's Eve it seemed right to visit some friends, regimental tie and blazer no less. And there we were, "Happy New Year, fella," I offered some massive biker, "Is it, F***r?" came the electric synapse, ultra dopamine quick response.

I looked at the offensive mountain of oily denim, leather, hair and worse and said, "Devil take you and twice as fast." He didn't, fortunately, because the owners, ahem, of the house broke in, "Leave him alone, he's Adolf." And so he did.

Funny thing, I was the last man standing at that biker event, at 4++ in the morning. Lightweights, obviously.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Roast Beef Perfection?

 

Here's the thing. You drive over to the local Dallas Tom Overpriced Thumb in search of Boxing Day provisions, and what do you find? A lonely, less than half-price, New York Strip roast. Whoa, apparently no one wanted this bad boy before Christmas because it cost an absurd Bidenflation 70 bucks. So now it sits orphaned and unwanted on the slave block of fate at a mere 24 USD. So what do you do?

Buy it, of course, and thank the Gods of Roast Beef for their largesse. Good work, you've rescued this superior cut of beef from the scandal of back alley dumpsterism. Well done, but your work isn't over, you have to roast that beef and do it right. Yes, but how?

Gravy Incoming

Here's how. Take the meat out of the fridge and let it rest till room temp, in the meanwhile preheat your oven to 450. It's not hard, listen to triumphant music while you're at it, maybe something by Handel or Hawkwind's Motorhead, your call.

Nice

Then brush the meat with olive oil, grind some black pepper onto the thing, add coarse salt, and place on a vegetable trivot of onion, carrot, garlic and celery. Let the beast sit while the oven heats up and make Yorkshire Pudding batter. It's not hard, I use Gordon Ramsey's recipe because it works. Put the batter in the fridge and the roast in the oven.

RIP, Mr. Glock

Sear at 450 for 15 minutes, then lower heat to 325 and roast for 45 minutes. Watch that thing like a hawk and check with a meat thermometer an hour in. It probably won't be ready and that's a good thing, you have leeway. If so, let it cook for another 15 minutes or so until the meat reaches 120. (4.5 pound timing) When it does, take it out and cover with tinfoil.

Gravy's Out of The Frame, Forgive Absence of Regimental Silver

Let it rest and become perfect as you make Yorkshire Pudding, gravy and reheat Christmas Eve's roast potatoes; that'll take about thirty minutes. Then have at it, and slice that medium rare beef up. And fall upon your scoff.

Like a Warrior,

LSP

Hunt

 

All Hail Pershore and its Boxing Day Meet,

LSP

PS. Look, if you can't ride, learn. It may become useful.