Sunday, 30 September 2012

What 4chan Thinks About The World

When is Project Mayhem happening? (heads up to Free Northerner)

The Cardinal Rule of Game

When I arose from my alcohol fueled rampage on Thursday night, I couldn't help but ruminate on the American, the computer science nerd, my fumbling floundering partner in crime.

Men who are poor with women and who subsequently fall into a relationship end up grasping, tripping over themselves, fearing that valedictory remark, attaching themselves to it like a leech to the unsuspecting victim's hind leg. Suddenly, the sexual frustration of yesteryear has been replaced by a tap, with refreshing, transparent liquid that will quench any thirst, but the problem is, with the tap, is that one is not entirely sure what will come out of it, and how much of it will be available to that person in the first place. So the man fears that he will be cut off forever. That he will be put back in that oasis with the other Marvin Von Vinkle fuckbats, that he will be forever pulling his beans while all his mates get suited up and wedding bells with svelte lassies pirouetting in dazzling whites ring forth for evermore.

If you want a one on one relationship, or if you want to tear through lassies like the last days of Rome, that is entirely up to you, (even though I think you should aim for the first one, just not put up with ANY bullshit) fucken ain't your bishop am I. But, what Game does, is that it gives you that piece of mind, pure fucken zen. Completeness. You might be say, in a relationship with a beautiful amazing lassie, but you're not remotely worried about that tap running out; because you know deep down that if yous were to break it off for good, then with a small bit of work and a stroke of luck on the side, you would have a woman of her caliber, if not better in no time at all. Paradoxically as well, it means your relationship will be even stronger with her, because you will be less clingy, more carefree, more aloof, more fulfilled. This, should be the goal of game. Monogamous relationships or budding Lord Byrons both have their place, but that piece of mind, that freedom, that ability to walk away and remake your self, is an awesome skill to have. This also extends to financial circumstances. You really, don't have to work as hard anymore, when you're shit eating grinning every wee fucker that passes you on the street. Your wife adores you! And you gave her a pack of skittles for her birthday! Fucking A.

Good social skills, health, a small bit of cash and the ability to game women to a level where you know you won't enter any severe dry spells. Have these four in abundance, and you will as Charlie Sheen said: "win" at life.  Everything else comes after.

Saturday, 29 September 2012



A brief history of indian weightlifting.

If you want to stay sane, you need a project in your life. You need meaning.

So, whats the worst that can happen?

Get your testosterone levels up, you faggy shit.

Look, not masturbating to porn is a brilliant thing to do, but you don't have to work yourself up if you fuck up/indulge once in a while. Don't be like these reddit guys.

Coming soon, The Francis Begbie Bumper Cars!

A great guide to Western Movies.

All the ugly people. Where do they all come from?


Vox nails it. If I have to hear another bird talk about how intelligent she is because she supports Barack Obama....

Caesins>>>>Whey Protein

Are neanderthals human?

Turns out that social isolation can fuck your brain right up.

Mercury levels in fish are nowhere near as dangerous as made out to be. Eat to your heart's content.

If a girl gives you shit, maintain your frame and keep your cool. 

Take a step into Dublin's past. 

No matter who you vote for, you will end up being very disappointed.

A series of unfortunate events.

Haters literally have nothing going for them. If you have them, you're going the lord's work.

Women DO belong in the kitchen!

Jesus H. Christ. Fucking amazing story.

More people hating (rightfully) on the men's right movement.

You will feel like a fucking king. This is from my own experience. Get juicing cunts.

Yeah, there are better comedies out there than Airplane!

An awesome article on sluts.

Don't be a MRA. Get off your arse and do SOMETHING about it.

Even if you're in your middle age, there is absolutely nothing against going motherfucken caveman.

Fat people are pissed off and the world is now a better place.

Your granddad knew better than you. Get that smooth shave that you deserve.

Oh no!

The No Krugman club.

Friday, 28 September 2012

Francis Begbie's Day Off (How Did You Spend Your Arthur's Day?)




Alarm bells ringin, dinnae give a bloody shite anymore. Another day of lectures on boring crap I don't give two shites about. I've been drifting off the radar more and more recently, racing the whole world down that ladder tae God. I get out of bed, cycle down to tae the gym and get lifting. Meet up with a mate, and it's three o clock looking at the old ticker. We're getting the drink on. A skinny blonde American guy. Has a neckbeard. Studies computer science and is here for the rest of the year on an exchange.

"More beer, dude?"

"Heh, almost definitely! I'm gettin fucken twisted tonight kid!

"This is a special day for you guys? To Alberts!"

He raises his glass and is now unofficially the biggest tit in the bar. Still a legend though.

"No, ye fucken doss cunt! To Arthur!"



"Look at the arse on her..."



"He's a bit of a hero for you guys?"


"A hero? Arthur?"

"Naw, well like, the fucken marketers at Guinness are a conniving buncha fuckers and they managed to convince a buncha tinker son cunts to basically royt, believe a day of pure inebriation is a part of our national idenitiy, that Guinness is a part of our identity, of being Irish, and that we are in the process of conflating a day of getting langers with history, the nightmare we are trying to awaken from, so that's why we celebrate this day, in the same way we do Patrick's Day!"

"How long has this been going on for?"

"Four years. Only the Irish could make up and suck up this bullshit after such a short duration of time..."

"Hehaheh, You guys, are so down on yourselves! Why don't you just lighten up a bit?"


"Hey George?



"Suck my arse"


I'm out on the streets of Dublin, dancing imbibed under the gibbous moon. It's nine o clock and it's Arthur's day. The past permeates my mind. I am haunted, gaunt faced, melancholic. I have already passed a lightly dressed seventeen year old pull up her dress and start pissing in the middle of the street. I have seen a morbidly obese man in a Hawaiian shirt singing "I GET KNOCKED DOWN", to a witchy looking homely lassie in her late twenties, having drinks, tinks, and seemingly innocuous how do you dos with the wailing wall of women. The American and I are in Bernard Shaws, dining out on some crusty meatball pizza. Suddenly, as we are discussing the ins and outs of American Foreign Policy, a group of Asian chicks fill the room. I point them out to the American guy and tell them I'm going to go over and try and see if I could well be in. I down my pint, and I stroll over to them, pretending to be unperturbed by the copious amounts of methane gas that have been expelled by yet another, badly dressed fat bastard in sigh...another Charlie Harper bowling shirt.

"You know, it's not really polite to stare at people like that."

"I wasna stareen at you!"

"I think I'll have to call the police on you...tch...trying taes enjoy de night wih my friend here... and yous had to..."

"I make it up to you, buy u a drink. What's your name?"

"Francis. What's yours?"

"Amanda. Nice two meet you"

She gets down on her knees, kisses my hand, and stands up again. Suddenly, my half arsed attempt at approaching a woman dissolves into warmth and respect. We begin to talk about stuff. Interesting stuff. She's in her mid thirties, (could have sworn that she was at least a decade younger) married with kids, and is working in some human resources place in the north of the city. What can I say? We ended up striking up a conversation about literature, comparing Tolstoy to Homer, and then we end up talking about feelings and shit. My American friend is chatting to a chick from Venezuela dressed in a leper skin attire.

"You have three kids?"

"Yes. 10, 8, and 6 respectively. They are very bright. My husband, and me, moved here. Got job in a chemical company. He's a good man."

"That's cool tae kno like"

"Yes. He may not be George Clooney or your Irish version. But he is a good man. He treats me well. He is a good father. He is, short yes? But in my eyes, he is...what do you say..."

"A legend?"

"Yes. He is a legend."

She smiles. There was nothing sexual about this, I don't think. She brushes her hair back. The American is talking to his girl about his Beach Boys vinyl collection.


"So what about you Francis? Have you girlfriend?"

Usually I'd reply with a smart aleky line like "one for every day of the week" or some shit like that, but then I hold my tongue. I had a bit to drink at this stage as well.

"Not really. I mean, there's a couple of lassies I'd be messin roun with, bu nothin special. To be honest like, the women here, they're very manly like. I mean, they're not exactly fucken girlfriend material, if you get my drift..."

"I see."

"There are lassies my age, who can't cook, are fat and unattractive, and are just not very pleasant people to be around. And I don't think it's just me"


"I see"

The American has been blown out of it with little miss cheetah tits. He comes up to me and says he wants tae find another place to set up base. I decide to head out with him.

"Well Amanda, I best be headen off now, but I wish yous the best of luck in the future"

"Thank you, Francis."




I smile, genuinely. 

I head out with the American into the cold crisp air, beneath a steel sky. We are heading towards Capel Street where we pass another mob of drunken people. I'm lost in thought. I think about the Asian lassie and her general sweetness, when reality brings me back with her claws of cuntage.

"...I wasn't staring at HER."

"You was, ye bleedin perv"

"Who de fuck do you dink yous eare with your little gay beard?"

"I apologize. I'm sorry."

"Ye on somethin? Look at em, e's shaken in es boots!"


"Starin at mah burd? Kick yer fucken bender arse tae de floor."

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry."

I wander in and...

"Howyas. Things cool here?"


"Is everything here a-ok?"

"Dis cunts been starin at my burd"

"You kiddin?"

He points to her in the corner, stupid bitch is loving the attention. 

"He's looken et her chest, wasn't eh?"

"I wasn't. I'm sorry. I wasn't. Really sorry dude."

"Look. It's been a long, shitty night mate. And things go wrong."

"He's eh fuckin wally."

"But when yous have your hand round a burd like that..."

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"You've got something dat will make all that happy shite uncurl in yehs, uhh...what's your name?"


"Right, Ethan. Well, it's just a part and parcel of having a fucken lassie that isn't a moonpig ye kno?"

"Ah rite"

"I mean like, I fucken study in [INSERT SHITE DEGREE HERE] and the fucken birds are ringers for Mary Harney. They're all fucking right lumps of women."


"Except one, and fuck me man, you'd find more mate on a tinker's stick!"


"I kno where yous are comin from. Had a gorgeous burd, a eastern european to myself, and I had tae let her go, and it gets under yeh skin, all dese fuckbats checkin her aout like.."

The tension is easing off. 

"So, look...uh...Ethan..."


"We've had a good night so far, and we'd like toos keep it dat way."

"Me as well."


"We best be off nows. We're headen tae Whelans I think. Where are yous off twos?"


"Ah. Should be a class act. Well take care of yourself, rite?"

"See yous Ethan, and don't make the same mistake I made."

He laughs and is lost in the crowd."

I turn to the American.

"We're going to Whelans. C'mon"


I'm pretending to dance as nonchalantly as possible, but by this time I'm langers. Arthurs Day and Paddy's Day are strange days. People think that yous have more of a shot with women because everyone is getting the drink in, but in actuality the girls are just too wasted to bother with, thus making everyone worse off. There's a bit of prisoner's dilemma stuff here, but none of that matters. I'm fucken gone at this point. It's literally code red, project zero, fucking Houston, you are about to black out. I watch the American. He's talking to a girl in the corner, and he's complementing her on her dress sense. Another moonpig in a TK Maxx outtie. I look, and I see, in that one shot, the death of culture around us. Much has been said about Ireland's drinking problem, when in fact, it's as simple as this. People drink excessively because they are not fulfilled in their own lives. Now, there is some genuine neurology in this (don't ask about the Broadmann shite, it's boring) but all in all, there is a quiet dull drizzly despair to those completely langers in the likes of Coppers or Whelans. Students, forgetting their responsibilities of walking that tightrope into tedium and dead 60's ideologies. No matter how hard they try, the wolf is still at the door.

The American will meet a girl. She will fuck him. He will become attached to her. She will dump him. He will find another like her, and she will have no respect for him, and then kick his arse to the curb once again. The American leaves her for a bit and turns to me. Draw up a Drake equation and shove in the numbers. Man, I can see this guy's life in front of me, like a great meandering river, obscured by clouds. But hey, at leastatleast, he did the right thing.

"You enjoying the night Francis?"

I'm beyond it at this point.

"Is this all we have?"

He ignores me. 

"This place is rad bro!"

"Is this all we fucken have?"


"Is this what is there?"

"You cool bro?"

"Is this all we have?"

"Dude, we should get you home"

"Nah, I'm fine. Just give me a second."

I feel like a fucking pussy. I dislike whining and want to be the best person I can be. But sometimes, this fucken all your cells coalesce and feel like you're going to vomit, where you can't, where you don't have the energy just to get the fuck out of bed.

I walk up to the American. I'm clutching at straws here. 

"Ever hear of Game mate?" I ask.

"What's that?"

"Neil Strauss fella"

"Oh. That's PUA. I heard of that. We call that PUA. That's not cool dude."

"There's a lot of interesting stuff, by uhh... all these people...."

I trail off. I don't care. Neither does he. He's buying another drink for Count Fatarse. I buy another glass of Jack Daniels and down it quickly. Suddenly, I'm lost in the crowd again. Too emotionally autistic for this shite. All of us are. I don't know where The American is. I don't care. And I find myself dancing, and spinning around in a vertiginous spiral, and its glowing and iridescent and sparking and then it's all music and beer and shots and smiling Irish!

And then I woke up.

Friday, 21 September 2012

The Big Bang Theory's Happy Ending

Everyone here on the manosphere is a player, a Don Juan, in this, the strangest, most inspiring of theatres, built entirely on a structure of binary code and digital delusions. For every alpha bad boy on this side of the Internet, there is the drifting Omega, the hapless Beta, the dude which is satiated on pipe dreams and surfing tides of internet copulation. This post is written for people like me; ex nerds trying to get their shit together and not trying to drown in the petty existentialism of it all in the process. Ex nerds which are trying to break out and engage in a bit of danger and play. But first of all, you have to ask yourself, are you a Leonard, or are you a Sheldon?

I pick this example because well, The Big Bang Theory is well known, I actually really enjoy it, and it encapsulates what I'm trying to say perfectly. The Leonards of this world are nerds who know something is up. They knew, that everything that they've been told is rotten deadwood. They are unhappy with their position in life, and strive for something better, more pertinent, yet they don't know how exactly to achieve these goals, only having a rudimentary grasp of the situation. But suddenly, as the sun breaks through the clouds, and when the pretty lies perish, when reality hits them, the veneer of short term pleasure is once again reapplied by the company of their nerdy mates.

In the 21st Century, a fascinating trend is arising where there is a greater number of alphas due to game and being able to capitalise on hypergamy, and an even greater number of omega males due to entertainment, a feminised society and falling testosterone levels. These dark mancaves are springing up left, right and centre, obscured by clouds of amusing yourself to death. The Leonards are stuck trying to get out. The Sheldons are either completely oblivious, or more erroneously, they don't want you to succeed. They want you in their despicable nerdy pits beside them, they don't want or even seek the best for you. They cannot be saved. The growing omega male trend is an important one, as whether you like it or not, the guys in this block, causation of course must be taken into account, comprise one of the most important segments of society, the engineers, the physics majors, the computer scientists. Lose them, and the whole wall comes down. And that is exactly what is happening.

If you are a nerd, my advice to you is simple. It is advice that is both painful and problematic, and will cause you to be very lonely in the short term. It might cause you to act out, lash out at the world around.  It is advice that might cause you to hit the bottle, or get off on a bit of the old Bob Hope, or whathaveyouson. You will lonely an awful lot of the time. But, for the sapling to grow into an oak, it needs to be done.

You have to walk away, with your hands up in the air.

Your friends? Still playing videogames all the time? Fucking ditch them. Delete their phone number. Take them off your facebook page. Delete your 4Chan account. Ignore them. Don't even nod when you see them on the street. They never existed. Were you bullied as a kid? Do the same thing. Don't keep in contact with anyone that you associate with your weakness, living in emotional squalor. This is for the future, this is for you. This will be both liberating and terrifying. You are now clean, a blank slate, to fill in with the things you want to do. You have reset yourself. Fuck it, get your name changed if you have to. One of the big problems of the manosphere is that a lot of blogs tend to depict this as something that is quite easy. It isn't, not even remotely. That is another cringeworthy part of the MRM by the way. They want it to be easy, or, they want to change how men are, how they should be, but instead they opt for the quitter's road. God bless us, everyone.

And why should you do this you ask? Because times are getting rough and tough like leather. Because the tails are not as flat as they used to be. Because the development of a healthy society demands that long term satisfaction found in relationships and achieving goals tasks and projects, takes prominence over short term spurts of pleasure. That is why nerdy activities are so despicable. They are confounding the long term pleasures with the short term through dull, transient media, eg task solving in World of Warcraft. The soul is NOT a smithy, James Joyce was wrong, and Foster Wallace was right. If you happen to spot any Leonards out there by the way, give them a push at least for me. If they pull, you've got a new best friend. If you don't, then that's their problem.

Do it right now, and do it in one swoop. Like Machiveilli said, if you're going to do something bad, do it in one lot, rather than spread it out. Don't make this gradual. Trust me.

I'm about to join a self defence club for the first time. I'm going to start spending a lot more money on food to bulk up. When my degree is done, I am going to dance myself clean all over again, and leave the country and carve my future out there, somewhere. I have a project that is perpetual. As for Eire? It is the sow that eats its own farrow. It is under the nail of Herr Germans and has four idiotic parties with deeply flawed political and economic policies. The culture is being westernised at an alarming rate. I'll patch in and try to make things better sure. It just seems that day after day, what the hell is worth saving? Are we here? The Big Bang Theory's Happy Ending.

So walk the fuck away. Your future self will thank you in spades.

Tuesday, 18 September 2012

A Dummy's Guide to Modern Literature

There are two big problems with modern literature, problems which warrant their own posts. First, there's the "weird for the sake of weird" stuff. Literature can go in any direction it wants, represent itself in the strangest, most fucked up ways possible, fine by me and all, but if the journey isn't an interesting one, I don't care. Sesquipedalianists like Will Self can literally fuck themselves gay. You're not interesting, you're not edgy, you're just boring arseholes. A book is like a woman; they can enrich your lives in many a way, but the bad ones are like fat chicks with chlamydiae. Stay well away.

The second thing that is wrong with modern literature is the kind of people that write it. They're typically posh spazos with MA's in English Literature. They've been polluted with leftism, and thus, write books which are completely bullshit representations of actual people. The white guy is automatically evil, because he enslaves the black guy, and the man booker prize story tells us about the women who reads Rousseau and breaks through the chains of her repressed sexuality. These books do not hold human nature up to a mirror. They write how people SHOULD behave. Bullshit. The days of reading Lord Byron and Ovid to understand chicks are gone. However, there is many a modern classic to be found, if you look in the right place. The following is a list of eight superb books, books from the past 30 years, to get you started on your way.

So, without further ado:

Blood Meridian: Cormac MacCarthy

Known more for the No Country/The Road combination, Cormac M has been writing stunning, austere books with Beckettesque prose all his life, but it's this book that stands out as his masterpiece. Whether it is the gratuitous descriptions of violence, the Nietzscheian speeches of the Judge that pepper the book, or one of literature's most disturbing endings, it is a book that, better than any other I can think of, shows you how much of a brutal cunt people can be. The answer? Adapt to it, or die. If somebody was to say this was the best book of the 20th Century, I wouldn't bat an eyelid to be honest.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being: Milan Kundera

A bizarre hodgepodge of Niezscheian philosophy, a brilliant alpha beta dichotomy (the talentless shite Jonathan Franzen ripped off this book in a lot of ways for Freedom), and acerbic wit. The book is sad, hilarious, pointless, and reading through a purely game lens, how men and women act, is almost unparallelled. His other novels (The Joke and Laughter and Forgetting) are masterpieces too, but this one does the forth wall/story thing the best.

Infinite Jest: David Foster Wallace

Yeah, so a lot of people hate the guy, because he was as SWPL as you can get (even though another one of his works Brief Interviews has a chapter which is literally the best debunking of gender feminism ever), he's got a gargantuan vocabulary, and the book is 500000 words long, with a section or two on tennis I can care less about. Is it hard, exhausting at times? Yep. It's also one of the saddest, most palatable novels I've ever read, and in terms of "what the modern world is like" and what people do to escape emptiness through entertainment, you cannot beat this novel.Good novels hurt your head. Some with words, others with meanings. This does both. The Pale King and Oblivion are excellent as well. The Broom of the System is the epitome of that really bad postmodern "I'm a smarter cunt than you cause I read Wittgenstein" book. Even Wallace hated it, so avoid that one if you can.

2666: Roberto Bolano

Unfinished even at the time of his death, the book manages to span 50 or so years, over hundreds of pages. It goes everywhere, trying its hand at lefty academic satire, madness, an incompetent police force, sport, isolation, game, feel good speeches and boxing, a city, the epicentre of the novel, Santa Teresa which is literally falling apart, violence and collapse inwards from the collapse of values themselves, and an ending that is both strikingly optimistic yet uncertain. The last part is literally, how does it feel to write shit, defined down to a tee.

Trainspotting: Irvine Welsh

A book for all of those going their own way, only with lots of stuff on heroin and chapters written from multiple points of view in bastardized Scottish phonetics. There are parts of this book which should be used as manosphere quotes. Its eccentric writing style, and its ability to spin day to day events into something utterly grotesque and irreverent is one of the book's key strengths. Plus, the best moments (Bad Blood chapter) were not seen in the movie, giving you even more of a reason to read it.

Vernon God Little: DBC Pierre

One of the most technically accomplished novels I've ever read, word for word, sentence for sentence, the flow is absolutely perfect. With an acerbic wit, pitch black humour and a trailblazing ending, the book manages to mock the super clean P.C "The Help" writing cohort, and has a main character which is both incredibly unlikeable, and the funniest lad you'll ever come across. Quite the achievement I daresay.

Bonfire of the Vanities: Tom Wolfe

The working title was apparently "Run Zimmerman Run", but apparently it wasn't very marketable.

Mason & Dixon: Thomas Pynchon

His best book, for the sole reason that Pynchon's anti "write the great American epic" style of writing has, at its core, the best buddy combo since Starsky and Hutch, giving the book more fleshed out characters and easier to relate to. It's still a great satire of The Age of Enlightenment, and the jokes along with the set pieces really do stay in your head. This is also Pynchon's best written book, and in my opinion, does a better job at conflating the loss of control and paranoia, better than even Gravity's Rainbow itself.

So there you have it! Eight excellent, challenging, rewarding books to get you on your way.

Corollary: After you hit your late twenties or so, your brain, whether you like it or not, will slow down. I've even seen this in people I know, where I'm able to devour novels and those lads, being forties and above, are simply not able to digest the same information. Whatever about philosophy, but with fiction, if you want to read as much as possible, start as young as possible. Then with that age, comes wisdom.

Having said that, everyone knows many a dopey cunt. Maturity and wisdom is not necessarily synonymous.

Monday, 17 September 2012

Two Brilliant No Bullshit Ways That You Can Improve Your Social Skills Without Lifting a Finger And Other Stuff Thats Really Interesting!

Out of the many words, jargon, slang that can be found in the English language, there is but one word that if mentioned, will be like sweet nectar from the flower in bloom to its recipient. The word is powerful, strong. It is, above all else, something you should strive to remember when meeting a person.

That word is the person's name.

Try it. The next time you see a mate that you know, don't just say "Howya" or "What's the craic?". When somebody approaches you, say "Howya Francis!" or "What the craic Francis?". This is so fucking easy to do, and yet, I see nae of yous cunts doing it. The person's name. Get it and use it well. Once you have it in your grasp, pepper it throughout the conversation. Sporadically of course, you don't want to come across as a socially stilted spastic, but again, once a conversation starts, no one mentions the name ever again, even if it's one of those long rambly Seinfeld ones. Don't do this. For groups, the same thing applies. Say out everyone's name individually, and when you're doing so, attempt to greet them differently, be it with a change in the tone of your voice, or a slightly different facial expression. "Lads, howyas!" suddenly turns into "Deco, Francis, Sickie, howyes!" Say this slowly as well. Deep voice. All dat alpha shite. Make your introduction count. The crack of a rifle is saying that person's name.

I tried this for two weeks; contrasting not using somebody's name with using it. The results? Well it wasn't like people feel into a perpetual stupor with wee Francis, and you're far away from being a cheese eating stink monkey Talleyrand type, but it does give people a little bit of a buzz, which certainly helps in the long run. Use it. Bonus points as well if the person in question is a foreign lad, and you're literally the only person he knows who can say his name properly.

The second tip for improving your social skills is called The Benjamin Franklin Effect. In a nutshell, the idea is that, if you get someone to do something for you, they will like you more and will try and grant you more and more favors as time goes on. Why? Because they feel appreciated, they will feel like they matter to them, whether this is the case or not is another story altogether. A classic example is having a flatmate/relative/girlfriend etc going out to purchase groceries, as you Americans would say. They ask you as they're heading out the door, "can I get you anything?" and you say (because you're being altruistic and don't want to trouble them) that you're fine. In fact, next time that happens, tell them you want a bottle of water, or a pack of gum, or a Top Gear magazine. Ask for something. Again, like the name thing, it won't make you a social pariah or anything, but it's stuff like this which will add up in the end. This works the other way as well. An example of this would be a where you give a straight up order (depending on the context, this can be overly brash) or, by asking someone for something, like getting you a book, (again, obvious disclaimer, you should in no way be that guy who just leeches off others for his own gain) can work too. I think yous can all work out the context for these tools, being the budding Casanovas that we're striving towards. Godspeed cunts.

In other news:

Paul Elam withdraws from The Manosphere.

Let me just put it this way. If ONE guy who travels the world and writes travel guides,and if ONE guy who chases tail in DC, can outdo a whole group of people in a professionally run website, then you're in big trouble. I think his post is quite puerile to be honest. What a gay little club.
I'd love to see a South Park episode with the MRM in it.

I really want a lifestyle like this.

Kate Middleton is a stupid cunt. Oh, boo hoo fucking hoo, someone sees you topless. Yeah, because the press are not around the fucking royal family, even if it is beta chump Harry and his attractive, but for the prince's wife, actually looks like a mog. Common sense lassie. This is all just filler btw, another twenty minutes till lectures.

Saw an episode of Anger Management. Lousy stuff, but has that "this will really be successful" vibe to it. Guess it beats another Aston Kutcher romp.

Evidence of the decline: From a prominent highly regarded UCD economists to his students: Don't bother reading von Mises, crazy republican gold standard rubbish!


Type economists are idiots into Google

Gary Wilson of actually linked this awesome blog to his website. Coming close to the full ninety days now. Anyway, cheers for sending a LOAD of traffic my way, mate. 

Oh, and for the past while, I've been full swing into a ketogenic diet, juicing and messing around in a mad scientist-e way Tim Ferriss style. Important stuff on it coming soon.

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

Blaming Marriage: On The Black Swan


Marriage, the minefield, marriage the greased up turd bowel, the anfractuous nightmare of metal fences, gunfire and fat wives frequenting their bookclubs where today's reading is The Story of O. The merit of the institution itself has been thrown around a lot recently in this corner of the interwebs, and there have been some great points made. However, there is one point that people don't seem to be discussing, and it is an extremely important one, so much so that the "be an alpha, get married!" ends up losing its shine pretty damn quickly.

That point is uncertainty.

Now, this is not uncertainty in the "holy shit will she kick my hole to the curve" certainty. That uncertainty is a subset of another uncertainty, merely, what will the future actually hold?

Let me expand. If you take a look at and check out the majority of Manosphere bloggers, you will find that the majority of their views come from 18-24 year olds. Despite the fact that the Manosphere is dominated by blogs of people well into their thirties (with the likes of Rollo and Danger, possibly Roissy, over the 40 year mark), this is an extremely young part of the web.

Let's take Ireland's marriage. The median? 32 years old. Now, if you're an eighteen year old Irishman who just stumbled on Roissy, you've got 14 YEARS before you hit the alter. Think about that. 14 to 8 years to get married. In the U.S.A it's a bit lower (something like 28), so 10 to 4 years. So, the people here that are telling you to get married are more than likely telling somebody who might not get married for another decade. What does that mean?

Well, shitting a brick and all, anything can happen in a time-span like that. Now of course you could say, that "Francis, but that's the case for all human endeavors, we never know when a Black Swan is going to hit!" and you are correct, but the world is different now. Time has sped up exponentially. Compare the Animaniacs watching 1990 to 2000 and 2000 to 2010's Family Guy fury. We now have the internet, cutting edge video games, widespread pornography, the uncensored and unadulterated flow of information, and social media websites. The world is becoming more and more complex, and trends that no one will be able to predict will come to pass, whether we like it or not. 

If I was my granddad, the structure of life, despite big changes, would still fundamentally stay the same. Now, compare him to us in 2012, where things are happening so fast, with so many things on the line. Marriage is 50 percent divorce? How do you know that in a decade's time, some ridiculous new legislation is not in place to exacerbate this, even if you have game and whatnot? What if there's an obesity pill invented and there's a surplus of good looking lassies? What about trans-humanism? What if it as Mangan says, 80 percent of people will be overweight in America, circa 2020? You alpha kid? I'd like to see how alpha are you when everyone is going for the anorexic chick.

Now, you can make extremely intelligent guesses, and those are all we have. Gold is still god. Single motherhood is still shitty etc.  But now, we have two big problems in relation to marriage.

1: The world is becoming increasingly unpredictable, and due to big government, the internet, will become increasingly tumultuous.

2: The stability, the ability to predict things, is weakened when the nuclear family is so fragmented anyway. Look at demographics. The happy family you're in could be brought down on your head because everyone else is unhappy.

So, to all those recommending marriage? You're recommending marriage to a group of people who on average, won't get married for another decade, and based on numbers which are quite static. The beast is bigger than before. Screw the whole thing.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012


“Did yous hear a bou Benji Franco? He’s got a burd now!”

Pure fucken Cheshire cat grin on his face as he recounts this. We are in Sickie’s place, a dark dank mancave with Guns N Roses posters on the wall, a Playstation 2 hooked up with a game and multi tap, and that dead smoky smell that permeates every item of clothing. It was a typical Omega male bedroom. It was when we all had long hair. It was when my self loathing was at its peak. I was sixteen.

“Is she fine?” I reply.

“Nah mate, she’s a bit of a fucken moonpig like, fucken more hairs on the chin than I do.  Tranny fuckeney shit yeyo. In fact, ahd say she looks like fucking that cunt off the telly with the big moustache. What's es face?”

“Marty Whelan?”

“Fucken cunt!”

He slams his fist down on the table. 

“Let’s get a bit of the game in Franco! Just you and me kiddd…”

“He’s not coming no?”

"No. He's got ple-annnnnnnnnssss!"

He was supposed to come over that day and join us. Later on, we were going to go to the cinema and go to the old lad shop where the guy sells cigarettes, no questions asked en all, and we called round to his house, get the drink on. Wouldn’t come out. Said he was busy. 

“This is bullshit. He’s never busy. All he does is sit around and watch Family Guy and smoke hash. He never studies. He’s as fat and as constipated as a hedgehog, so what the fuck is e upta?”

We were about to learn, at that very moment, a pivotal lesson in life. The mere whiff of pussy will destroy and obliterate the strongest links of men; leading a desperate, horny, twatty turd into the clutches of a post op tranny, ruining him, like leading a mouse to cheese, it was THAT easy, culminating in the fall and decline of a cherished friendship.  We nicknamed her “Fatchops”

Time went on. Our dear friend Benji was in the clutches of a vociferous shebeast. There was nothing we could do.

Maybe Thursday?

Mate’s party.

Fuck yourself gay.


Hanging out became more and more sporadic as time elapsed. We got a surrogate friend to replace Benji, but after a while, the sagacious bastard realised that Sicko, myself were socially poisonous. So he stopped. I don’t blame him. 

Another month passed. Sicko and I were making a pass round the area, when lo and behold, Benji has his arms wrapped around the female Grendel.  

“Mate what the fuck? You said you and your parents were headen back West!”

He looks dully at us. 

“Yeah, well, Amanda here said she wanted me to help her with her party, so I’m heading there now like”

“Jesus!” I exploded. “For fucks sake, we’re your mates, and you don’t even go near us anymore. You’re just wrapped up with this fat idiot loser!”

“Yer a sad case Franco, always thought so. You’re just jealous because I’ve a fucking girlfriend and you’re stuck with a pillow. You and Sicko, nuthin bu a buncha bitter virgins.” 

He was probably right. 

“For fucks sake, it’s nothing to do with dat! We’re mates, you’re happy, that’s cool in all fairness like. But mate, this girl badmouths you all the fucking time. She’s always talking shit about you tae her harpy friends, ah mean, all that fucken small knob Benji stuff that’s in the school, and how you’ve begged her for the meet…and the bebo pictures of her at dat wedding…aint that the story Sickie..”

I’ve never seen a face more tomato like. Squashy, like somebody had sat on it and farted. Fatchops looked on rather bemused. I had hit a nerve. He turned his head to her, no expression. He then turned to me, took a deep breath, and swung. Like a drug addled tinker’s son, I sought shelter in the grass. CRACKKKKK.  Poor wee Francis is a tallish, ectomorph-e gangly fucker who has looked like a stick with legs, for nigh on his whole existence, not exactly built to fight like, while Benji is a big fat bastard, the kind of guy who would play prop for Leinster rugby club if he ever got off his backside and stopped smoking hash. There was no chance in hell. I caved in, and hit the pavement, blood pumping from the smeller, struggling to breathe. When I got back up, helped up by Sickie, Benji and Fatchops are heading off, his back to me. I watch her plant a kiss on his cheek, as they melt into the cloudy humid Irish summer.

“C’mon Franco. Take you home, kid….”

“Right so.”

Three weeks later, they broke up.

Fast forward to the present year. It’s one of them family barbecue things. The grass has just been cut, the fresh smell lingering in everyone’s nostrils after an abysmal summer weather-wise, the corn has finally been harvested, the crop has been saved, and everyone is convivial, passing beers around, eating burgers and listening to shite talk. Me Dad’s mate has turned up from up the country, and he’s telling stories about how he and my old man spent a big portion of their childhood sneaking intae gardens and stealing apples from orchards. I smile, and I look on. More than two score years roysh, and they’re still taking the mickey out of each other. Fucken hell. I actually saw my mate recently btw. He’s completely obese now, working in Mac-e-ds and now engaged to this moonpig called Samsa. Not that I’m particularly bitter or anything. Benji taught me two important lessons in life, and for that I am eternally grateful. First, he realised that myself, Sicko and the rest of us were poison, were pieces of shite on a boot, were losers, and loserdom, of course, breeds loserdom. Granted, he went from being a grade F loser to a grade D one, but even so, beggars cannae be chooses. The second thing he thought me is this:

Women come and women go, but mates that last well into the decades are the most invaluable thing you have, and no matter how intoxicating her pussy, no matter how hot she is, you should never, ever trade in clunge for mates. She is the extra sparkle of the sun, the iridescence of the pretty rainbow. If you cannot appreciate these things by themselves, then a lot of dat soul searching shite needs to be done.Look hard, look well, look closer.