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On Noveling: The Characters

4th April 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

Last week I wrote about naming my novel, ‘In Ten Thousand Years’. This week I’m going to describe how I create the characters that will inhabit it.

There are university courses, libraries and innumerable online resources that examine the process of character creation. I’ve looked at a fraction of a fraction of all that information. And even that tiny portion has taught me something important, characters matter. I know, shocker.

Without characters the reader has no one to care about. No one to empathise with. No one to hate. No one to make laugh or cry with. No one through whose eyes we can see the world and experience its vicissitudes. This means the characters have to do a lot of heavy lifting. Get the characters wrong, and by wrong, I mean characters that fail to feel real, then plot and theme are lost.

My novel, is all about the plot. I like the plot. It popped into my head almost fully formed and I really want people to care about the plot. So, I need characters that’ll grab the reader and make them want to turn the page.

The characters in this have taken me a bit longer to dream up. I wrote a few thousand words. These words were the opening scene and a scene that happens later on in the story. In doing so I discovered traits I wouldn’t have otherwise managed.

Some writers will invent and develop their characters before they even think about a first draft. While this approach doesn’t appeal to me, it highlights the importance of having fully realised characters from the beginning. And by fully realised I mean, name, appearance, age, gender, origin, family, species (if writing sci-fi or fantasy), sexuality, right or left handed, habits, idiosyncrasies, foibles, culture and a thousand other details that guide the writer and help convince the reader that this person is real, this person is behaving in a believable manner, this person’s choices reflect all that we know about the character, this person’s fate matters.

A biography of each character is vital. I dislike doing this because it’s a chore. Also, what if the plot requires something that I’ve already stipulated the character could not or would not do? You have three choices, change the character i.e. rewrite the character from the beginning. Change the plot i.e. rewrite the plot from the beginning. Or just hope your character has been so poorly rendered that the reader won’t care or notice the inconsistency. I get a little paranoid about giving the characters so much detail that I paint myself into a corner, but with proper planning, of both character and plot, this possibility will be greatly reduced. No matter how prepared the writer is, there is no protection from a sudden insight that changes everything.

I have two main characters and at the time of writing this, only one other minor character.

My protagonist is called Lord Ithell and antagonist, Series Three. When naming non-human characters, I use one of the several online name generators. I can usually find a name that fits within the first 100 suggestions. Thus, Ithell. Series Three was easy, it describes what it is. That took a lot of pressure off. The third character is called Auttarc. Again, that name is taken from a name generator. When using invented names one can go down the Tolkien route of inventing languages and creating names that fit and have history. Most mortals however just make them up, but they do at least try to have some kind of consistency.

These names are enough for now. The next task will be plotting, which will necessarily lead to more characters.

Previous: Choosing A Title Next: Next

Hypocrisy and Middle Ireland

28th March 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

There are few things as galling as enduring hypocrisy. And those struggling for abortion rights are having to endure more than their fair share of it. It often feels as if the only thing standing in the way of abortion rights is hypocrisy. It assails campaigners from all sides.

There are the tone policers. A section of the commitariat that has managed to misinterpret the marriage equality referendum as a template for all future socially divisive campaigns. They want clean cut, middle class women, to tearfully come out to their grandmothers about the abortion they had because the foetus could not survive. They want campaigners to hold the hand of Middle Ireland as it reluctantly agrees that some women deserve autonomy, in some cases, for some reasons. They want gentle. They want clean. No burst condoms, one night stands, poverty or careers. No bad timing, wrong circumstances or indeed anything that smacks of women refusing to take responsibility for the sex they chose to have. Of course, rape victims should have some physical autonomy, but please don’t mention the near impossibility of turning this into law.

Keep it clean and polite and all things nice. Our betters are certain they know how to win. They may not campaign, but they just know. They expect standards, but only from one side. The vicious and serial dishonesty of the anti-choicers is never even alluded to. The made-up statistics, the made-up links, the misleading agencies, the money and the overwhelming hatred of women who have sex. Not one comment. Whatever act of fanatical misogyny, they escape censure from the tone police?

It is Middle Ireland however that is most guilty of hypocrisy. A hypocrisy that continues to confound those of us who work for abortion rights. The polling evidence is clear, a majority of Irish people agree with some women, being allowed abortions, in certain circumstances. It’s as if the status of the foetus is unimportant. What matters is the woman. How did she arrive at the point where she has demanded (always demanded) an abortion? Are they nice and tragic or just buyer’s remorse?

The foetus doesn’t matter. What did the woman do? Don’t talk to me about the ten women who leave Ireland every day for an abortion. What has the woman done to deserve an abortion in this country? My country. My dear old Ireland. The foetus doesn’t matter. Middle Ireland pretends it does but even the anti-choicers won’t dare suggest a travel ban on pregnant women, by repealing the 13th Amendment. No anti-choicer would dare suggest that women returning from the UK be charged with procuring an abortion.

Middle Ireland knows that abortion is a daily reality for Irish women. They know it is commonplace. Many of them have taken the plane themselves for each and every reason that women choose to have abortions. From the nice and acceptably tragic to the ones they don’t like to hear about, women choosing to have sex. But they want their hands held. Spoken to gently. Told that their prejudices and hypocrisy are values and morals that deserve respect.

This can never be a rerun of the marriage equality campaign. Grannies could have their hands held. Their clean cut, middle class, gay grandsons could appear on posters. Marriage equality was zero-sum. Winners takes all. No reruns. It wasn’t some gay people, in certain circumstances, if they met the standard of Middle Ireland respectability, that could get married.

It’s taken decades to get to a point where pro-choice campaign groups can see the possibility of some sort of a referendum on some aspect of the Eighth Amendment. We’ve gone from being a country where Middle Ireland locked up pregnant women and sold their babies, to a country where abortion rights are debated daily. This is progress. Slow, painful and frustrating, but progress.

If the Eighth Amendment was repealed tomorrow and the right to free, safe and legal abortions was inserted into the constitution, the campaign for abortion rights would still not be finished. Those who hate women, particularly women who have sex, will never stop. So, we can never stop. And you can fuck off if you think we are going to start being polite to those misogynistic shits.

On Noveling: Choosing a Title

27th March 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

I hate naming stuff. Anytime I write a blogpost I have to ask Paula for advice on the title. There’s a lot of expectation put on a title. It’s supposed to describe and attract, but using only a handful of words. Sometimes, just a single word. And to make it more complicated, one wants to exhibit a touch of class by avoiding ‘clickbait’ titles. That’s a lot of pressure.

As I write this I am still unsure what the title of my novel is going to be. It’s a science-fiction story set about 10 millennia into the future. So, do I call it ‘Ten Thousand Years’ or some variation on that? It has aliens. Do I call it, ‘First Contact’ and pretend I don’t know there’s a Star Trek film of that name?

Why am I even stressing about this? Because naming your novel is the single most important thing you’ll ever do. That you can change that title ten times a day, every day, until it’s actually published is irrelevant. The more you focus on the title the less time you have to worry about writing the damn thing. I get to spend hours wondering about something that will be one to four words in length. That is so much more manageable than 60 to 80 thousand words.

So yes, it is a colossal waste of time. My most successful story to date was called ‘The Bucket.’ The Bucket! I still cringe when I say it but I don’t think there can be a better title for that story. It’s just so prosaic. I know that whatever I call my new story today, is not what I need to call it tomorrow, but naming it does have a function.

When I began this project, I created a new folder on my laptop. I called it, ‘Writing Project.’ That does not draw the eye. It does not inspire. It will not excite. A name, a title, gives the novel a life. A separate (even if wholly dependent) existence. It’s a form of anthropomorphism. I’m visiting with this entity, feeding and molding it into the finished being it was always meant to be. When the really hard work begins, it is this degree of separation and obligation that will hopefully inspire me to continue.

And again, that doesn’t mean I won’t change the title in a heartbeat if I think of something better. But the separateness continues.

So, for today and possibly all this week, my work in progress is called, ‘In Ten Thousand Years.’ I will now change the name of the folder and begin to think of this being called, In Ten Thousand Years. It’s a bold title. Well, it’s longer than my usual. I’ve rarely gone beyond two words. You can imagine the misgivings I’m already trying to quell.

Next week I’ll write about the characters. Or more accurately, write about writing about the characters. There are really only two in this story so that shouldn’t be too difficult.

Previous: On Noveling Next: The Characters

On Noveling

22nd March 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

I wrote recently about experiencing a level of anxiety that has necessitated me getting professional help. Part of that anxiety is fueled by my inability to write. And my anxiety is causing me not to write. It’s a sealed loop that I’m trying to unseal. I’ve not had a lifelong desire to write fiction. I can trace that desire to about fifteen years ago. Since then, telling stories has become an integral part of my identity. So, when I’m not writing, me and my concept of me get uncomfortably skewed.

It’s frustrating in the extreme. I don’t even like writing fiction. I like the ideas that swim around my imagination. I like exploring them. Putting them in some order. It’s just that communicating them to anyone outside my head is painfully difficult. What I’d like is someone with the skills and discipline to write a novel, to reach into my head and take those ideas for themselves. Create a bit of art that has its genesis in my idle musings. Save me the pain and absolute drudgery of trying to communicate those ideas through the medium of the novel.

I keep reading blog posts by writers who describe their process, hoping they’ll have the secret to making noveling easy. I haven’t found that secret. Writing a novel is, and always will be, hard work. A long and brain melting endurance test that doesn’t even guarantee a product anyone will care about. Yet here I sit, with anything up to ten different novel ideas fighting for attention in my head. I need to begin to get them out. They’ll drive me mad otherwise.

So, I have decided to change my entire life. Well not really. I’m going to gradually, incrementally and carefully begin to alter certain aspects of my life so that the process of writing a novel, becomes less intimidating and awful. The first step has been going to bed earlier. Yep, I know, how dramatic. I realised some time ago, to my surprise, that I write better in the morning. I had confused being able to stay up late watching TV with being a night owl. I’m not a night owl. I just lack a routine and when I’m tired enough to go to bed I spend a long time procrastinating because it’ll involve brushing my teeth, seeing to Arwen, unplugging stuff. I can get another 30 minutes of channel-hopping out of that.

The aim is to be in bed by 11.30, read for half an hour and then sleep until about 7.30. Get up and write for an hour. That’s it. That’s all I intend doing for the next four to six weeks. I have a long list of other steps but I know if I try everything at once it’ll be easier to give up. If I manage this small thing for that length of time, then I will add more steps. There is one other thing I’m including though.

I am a very vain man. I adore attention. That probably won’t come as a surprise to many people, but let’s pretend it did. Thank you. I intend using that vanity for something useful. Mornings will be for writing my novel. I haven’t a name for it yet and it may be more a novella than a novel, but it’s the story I intend concentrating on for this year. Anyway, afternoons and evenings will be for planning that novel and describing that planning process. It will offer an insight into how an inexperienced, unsure and struggling amateur novelist tries to novel.

I’m hoping that my vanity will encourage/force me to have something to write about. No doubt a few posts about not writing anything will be acceptable to a reader, but a litany is just that, a litany.

So that’s my plan. It may fall on its arse or it may spur me back into my groove. Either way, I will begin on Monday 27th March, with the aim of having a novel (or novella or even a novelette (shut up, that’s a real thing)) ready for publication next Christmas, Winterfest or Saturnalia.

Whatever happens, I hope you will at least enjoy my bitching and moaning and insights. I promise that no matter how unproductive I get, I will give a detailed weekly update on my failure. OK, yes, that was a terribly transparent attempt at lowering your expectations and garnering sympathy. But my first entry will be titled, On Naming a Novel. Both boring and pretentious so I do need to mitigate that by appealing to your emotions.

See you Monday.

Next: Choosing a Title

Anniversaries

14th March 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

I hate nostalgia. Well, I hate other people’s nostalgia. I quite like my own. And I want to indulge my nostalgia as I recently celebrated being two years married to Paula. This isn’t just a piece of nostalgia about Paula. It’s also about Twitter. I’ve a somewhat rose-tinted view of old Twitter. I remember Twitter in 2012 as being a much gentler environment than the febrile maelstrom that it has now become. And it was in 2012 Twitter that I met Paula.

I’d joined Twitter with certain goals in mind. First, I wanted to meet fellow Middle Earth and Federation nerds. I had been assured that nerds lived in the internet and not in really rural Kerry. Second, I wanted to tout my blog. And finally, I’d declaim on politics. I knew everything and would enlighten the gentle folk of the internet machine with my incisive assessments.

I got a bit of a shock. I quickly realised the people there were smarter and more interesting than me. I reacted to this in a way I still take pride in, I enjoyed it. I learned a great deal and I made friends. Many good friends, but friends I never got to see in real life as they almost all lived in Dublin. I found myself quite jealous anytime a tweetup was being planned and I couldn’t go because of either work commitments or lack of funds. But I got to talk about Middle Earth and about why Deep Space 9 is the best Star Trek. And people read my blog. A blog I had to improve as I knew now the calibre of person I wanted reading my thoughts and opinions.

And Twitter being Twitter, it managed to combine my writing and Lord of the Rings into a meeting with the woman I eventually married.

Paula was on Twitter but we weren’t aware of each other. Irish Twitter was tiny so there was only ever a few degrees of separation between us all. The ‘degree’ between us was Andrew Madden. I’d written a piece that had been provoked by an unpleasant (not homophobic obviously as we aren’t allowed say that word anymore) Irish Independent column. It proved a popular post and was brought to Paula’s attention by Andrew. We began to follow each other. There was nothing of romance at this time as I knew Paula to be a lesbian.

I wrote my article on October 31, 2011. We met for the first on October 29, 2012. And we met because of Lord of the Rings.

The RTE Concert Orchestra was due to perform the music of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, and as I’d been to the Fellowship of The Ring performance, I was definitely going to this one. It occurred to me that this would be a great opportunity to arrange my very own tweetup. To finally meet the people I’d been chatting to for a year or so. It took place in O’Neill’s on Suffolk Street. To my surprise and joy it was well-attended and many of the people went on to be guests at our wedding.

Again, there was no romantic connection but there was a connection. I thought she was a lesbian so it didn’t occur to me that a romantic connection was even possible. But a firm friend she would definitely be. What I hadn’t read before we met, was a post she’d written, coming out as bi. We worked out a few months later that it had been published during a Twitter break I was on. Yes, even in Old Twitter, Twitter breaks were a thing.

Poor sheltered culchie that I am, I hadn’t encountered someone who was bi before. I wasn’t entirely clear of the rules. But over a few months of DMs we decided a date was called for. And it just so happened that I’d be in Dublin for the release of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. We’d planned to see each other on 17th as I was going to the cinema on the 16th. But we decided we couldn’t wait so we met briefly on the 16th, before I headed to the cinema. We married 15 months later. Half the guests were friends we had made on Twitter.

I am aware that I remember old Twitter through a fog of nostalgic bliss. But I think you’ll agree that my excuse for doing so is a good one. Because of Twitter (and Lord of the Rings) I met my wife to be. Because of The Hobbit, I went on my first date with my future wife. The only sad part is Paula couldn’t give a shit about Lord of the Rings.

Learning Shame

12th March 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

I still remember my skin crawling when Tony Blair apologised for the Great Famine. Now, as then, I could not help but feel the act to be mawkish symbolism. Though I am in the minority. It was a well received apology. The devastation of that famine cannot be overstated. And that efforts to ameliorate were minimal is uncontested. Blair was head of the government of the nation who had to power to relieve, but chose not to. That the famine occurred over 150 years ago, is considered immaterial as the entity known as the UK still exists.

That is how we look at the world. We have divided ourselves into nations. And there are rules to being a nation. Everything your nation has ever done, is doing or will ever do is your responsibility. Everything our nation does is our business and we’ll only take responsibility for those acts we choose to take responsibility for. We expect and demand shame and pleas of contrition from others. We carefully educate our young to only see what is commendable about us.

In the last few years the head of government in our nation has had to make various apologies for how our nation treated its most vulnerable citizens. It is the closest we’ve gotten to admitting that the imagined nation created for the consumption and indoctrination of our children is wildly different from the nation that exists in reality.

We only exist as this nation because we have taught our children that this nation exists. We only exist because for generations we have taught our children that we exist. And this belief is bone deep. It is unshakable. It is an integral part of our core identity. We are Irish. We exist because we have always existed. We exist because being Irish is better than not being Irish. We are Irish because our ancestors are Irish. We are Irish and proud to be Irish. We exist because we have taught ourselves to exist. We are this nation and no other. We are this nation because we are proud to be this nation.

How then do we integrate shame into this self-perpetuating identity of exceptionalism and pride? The dead generations (and not so dead generations) that took a nation and forged from it a state, stand now accused and found guilty of callous cruelty. Not the personal cruelty, confined to home and hearth, but a cruelty made into custom and law. A cruelty of intellectual and material poverty. A cruelty of devotion to virginity and faith. A cruelty of rigid conformity and hypocrisy. A cruelty of gender and class.

A cruelty that only idealism and patriotism can fester.

How do we weld shame onto pride? How do we conjoin identity and reality?

And worse, so much worse, is the money. We might forgive the dead and not so dead generations for their wanton obedience to a vicious ideology. We could patronise them for their naivety and simplicity. Even excuse them for being in the inescapable clutches of an all pervading custom of hate. But the money.

This was not simple idealism. This was profit. This was not punishment and rehabilitation and salutary lesson. This was profit. Babies were sold. Hair was sold. Labour was sold. This was profit.

In this more enlightened age we understand the power of faith. It can animate those in its power to acts of unimaginable callousness. Many of those who imprisoned pregnant women, took their children and forced them to work probably believed that this was the right thing to do. I imagine it is easy to hate women, especially sexually active women, if one is taught to hate women, especially sexually active women and with a particular vehemence, sexually active women who aren’t married. And why would one even ask about the boys and men who got these women pregnant when one is taught to hate sexually women and only sexually active women?

With the correct interventions and therapies, one could possibly counsel this hate away. One could learn to forgive these poor souls lost in their hateful faith. But the money. The money. The money. They sold babies, hair and other people’s labour.

How do teach ourselves the shame we expect other nations, other states, to feel? Do we just leave it to the Taoiseach du jour to apologise and the taxpayer to give inadequate compensation? How do we teach the shame of our nation colluding in the kidnapping and selling of babies?

Anxiety

1st March 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

So, I’m back in therapy. This will be the third time in my life I’ve had to enter into a long-term relationship with a stranger where I tell them all my deepest darkest secrets and they give me fuck all in return. Worse, I have to pay them large sums of money for the privilege.

It is very annoying to have waited until middle-age to become acquainted with anxiety. Depression I can handle. Been there, done that, bought the non-tax-deductible remedy. Anxiety however is new. Where depression I felt in my stomach and behind my eyes, anxiety appears to live in my chest.

What gives this unfortunate place of residence that extra soupcon of unpleasantness is that I’m a middle-aged man with a genetic predisposition to heart disease. A middle-aged man who has read a bit too much about the physical cost of stress and anxiety. A middle-aged man who is now paranoid that every twitch and twinge in his chest is a prelude to a fatal heart explosion. A middle-aged man who is quickly piling on all the pounds he had managed to lose last year. And all those pounds can be measured in take-aways and crisps.

I never thought I would miss depression. The thing about depression is that it has an element of anaesthesia about it. That numbing effect that helps one shut out the stuff a grown-up person is supposed to care about. You know, bills, relationships and Climate Change.

This anxiety thingy however makes me hyperaware of everything. And I’m using the term ‘hyperaware’ utterly incorrectly here. I’m not hyperaware, it just feels that way. And because my mind is signalling fear in the face of such mundane issues like my phone ringing, my chest tightens and this makes me more scared which tightens my chest ever more and in the end, I’m exhausted and drained.

It has shut me down professionally, creatively and socially. Again, that sounds very dramatic. I still turn up for work, I still have ideas, I interact with people I have to interreact with, but the effort is almost overwhelming. I’m shit in work, I can’t write for shit and I’d give my last cent to avoid any social situations that might extend to actually being me.

I am struggling to express myself. Yes, a straight white man who is writing on his blog about his struggle to express himself, is struggling to express himself. More ironing than you can shake a stick at there. Yet that is where my head and chest are at.

A typical day now consists of lurking on Twitter and Instagram and playing CivIII for hours on end. And not writing, not debating, not dieting or exercising, not in fact being a grownup middle-aged man who does want to do all these things but is stuck avoiding all these things because they make his chest hurt. And because he’s avoiding all these things his chest hurts. No wonder I’m reduced to forking out money I don’t have to speak at a professional who is tasked with using the silences for me to find my own solutions. Therapy is such a fucking racket. Life-saving yes, but still, a bastard fucking racket.

I am now in the accomplishing tiny little goals phase of the process. I am trying to write 1000 words a day, walk Arwen, trying to eat only one packet of crisps a day (a bloody big bag I’ll grant you, but still, baby steps, I haven’t even looked at the chocolate content of my day), read a bit (did I mention I’m even struggling to read?) and do a few chores. The sort of day that most adults manage before leaving for work in the morning.

Those 1000 words don’t even have to be creative. This blog post counts towards my daily 1000. And I’ve a bunch of other posts I’ve tried to write over the last few months that I can return to, to get my count up. Anything to get the expression muscle motoring again. Yep, I just typed ‘expression muscle’ and haven’t deleted it. But it, and repeating it, means four more words. So fuck it, it’s staying.

At this point I’d gut my entire family, even the ones I like, if it meant I could get writing again. If it meant relaxing the knot seizing my chest. Fuck, I’d even settle for the knot returning to my stomach where it has always been before when I’ve been unhappy.

Now I have to decide if 800 words is close enough to 1000 words to count as task accomplished. Which will lead to an internal debate about back-sliding and whether a bit of slacking is ok in the current circumstance or if settling for nearly there will defeat the purpose of having a daily task. That knot just gets tighter. If I could only afford daily therapy or even weekly I could dump this issue at the feet of my therapist and then watch him manipulate me into picking up that mess myself and deciding my own solutions. Like I said, a fucking racket.

Shamrock In The White House

4th February 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

I have a sneaky regard for Enda Kenny. He’s the kind of bland politician I like to see in my democracy. He entered the Dáil just one year after I was born. I have a grey beard, so that tells you how long he’s been a public representative. And in all that time he hasn’t said or done anything that could be remembered the next day, never mind ten years from now. He has the charisma of magnolia paint and the searing oratory of an awkward father of the bride. He is, to belabour the point, bland.

He probably has some ideological convictions. I’m not sure what they are because he has the decency to say nothing that could be construed as a guiding value. Yet one does get the impression, that while his primary focus is keeping his constituency sweet, he would like to see Ireland do well. If whether he can distinguish between the people who live here and the corporate entity known as Ireland, I have no idea. But I’m almost certain he knows that if his legacy is to be more than being Taoiseach for longer than expected, Ireland (or the people who live here) will have to feel (and feel is more important than reality) that things are better because of him.

Retaining his seat for so long has taught him some kind of electoral cunning. Or has he won that often because he is cunning? I don’t know, but he knows his people, especially if they are Mayo people. He may not wear his values on his sleeve but he knows what values are continually winning him re-election. And he knows what he thinks is best for Ireland Inc. So, when he happens upon a moral pickle he’ll do the math and act accordingly. He may not do it consciously. I’m sure that being a politician this long means it takes no more than split second to decide what to do.

For example, should he go to Washington, cap in hand, bowl of shamrock in the other, and prostrate himself before the Orange Monster now stinking out the White House? Let’s look at the math. The Bigly Bigot has targeted Muslims. How does that impact on Ireland and the people who live here? It has certainly generated a lot of outrage but mostly among people who wouldn’t vote for Enda anyway. Will Ireland Inc. be tainted by this crawl to the Big House? Possibly, but weigh that against the risk of US companies being directed by the thin-skinned buffoon to divest.

Do we really care that much about Ireland’s reputation that we’d risk some sort of economic pain for taking a moral stand? A moral stand for Muslims? A moral stand for refugees we don’t really want to help either? Yes, we have a history of fleeing our nation and seeking salvation in the US but that only happened in history books so it doesn’t count. So, the math is simple, Enda will certainly go to the US and kiss the ring on those tiny orange fingers.

Those of us who think this an embarrassing endorsement of sectarian populism have to do our own math. Enda won’t lose a single vote for playing the peasant supplicant for Ireland. Many among our families, friends and neighbours don’t see how a US ban that targets Muslims makes the world a less safe place. I’m not talking about the common or garden bigots who laud the Orange Monster’s actions, but the majority who don’t see why Ireland should care about what the US does to Muslims as long as they invest in our little country and look after our relations who are in the US illegally.

Outrage at being associated with our Bland Supreme being photographed with President Bigot is not much use. Attempting conversations with those who don’t see the vicious stupidity (and the immorality if you’re feeling up to it) that President Bigot is cultivating and unleashing is now our only option. Conversations with people who vote for Enda. Not conversations with the racists but with those who don’t understand that silence is the same as complicity.

Culture Is A Strange Thing

30th January 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

European women are not having enough babies. It’s a fact. Well kind of. How many is enough babies you ask? 2.1 apparently. So, if European women would make it their business to each have more than two babies then all would be grand with the world. It isn’t often that a complex social issue can be answered with a simple number. There’s a distinct bang of 42 off of this.

Why 2.1? Simply put that is the minimum requirement for maintaining the present population of Europe. It’s important that the population doesn’t fall because we need a constant supply of young people to look after us, physically and financially, as we age. And women, the selfish creatures that they are, are neglecting, to give us enough young Seans and Hildas and Francescas to keep our arses wiped and stomachs full.

One could delve into the myriad of reasons that women are keeping the expensive, career limiting, life altering, freedom robbing, dangerous and painful pregnancy thing to a minimum, but that is for others to do. I’m more curious about the rather obvious solution that has already presented itself. Namely, immigration. Masses and masses of it.

Europe is rich. Europe is very rich actually. And Europeans are pretty good at being rich. It turns out that centuries of raping, murdering and pillaging each other, then the rest of the world and then each other again, hard, has left us rather soft. And this presents us with a problem. We don’t like the idea of obvious neglect of our senior citizens (who, totally unrelated to this of course, have a worrying propensity for voting). Neither are we comfortable with the idea (well those of us who don’t wear robes as uniforms) of insisting women do their bit by pushing out more Europeans (and again, totally unrelated to my point, there are more of them and they somehow get to vote as well).

Of course in the old days, when men were white, old people had the decency to die and women popped out a new European every other year (annually if Roman Catholic). And more importantly, people of colour knew better than to choose to live in Europe. For Europe was where white people lived. The most culturally advanced mass murderers this benighted planet has ever spawned.

But as I referenced in paragraph four, resting atop the stacked corpses and stolen treasure we grew flaccid. We were still white, even if only reflexively, but being white had become less of a lifestyle choice and more a thing that those embarrassments (or relatives for short) who kept getting older but not dying used to nostalgia about. We realised that while giving women the vote was a ridiculous notion, it had the unexpected result of creating more consumers and thus more shit that must be manufactured and thus more workers and thus more taxes and thus more money to be spent on people who simply refuse to die.

It’s a brave new world but there simply aren’t enough of us. So, filthy foreigners and their foreign ways are our only option. But there are some Europeans, or Whites for short, who are concerned that these foreigners and their ways will swamp our native culture. Our wondrous culture. Our, we conquered the world and used gods and science to justify it, culture will disappear under the weight of influxing hordes.

That’s not an entirely daft fear. Nonsensical, wrongheaded and factually incorrect, but not daft. Europe is a geographically defined place populated with human things and we all know that if there’s a piece of geography with biology walking around it, there must be a culture. And logically then, more biologicals entering said Petri Dish must impact on the native culture. Logical.

Now if one could just define European culture for me then we could, swastikas flying, fight to defend it. I’m not even sure what Irish culture is and there are hardly any Irish people. All I know for certain is that when I hear someone speak about Irish culture I invariably thank Gandalf I don’t live wherever and whenever that culturalist is yapping about.

That is not to say there are things about Europe today I would like to see unchanged. I can write that Christianity and Islam are ridiculous inventions that should be helped to disappear as soon as humanly possible. I can say that the political leaders of my portion of Europe are clownish ne’er do wells who require immediate replacing. I can say fuck the police. I can say all these things and know I get to sleep well and safe tonight. Also, I can choose not to say these things because needlessly insulting people is a tad outré.

Europe and my portion of it ensured that I am educated enough to make arguments using facts and figures and reason rather than cheap insults. I’m entitled to use cheap insults, but I shouldn’t be expected to be taken seriously.

Yet cheap insults, foundless or misdirected fear and mythology (i.e. lies) are now part of our European culture. It’s a culture of vindictive cowardice. A culture of 500 million cowering white people wetting themselves at the appearance of a few million refugees.

We invented using religion to excuse violence. We invented using violence to excuse religion. Then we stopped doing that. In some places a little later than others (looking at you Ireland) but we did stop it. Among the few million victims fleeing to Europe from the horrors of war, there will be some people with bad intentions. They have been murdering Muslims for decades and now they want to have a go at the Christians, pretend Christians and the atheists. They have had some tiny successes. Yet in that time Germany saved a million people.

But perhaps it isn’t the terrorism. Perhaps it’s the dark skin of the men and the no skin on show by the women that animates the myth makers on their quest for division and power.

Europe is the cradle of whiteness. We invented it. Turned it into a religion and promulgated it with science. If Europe did have a culture it was whiteism. It’s a culture I’d thought as relevant today as using snuff and burning women, I mean witches.

I’d thought that Europe’s culture, if it could be said to have one, was one of having learned its history. Had learned it so well that we had finally gotten our shit together. I was wrong. When I was reading our history, I was reading a list of our crimes and accomplishments. The Whiteists were reading the same books but counting the crimes as being committed against them. How the fuck else could they think White Genocide is a thing?

Trump Coming To Kerry

23rd January 2017 / Paul W.S. Bowler

I have some sympathy for Kerry County Councillor Thomas McEllistrim’s (Fianna Fáil, natch) call for a formal invitation to be extended to Donald Trump to visit our beautiful Kingdom. Whatever misgivings we snowflakes may have about this orange menace, Councillor McEllistrim is doing his job.

He is a county councillor. A county councillor has two areas of responsibility.

The first is to protect his positon. And protecting means ensuring re-election. The councillor must keep a weather eye on his municipal rivals both from within and without his party. But ultimately, he looks to his advancement within the ranks so that one day he may leave the Council behind for the real money of a TDship.

To this end all efforts must be directed to promoting Brand McEllistrim. In inviting President Pond Scum, McEllistrim has ensured not only local coverage but national attention. His already high brand recognition is now at TD level. And as an election may be called at any moment he must be congratulated on this coup.

His second area of responsibility is the promotion and protection of this county’s best interests. This is a straightforward proposition as long as one doesn’t think about it for more than a split second. What are Kerry’s best interests? For a long time, we’ve been taught that this is merely a financial consideration. President Bigot visiting our golf courses will obviously have an impact on tourism. With tourism comes more jobs and more money and all is right with our tiny corner of the world.

How could anyone, but a snowflake, or a woman, question this logic? There is no way to put right and wrong into a graph with arrows going up or down, measuring what is in essence, nebulous. We know that President Sexual Assault is a bigot, a racist, a hypocrite, a liar, a misogynist, a threat to world security, a narcissist and too thin skinned to be believed, but does any of that matter?

In what measurable way does fawning at the feet of this worthless piece of shit impact negatively on the people of Kerry? Our Kerry politicians kissing his tiny orange toes will attract money. That he is a slimy, vindictive, divisive and self-aggrandising mess of a barely human male thing, should not detract from the money that Councillor McEllistrim rightly assumes will follow in his wake if he was to pollute our Kingdom with is vicious presence.

We can’t just make the leap to insisting that someone who boasts about sexually assaulting women being lauded by our public representatives is an explicit or even a tacit endorsement of sexual assault. It’s logically true, but you just can’t say it. They are our public representatives and that would be like saying that Kerry endorses sexual assault. So we can’t say that. We must just think of the jobs.

We can’t assume that just because he equates the actions of a minority of Muslims with all Muslims that Kerry also accepts bigotry as our county hobby. That we might have our own experiences of being assumed terrorists makes us impervious to such bigotry even if we embrace the most powerful bigot on the planet. For the jobs.

Yes he mocked a disabled man. It’s on tape, but he denied it so we have an out. We are not saying it’s ok to mock people with physical disabilities, we just want the jobs. It’s on tape, but he denied it. Jobs.

Doffing the cap, with our hands held out, to a mean little man doesn’t make us mean little people. Well obviously it does, but that isn’t the point, jobs. This clown and his circus of sycophants and psychopaths, will bring the world’s attention to our golf courses. And isn’t all that really matters?

datbeardyman