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Friday, 30 June 2017

I Can Get Back Up Now

I Can Get Back Up Now

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


For two years now I have been down for the count and waiting for the final blow. Everything had gone wrong at once and everything proceeded to get worse. If I wasn’t waiting for a literal death I was waiting for a spiritual death, a metaphysical rebirth as some different.

Two years on I am different. More jaded, more cynical, more aware of my own flaws and physically a very different man.

The world is a different place. There is tension yet hope. Pandora’s box has been opened and everything has changed. Neoliberalism is not dead but it is no longer an immortal behemoth. It is bleeding and we can kill it.

I am close to upgrading my machine. VR is legitimately a possibility to look forward to and not an impossible dream.

I have attained, I am in the process of attaining, closure for my past sins.

I am older wiser and in a very different place psychologically but I think what has finally let me regain my strength is that I have gone full circle and regained my lost faith. I am achieving closure with my favourite Doctor and the BBC Books await.

University was good for me. University was great for me but like a convention, the experience is so wonderful that reality is hard to adjust to. Doctor Who was there for me in my wilderness years and it helped me gain the direction and strength to make it to college and university. Going back to that well, revisiting that forsaken messiah has restored my confidence.

I have been so defensive, so angry, so scary because all I have been is reactive instinct. A dying creature lashing out in the only way it knows. My Doctor was the man who fought the monsters, the manipulator who made deals with death and stared long into the abyss. After staring into the abyss myself and hating what I have done revisiting that old mentor has been good for me.

Yeah, I fucked up, I fucked up bad, good people got hurt and good people hate me for it. I handled it poorly. I probably still am in the process of handling it poorly by some definitions. I fucked up and I’m sorry. That doesn’t make it better. That doesn’t make it right. That doesn’t excuse or explain it. I will have to live with that stain upon my character for the rest of my days but I will live with it because I have to continue because I have to go on.

But as my Doctor faces his regeneration into a more human traveller so I must put aside the arrogant assertion that I am the champion to fight the world’s monsters. I’m 25 and I have a life to start living. No more scraping buy, no more pretending like everything I’m doing is part of some higher purpose or angsting about the most optimal way to spend my time. I’ll still write, I’ll still read, I may still make videos but I’m going to take a break once this novel is out. I have people I want to talk to, books and comic books I want to read, films I want to watch. All the frivolous stuff I couldn’t allow myself otherwise.

So yeah, I can get back up now. It’s been hell and I’ve been an arse but I have learned a lot and you know what? That’s okay. It wasn’t all bad. There were some great great moments and I made some videos I’m proud of and some stories I’m still proud of. Things are okay and they’re going to be better.

Tuesday, 27 June 2017

Not So Chill

Not So Chill

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


It’s a funny old thing productivity, you can spend weeks, months even, at the top of your game. You can write and walk every day. You can diet and not feel it. Then one day it just... Stops. Your whole life just stalls.

I stalled today. I had to have a nap and then my brain just refused to kick into gear and I was overtaken by hunger. Hunger and lust. Oh... I have had  so many fantasies today about Amy Hurst seducing then eating gorgeous women. My body is crying out for bacon and chicken. I feel like Withnail. I must have something’s flesh. I literally just ate some ham out of the packet because it was going off today and now I’m sat here, drinking diet coke, after managing to write a description of hell for a thing.

I am not good today. I am hunger and lust and utter fucking apathy. I just do not fucking care if I die. I just want the pain to end.

You know Theresa May just paid out a billion pounds to get the DUP to cooperate so she can stay in power? The conservative government just restarted the Troubles out of a desperate attempt to keep their party in power. Meanwhile old white men are commits of terrorism because they’re scared of Muslims.

The world is mad. The world is fucked. I know I must keep going. I want to keep going. I want to finish this book apart from anything else. And maybe, someday, perhaps, we might actually sell this fucking house and end the purgatory of my existence. I just - So tired, such pain and I just - I just find it hard to give a fuck today.

Sunday, 25 June 2017

On Fetish And Misogyny

On Fetish And Misogyny

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


It is easy to write about the problems of the other. That doesn’t mean the consequences and the reception are easy, it’s just that the writing itself is easier when you stand distanced from the things you are commenting upon. The thing I have grappled with my whole life is that to the outside of observer the problems seem easily categorized. Maybe they categorize different things in different ways but the outside observer can look upon me and judge with relative clarity while I am still lost and figuring things out.

I am filled with self hatred for so many reasons but one of the big ones is that I have found it so hard to see with clarity where fetish ends and misogyny begins. In recent times however things have happened to present landmarks along the moral landscape and let me figure out where the fuck I am.

You see in my head I have always assumed on a basic fundamental level that I am just seeing in the world what I want or expect to see. Years of feminist discourse washing up against the shores of my reality and still I have to consciously remind myself that there aren’t also millions of superhero, scifi and fantasy films where the women get to be angsty badasses while the men get to look pretty and scream as they’re tortured or killed.

I am torn because my head can only function in a world where there is actual gender equality, yet instead the balance is so tipped in my gender’s favour that the things I think are harmless actually help to reinforce a status quo that is sexist and misogynistic. There are so many times where my brain just wants to say “Fuck it, kill me now.” because things are a confusing mess.

So, here’s my hypothesis. The world is misogynistic as fuck. generation after generation has created a culture and society where men can be shits but women have to conform to bullshit aesthetic standards and behaviours just to be accepted. Women have fought long and hard secure more rights and legal protection but now they face what is arguably the hardest challenge, reversing generations of cultural momentum that fetishises the portrayal of women as this unrealistic, oxymoronic, impossible, perfect fantasy.

At the same time political socio-cultural factors have coincided to create a vocal pushback by men who have been abandoned by society and aren’t being offered another way to be. As feminism seeks to tackle the fetishisation of women in popular culture, misogyny is making a strike back.

All of this is made so much more confusing because feminism is not some unified political body, rather billions of individuals fighting for women in their own, sometimes contradictory, ways. I mean there are trans exclusive radical feminists, feminists who want to help men as well, feminists who care only about women, feminists who think porn is evil and feminists who are sex positive. Equally sometimes the fetishisation happens out of genuine hatred of women and the misogyny sometimes happens out of fetishists who feel lost and abandoned by the world and are then preyed on by actual women haters.

I think I have at last gotten a handle on where I sit. I’m a fetishist. I am problematic because of my ignorance and occasionally misplaced confidence but I don’t actually hate women. I can be anti-feminist at times because I know there are times when a so called feminist is just a person corrupted by hate, clinging to bullshit rhetoric as a justification for their sadism. However 9 times out of 10 I will fight for feminists against the misogynists because the misogynists are just deluded and hateful. Even knowing how good men can be corrupted and that misogynists deserve to be bought round I will always oppose those who have crossed a certain line in the sand.

Where it gets complicated, where the self loathing kicks in, is that the sexism of society plays into the fetish. I am at my core someone who will never fail to see a woman as an equal and that’s why I fetishise their inequality. It’s the taboo I feel by engaging in pseudo traditional masculinity. It’s partly/mostly just that I think submissiveness is really fricking cute. That I can’t deny the appeal of someone who would make themselves vulnerable or beautiful for another. I mean boys are bought to think highly of those who sacrifice themselves for another so it’s not so irrational to think highly of someone who would make even small temporary sacrifices to bring another pleasure.

There is however certainly a darker undercurrent that I like to forbid myself, a sense in which the appeal of the submissive woman comes from a playful punishment. It is certainly evident in BDSM and microphilia fiction and even crops up at times in the playful flirting with my friends. There is a thrill at the idea of the naughty girl getting punished until she behaves herself. It is a fantasy that keeps its potency by being forbidden and because I would never forgive myself if it stopped being a playful fantasy.

All of this I think is probably actually fine if not for one thing. I write this stuff into my fiction. And there’s the rub. As we have seen with Joss Whedon, it doesn’t matter how much credit you earn amongst the feminist community, if you upset them, if you fall from grace, they will round on you and take pleasure in your agony. Personally I wanted to torch Joss Whedon’s cock off when I realised he’d romanticised an ancient blood sucking vampire falling in love with then stalking a teenage girl but the feminists were fine with romanticised paedophilia and then they decided to go nuclear when he wrote a crap wonder woman script that didn’t get picked up.

Now I have made mistakes, mistakes that I don’t expect will ever stop haunting me, but I have red lines in my fiction. Granted I think the new villain Richard Raspberry breaks every single one of them but that’s the point. My fiction is very fetishistic of a certain kind of woman, it features women being bought and sold, being shrunk and kept as pets, yes even being eaten alive. Yet apart from a couple of specific instances where the point is that certain men are massive shites every woman who has this stuff happen to her is under the impression that she is consenting and loves the experience. That doesn’t mean that villains are devoid of blame. Just that I don’t torture my women characters and I’m not sure that I have to date ever written a woman character as obnoxious just so their suffering and submissiveness is enjoyable. Things Joss Whedon has actually done.

I don’t know maybe I’m worse for trying to justify myself. I actually have nightmares about how twitter and facebook will react to the things I post online. (Sorry esoteric Jahanists, you never get a look in.) I find myself repeating this phrase like a mantra at times. “Crawl. Hole. Die.” expressing my desire at times to just hide away unnoticed and lie forgotten, no longer able to stress about what people think of my writing.

I know people who write for validation and to please others. I’d love to please others. I’d love to have a genuine discussion with someone who actually likes my fiction. (Though memories of the discord now make me want to torch anyone I don’t already know and trust who offers an opinion.) It’s just that I don’t write for others. I write for me and I have to. I need to write and I love to write but I have to write for me and so I have to write this fetish stuff about women. Hence “Crawl. Hole. Die.” because what’s the solution? I’ve gone my whole life and killed off the Farsh-nuke so many times thinking the character was the problem. It’s not and never was.

I don’t get to judge myself, that’s not how this works, but equally I don’t write to satisfy the judgement of others and so I just lurch onwards, uncertain for ever as I despise myself yet continue to write. Here’s the ultimate irony. The ultimate tragedy of my existence I suppose. The fiction has caused me so much problems and it makes me hate myself so much but writing the fiction provides me with so much joy and purpose, and gives me reason to keep thinking up such fetish scenes, that it keeps me going when the problems of the world would stop me dead. The fiction makes me want to die but writing it gives me the strength to live through the rest of life’s shit.

I don’t know what the answer is. I just know that this is who I am: A problematic sometimes anti-feminist dreamer and writer of submissive women who will fight alongside women against the misogynists of the world. There are people who should say I should be better and maybe they’re right but I haven’t yet found the strength to do so.

Saturday, 24 June 2017

Doctor Who

Doctor Who

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


The last Farsh-nuke in existence was rotting in a prison cell belong to the Raspberry Reich. Elsewhere the Alpha God Adam Godwinson and Bigoted Billionaire Neoliberal Capitalist turned Fascist Dictator Richard Raspberry plotted an invasion of the multiverse.

The Farsh-nuke had lost completely and utterly but he refused to break and take up the offer of a life of luxury aiding Richard Raspberry. So he was tortured daily.

The man chosen to torture the Farsh-nuke was a tall, almost ghoulishly skinny, eminently charming, white man with short greying hair and a penchant for different suits. He was only known as Jake.

After one long hard day’s work Jake removed the plastic gloves he used and washed his hands, watching the Farsh-nuke with interest. The Elder God of Legend was bloody limbless mess one eyeball was missing and another was missing its eyelid. Still that ethereal emerald green glowed faintly from the remaining eye.

The Farsh-nuke let himself vent for a moment then took a few deep ragged breaths to compose himself before lying completely still on the metal butcher’s table that constituted his bed.

“How do you do it?” asked Jake. “We’ve been doing this for a month now, how can you keep your sanity everyday?”

Jake observed the ethereal green glow as the Elder God mentally hacked his local reality to speed up his natural wereshark regenerative abilities. As his eyes, mouth, throat and lungs reconstituted themselves, the Farsh-nuke answered. “I’ve been where you are now. I’ve tortured, I’ve killed and done so many terrible things. When you strip everything back from someone they revert to who they are at their core.”

Jake dried off his hands on a towel then pulled out a cigar and lit it from a box of matches he kept in his jacket pocket. “So what, you’re reverting to the elder god who doesn’t care about the mortal plane?”

The Farsh-nuke shook his head and flexed his newly regrown arms. “The thing that unites me and the Great Farsh-nuke is that our hosts each grew up in awe of a man called the Doctor.”

Jake stared at the Farsh-nuke and exhaled long and hard into his face. “I thought you hated that guy?”

“The man you know as the Doctor is just my old cohort the Bam-Kursh...” said the Farsh-nuke, sitting up as his legs were regrown.

“So who is this Doctor?” asked Jake

The Farsh-nuke thought for a long moment then said. “You can always judge a man by the quality of his keystream. I mean mine’s a developmentally stunted autistic loser so naturally I’m a brilliant but despicable arsehole. The Doctor however was formed from the tragedy of the first world war scarring socialism and hatred of injustice into the people, then by the second world war establishing that sometimes you are outnumbered and out gunned but you still have to take a stand for what is right and important because there are monsters in this world and they must be fought -”

“Monsters like you and I?” asked Jake with a smirk.

“Monsters like our esteemed leader and his mad prophet advisor.” said the Farsh-nuke. “The 1960s was the age of free love and that environmentalist, pagan faith in the spiritual and unknown, combined with the fascination and optimism of the space race absolutely would impact upon the history of the show but it was started from the mentalities left by the two world wars.
The Doctor wasn’t a revolutionary, he was no anarchist. He was just a concerned citizen travelling the universe for his own reasons who found himself compelled to step up and fight injustice wherever it found him. At the same time this was a Britain that was coming to terms with its own failings and the need to reject a legacy of empirical conquest and power. You can’t rewrite history, not one line, only learn from it and see that it does not happen again.”

Jake let out another exhale and grinned. “As I recall the sixties gave way to the seventies and then the eighties and the rise of Thatcher. How was your precious Doctor impacted by the defeat of socialism and the triumph of greed?”

“The Doctor is a symbol of the best of British Patriarchal Wisdom. He is an obnoxious douchebag who can be patronising, intolerant and discriminatory but he changes with the times as they bring about his end.” said the Farsh-nuke. “He became a passive beautiful thing after spending so long at his most powerful. That passivity curdled to anger, resentment and frustration at such a cruel world before finally Time’s Champion was born.
A man who could master being nice and funny. A silly little man who pulled off magic tricks and seemed utterly harmless yet enthrallingly charming at times. He combined the powerful charisma of his fourth incarnation, the seeming harmlessness of his fifth and the impish nature of his second but within him burned the anger of his sixth, the intolerance of injustice and authority of his third and the great wisdom his first.
This was Partriarchy as the great avenger, the silly little man who’d turn up one day and tear down your world because you forgot to care for the little people.”

Jake had been listening along mostly out of politeness as he smoked, but now he leaned forward. “So the enemy elects a woman who represents greed and injustice and the Doctor goes on the offensive.”

The Farsh-nuke grinned, fire in his eyes. “The actor who played the sixth Doctor had been sacked at the series nearly cancelled. When it came back with the seventh Doctor the intent was that they write a lighter Doctor. The meddling government did not like this symbol of socialist hope so they forced him to become a harmless fool. The writers, actors, the character, rebelled. This Doctor became the darkest of the lot, a great manipulator who was implied to be a mythical figure of power. And then, then the government did something really really stupid.”

“What?” asked Jake, after he’d exhaled a plume of smoke.

“They cancelled the TV show and sold off the license to Virgin.” explained the Farsh-nuke. “Time’s Champion was no longer hampered by political pressure, executive meddling and a need to appeal to the kids or even by limited budgets for effects. In the Virgin New Adventures of Doctor Who I found a hero I could believe in, a hero I wanted to emulate, except of course I never could get the hang of chess.”

Jake nodded. “The god of chaos never would be good at a game of logic.”

The Farsh-nuke smirked then bit his lip. He shook his head then said. “The Doctor has a mantra he tells himself, it’s often used to describe him. Never cruel or cowardly. It’s bullshit. The Doctor, my Doctor, is a manipulative bastard. He picks fights he knows he can win and sets up events to ensure he will. This is a man who regularly ponders Nietzche and how he who fights monsters should be careful lest he become one. He doesn’t carry a gun but he absolutely uses weapons, sometimes you wonder if it’d be less cruel and cowardly of the Doctor to just cap a bitch every once in a while.”

Jake stared at the Farsh-nuke for a long moment. “So what happened after seventh Doctor?”

“Time War.” said the Farsh-nuke. “The Great Manipulator died by chance and stupidity. His Eighth Incarnation was an incarnation was a far more human lover, as I’ll explain later. The new Doctor was beautiful and vulnerable, not passive like the fifth but often amnesiac but defined by love and pleasure in the transient moment. To this angsting emotive vulnerable Doctor two different time wars happened. First in the BBC Books and then before the revived TV series.”

“Doctor Who was bought back?” asked Jake.

“You don’t know?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “Where have you been?”

Jake shrugged. “You’re not the only one with a past.”

The Farsh-nuke dismissed the subject. “With a new Labour government in power Doctor Who was bought back. This Doctor was also a product off two great wars, only they were wars he had personally experienced. He was a survivor burdened with guilt, still dealing with the trauma of how it ended. That remained a theme throughout the revival as old foes and themes were reintroduced.
The shell shocked veteran regenerated into a rehabilitated all too human charismatic hero until the Time War’s temporary resurgence bought about a resurgence of Time’s Champion within the Doctor. Coincidentally about the time the Labour government was replaced  by a Tory led coalition. He was still a pretty boy who could play the dashing hero but the manipulator was back. He died of old age on the planet Trenzalore and came back, old, bitter, angry and closer to cruelty and evil.
The Conservatives held a majority and the Doctor became an angry fighter against injustice even as character development rubbed off his rougher edges. Now the path seems set for a true socialist rule of Britain and the end of Patriarchal lineage for the Doctor’s incarnations.”

Jake took a long hard drag on his cigar and let out the smoke slowly in the Farsh-nuke’s face. “You mentioned the Doctor became human after the seventh Doctor, this Time’s Champion.”

“Well you see Doctor Who accumulates lore and mythology, sometimes this contradicts itself.” said the Farsh-nuke. “The Doctor was introduced with a granddaughter yet when we meet his people this whole different lore is established. His people are called the Time Lords of the planet Gallifrey. They have the ability to see the web of time, two hearts and things called ‘Symbiotic Nuclei’ that let them control tardises, they have a default set of 12 regenerations - ways of cheating death by replacing the actor - available to them. The Time Lords are dull, studious, bureaucratic, non-interventionists. At least until the two Time Wars. They are not byronic lovers.”

“So...?” asked Jake.

“So the books revealed that the Time Lords had been created by these three wise men known as Rassillon, Omega and the Other. They uplifted their people through technology, granting their people control of time but in so doing they upset the paganistic Matriarchal rule of the Pythias, wise women who gained understanding of time through ritual observance.” explained the Farsh-nuke. “The Pythias cursed the Gallifreyans so they would not be able to have kids so the three wise men came up with great genetic looms to weave people whole instead. The loom woven children would then grow up in great houses where they would study until they were ready to join the adult world.”

“And what does this have to do with the seventh and eighth Doctors?” asked Jake.

“We learn all this during an adventure in the books called Lungbarrow that happens right before the events of the TV movie where he regenerates into the eighth Doctor.” explains the Farsh-nuke. “Specifically we and the Doctor learn that the Doctor is the Other. That he was the mythical figure of Gallifreyan legend and had several different incarnations before events conspired to encourage him to seek survival through rebirth in the looming machine.
Immediately after learning that he isn’t fully Time Lord it is stated that he’s half human on his mother’s side and suddenly he’s this romantic very human like person. Even as the new series seems to contradict this it is stated that the first Doctor left Gallifrey because it was prophesised that a hybrid would destroy Gallifrey and the Doctor is such a hybrid.
And why might the Time Lords have such a prophecy? Because that is precisely what the Other set out to do before being forced to seek survival through being Loomed. He took on the name of Doctor as a promise to himself that he would not become the destroyer of worlds, that he would run from his fate and help people. That’s why, despite it being shown that he could have great power there, despite having destroyed Gallifrey twice in the Time Wars, the Doctor always saves it and runs from it. Because if he gets involved in its affairs he stops being the Doctor and starts being the Other, the Hybrid, again. The Time Lord Victorious.”

Jake offered the Farsh-nuke the rest of his cigar. “Wanna smoke?”

The Farsh-nuke took the cigar greedily. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a hit.”

“Big smoke then?” asked Jake.

The Farsh-nuke shook his head then exhaled smoke. “I’m a collar addict, there’s just something about strong young woman bending to your will you know?”

Jake stared at the Farsh-nuke. “How can you talk about this man who has such adventures and stand opposed to injustice yet be addicted to seducing women?”

The Farsh-nuke shrugged.

Jake thought for a long moment then said. “Do you mind if I make some calls?”

The Farsh-nuke shook his head and sat, silently smoking the cigar, naked before his torturer as he worked.

‘He asks how I do this? How I put up with such shit and misery?’ Mused the Farsh-nuke silently to himself. ‘The truth is I have faith. Faith in a silly little man in an ancient, stolen blue box. The silly little man who’ll turn up one day and turn day and tear down your world and nothing can ever stop him or hold him. I hear the sound of empires toppling Raspberry and your time is running out because we live in a multiverse where everything fictional is real somewhere. That means he’s out there, that means the Champion of Time who ended two time wars and defeats genocidal xenophobes on a regular basis will come for you in the end. Your Reich will end, your life will be over and as he knocks four times you’ll ask the question that haunts his existence.’

The Farsh-nuke took a long drag on the cigar then smiled. “The Doctor. Doctor Who?”


 

Friday, 23 June 2017

Interstitial Reality

Interstitial Reality

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


You are wrong. Everything you are. Everything you think. Everything you stand for. Everything that defines you is a subjective debatable sham of madness. Everything about me. Everything about everyone. It is all an inconsistent provably false lie.

We exist in a world of strongly held beliefs and I am perhaps one of the more strongly vocal in the defense of my positions. I believe in free will. I believe in Regulated Capitalism as a viable ethical form of societal resource management and distribution. I believe in violence against the genocidal and that free speech and representation in the media is a vital and important thing. I believe that human are cruel, greedy, sadistic and selfish yet I also believe human are caring, generous, kind and selfless. I love humanity and I despise it. Do you start to see how it all falls apart?

In the age of the non-binary gender spectrum we have become increasingly polarised between the good guys who deserve to live and the monsters who deserve a good kicking because they are dirty amoral things unworthy of life. We are seeing extremists among the left and the right committing acts of terror. Our world is making people sick with pain and rage and it is failing to care for them.

Now I know whose side I’m on. I shall preach and preach against revolution but if the balloon goes up I am fighting for the underdogs, the women, the Trans and Non-Binary, for the People of Colour and every kind of safe, sane and consensual sexual orientation. If the moment comes I know whose side I’m on but I am never on the side of war. NEVER.

Adolf Hitler was a shitebag my words feel entirely ill suited to encapsulating the evil of but I feel no shame in admitting that if there was a way, some mad brilliant way to peacefully, diplomatically, convince Hitler and the Nazi regime to change their ways I would have took it.

Yes, we settled the argument of whether it was okay to punch Nazis long ago but if we could avert genocide, war and hostilities with a little kindness and understanding? If we could preach, listen, debate and persuade our fellow sapients out of discrimination and sadism? If we could end the threat of the Alt-Right by recognising that the vast majority of Trumpists are the scared and exploited mentally ill offered brotherhood and answers they understand to fears that have been drummed into them by propaganda? If we could end the next war before it began by offering our enemy a cup of tea and a custard cream instead of a molotov cocktail and a bullet to the brain? We could talk our enemies into being our friends? Would that not be better?

Capitalism is doomed. The economy cannot continue to make sense when machines do the vast majority of jobs that need doing. Anarchism is a fundamental functional oxymoron, there is order in everything. Feminism without consideration to morality and economic factors is just establishment fuckery by another name. Everything I believe in, everything you believe in, everything they believe in, is flawed. Lets stop pretending otherwise. Lets stop pretending that our beliefs are anything other than flawed compromises based on our best guesses from the evidences availiable to us from our narrow perspectives.

I mean I know that my utopias is an absurd mess of contradictions. A feminist utopia with equal representation for all races, genders, nationalities and demographics that feel like it. A world free from the need to work where techno magic provides the infinite capacity to fulfill any need or desire. A world where we don’t have to debate where someone gets the right to exist, be and get reated respectfully. Where we don’t need to justify demographics. Sure, you can realise you were secretly a great oak all along and never realised it. Other times someone might turn into a fish for the fuck of it and it’s just respected.

At the same time this utopia would be a place where capitalists could still engage in the pageantry and emotion of big business and old school politics. There could be the nazi district with emergency displacement fields out for anybody who wanders in by accident. There’d be the republican district, the conservative district and the blairite district. A utopia that accommodated the dystopian idealists by letting them engage in the fantasy of being powerful at the expense of others without anyone else actually getting hurt. We could have Romans and Aztecs and French Revolutionaries if people felt like it. You want to live in a cave and eat dirt then by golly we’ll find a way to let you do that safely without affecting your feelings of authenticity. Perhaps using a fake cave packed with insulation that deposited fake dirt which was actually nutrient packed and edible food.

And of course in my utopia I would somehow have a harem of pretty young submissive white girls. Well maybe not. Some things are just too insane to even naively hope for in the ideal scenario.

I have been doing so much writing lately as I rush to finish this novel and I confess, that as a flawed and rather nasty individual, I have found it rather exciting in a grim way. I’ve actually stopped talking about politics with my family because it’s filled with the anxious and I am now quietly certain that we are approaching (within months) global civil war through out everywhere at once, from multiple different perspectives, as the desperate and the damned reach breaking point and lash out, intent to kill whoever they think the enemy is.

Neoliberalism has failed yet it still weakly clings to life and it does so it kills us all, like a dying parasite draining the last energy reserves of a patient as a disease attacks. The arrogance of Neoliberalism has been to forget the one thing capitalism has always been about, motivating the greedy, instead Neoliberalism rewards the greedy at the expense of the many and the privileged morons spread disinformation and propaganda to cover their arses as they continue to drag us further towards World War 3.

The Neoliberals have enraged the populace, made them desperate and mentally unwell, now it strips back the police force and care for the mentally ill while wondering how terrorist attack after terrorist attack keeps happening.

The politicians have failed us. Mass media have failed us. If humanity is to survive we must do the seemingly impossible, make peace with those that enrage us and provoke us to anger and depression. We do not have the liberty of united and sane leaders to rescue us. We must end this civil war, this global war, before it begins by making peace with our enemies.

I know this is hard. I know this is ridiculously impossible. Yet if we don’t then who will save us from those nobody is bothering to help?

I had no clue what I was going to write when I sat down today, perhaps it shows, I just knew I needed to write. That there was something bubbling beneath the surface that I had failed to acknowledge and needed to be vented.  I know this is hard because I know that there is a part of my mind that would dearly love the opportunity to inflict pain and suffering upon my stalkers. Yet I also know that we are only going to survive this insanity if we learn to look past the provocative attempts at manipulation and see a way through to the scared vulnerable adults beneath. These are the desperate and the damned, they need us to save and redeem them from the destructive paths they are now on.






Wednesday, 21 June 2017

Vingt Cinq

Vingt Cinq

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


I feel old. More than that I feel pathetic. I feel like a failure. I’m 25 and look what I’ve done? No job, no house of my own, barely scraping by on the dole and perpetually waiting for the reaper to claim me because my luck just seems that shit.

Except look what I’ve been through in the last two years. I annoyed the nazis enough with my videos that I got my own hate cult, I got diagnosed with Kallman’s Syndrome and Growth Hormone Deficiency and now I may have sleep apnoea. My parents separated, got divorced and the house is in the process of being sold. Shit got so bad with dad that I ended up scaring him enough that he stopped being such a massive dick. And oh yeah, my writing...

It is amazing how much I would genuinely rather a bullet to the brain than another round of the people I try to champion and defend attacking me. One mistake enough to tip the balance, one moment of bravery amid chaos, then two years of internal devastation after the tip of the iceberg of how big an evil shit I seemingly am breaks the surface.

I don’t even know if that makes sense but the point is that ever since that moment of enlightenment I have not trusted myself to write. Not properly. Not seriously. Ironically calling me out on being a misogynist drove my writing back in that direction. I already had conflicts about my fiction with regards to sexism. I could write the most sexist wish fulfillment shit under the sun and it didn’t matter because I knew it was shit and I knew I was writing it for me. It’s like my videos. I can churn out the shit without shame because I know it’s shit so I am not going to regret or feel shame about it.

The thing with Joss Whedon struck a chord because I am so problematic as a writer regardless of that fucking fanfic but I was trying to be better. The entire arc of the United Civilisations and the Paragon of Virtue was about trying to be better at representation. One of the examples bought up for how transphobic I am was a pair of characters that I included to try and gain confidence at writing characters of a demographic other than my own.

I’m not going to replay that bullshit again but that’s what has held me back. At least Joss Whedon had a period of being a ‘good’ writer that he can look back to for guidance when hatred erupts that he can’t understand. I can barely understand the neurotypical cisgendered mind and perspective never mind the trans experience. Which I suppose is how I got it so wrong but I honestly just wanted to provide better representation in my fiction and then friends who had fallen silent seemed to suddenly turn up scream “You’re a transphobic evil arsehole!”, nuke my social life then fuck off.

I didn’t know what I had done wrong and unless they turn up one day and decide to walk me through it I doubt I ever fully will. I know some of it but I also know that it wasn’t just that. Which to someone who has to consciously know and enact social skills is maddening. Then again one of the examples given was something I stand by, namely that apparently it is transphobic to suggest provocative shits are blocked and kicked without a fetishistic dogpile of the interloper. The ambiguity kills me. It rots at who I am as I try to guess at the iceberg.

If these paragraphs sicken and bore you imagine how it has felt to have my brain constantly arguing the issue. I have a fucking nazi hater cult and bless them they try so fucking hard. Even going so far as to fake a transphobic piece of fanfic as through it were written by me. It’s not the reputation that kills me. I get over shit like that quickly. To really rot me, you have to present me with an ambiguous accusation with just enough given evidence on either side as to suggest that you are just a shite hole or I really have done something I think is morally abhorrent but you don’t give enough knowledge to avoid me continuing to be horrible. Suffice to say I am never letting that situation happen again.

So writing for me has either had to be something that happens so fast I don’t have time to reflect on it or something I’m not going to publish, that is just for my enjoyment as a writer. Essentially it has to be a fetishistic fantasy. Except fetishistic fantasies bore me and the longer they go on the more the plot stops it being fun and collapses it into something serious that I then give up on because I think it’s awful. A mind as self loathing as mine can only believe a fantasy for so long and why write a horror for yourself?

This novel I have been working on had to do a few things.
1. It had to follow on from the myth arc I had already laid out while establishing a new paradigm to go forward telling stories with while also serving as service able and satisfying ending in case I no longer wrote anything again.

2. It had to provide closure for me on those past events. I could not make another major release and just ignore that the series was problematic as fuck. I am going to feel a need to grieve and seek redemption so the Farsh-nuke has to have a reason to grieve and seek redemption.

3. It had to provide opportunities to tell nazi stories from different perspectives since I have a pro-nazi audience so ‘genocide and bigotry is bad’ won’t cut it.

4. I needed more representation.

At first this was just going to be accomplished by telling a series but series are predictable. They are tropes within tropes. Boring. Just then boring was lethal so it couldn’t be that and anyway if the whole plot is about a replacement for the farsh-nuke it’s going to fail at the first hurdle. So I tried out different stories and gradually the idea of interconnected series developed. So new things were added.

4. A. A non-binary elder god and a Trans character having pulp scifi adventures.

4. B. A new Toy Maker series that pushes the idea that women society dismisses can be mighty powerful and seductive.

4. C. A story addressing the distressing lack of black representation and exploring the consequences of stuff alluded to in other stories.

5. There should really be mass media service in the multiverse.

6. I owe Skyrim that dragon Superhero

I have also added some stuff just because I thought they made interesting stories but the point is that this long difficult process is almost over. I genuinely think I could have the rest of it written up and formatted within a month and that’s a safe estimate. Could be done a fuck of a lot sooner than that.

And once that’s done, well we shall see what happens fiction wise.

Aside from that, my life is okay.

I mean it’s still not something I trust, I feel like I’m one bad day from it all falling apart still. Not very strong and stable at all right now personally. Yet I’m getting by and hopefully maybe we might actually be able to begin selling the house soon.

Even if that doesn’t happen I have enough birthday money to get a power supply upgrade for my pc and I’m going on a diet now so I should be able to start saving money for a decent graphics card, though obviously I’ll settle for something cheap enough to get skyrim to a steady 30 fps first.

I’m alright. I’m getting the writing done and slowly my life is sorting itself out.

Monday, 19 June 2017

Stop with the Joss Whedon Hate

It was fun for a bit to see the pseudofeminist face the kind of shit that made me briefly anti-feminist but it’s really probably time to stop.
The dude fucked up. 
He wrote a bad script that wasn’t picked up and we don’t know the issues behind it. I am seeing so much metatextual analysis at the moment to explain and justify the rage people are feeling but I studied textual analysis at university and it is bullshit. It works if you disregard the author and use it as an interesting tool to interpret the fiction. It does not work as evidence for your judgement of the man.
Joss Whedon does not deserve your hatred. He does not deserve your rage. There are far bigger shit heads out there, me included. That fucker tried. He tried and tried so hard to stand up for you and fight for you and he succeeded amazingly. Especially if this is what he was like all along.
I am a writer whose fiction makes Joss Whedon at his worst look like the peak of Mount Olympus and I am telling you that if that man is even half as misogynistic as you are saying then he deserves a goddamned medal for managing to write what he did. I literally can’t go 500 pages without my brain forcing me to write about some pretty young woman being cute and submissive. I have had so many internal and external struggles to beat this beast and in the end I gave up because I can’t win but I love to write. 
If Joss Whedon is as damnable as you say then that makes him all the stronger in my eyes because he managed to fight against his own internal toxicity for so long and got you stories you loved.
Joss Whedon is not a misogynist, not yet anyway. He has done so much for you, that you have praised him for. Maybe he’s used up his energy. Maybe he can’t beat back the toxicity anymore. Maybe he is now truly damned to face a slow decline into misogyny but he fought for you, he fought well and he got you stories, he got you stories and characters you love.
The truth is you don’t hate Joss Whedon with such a passion because he wrote some bad scripts and might be a misogynist. You hate him because, despite all that, he still managed to create things you loved. Because it’s so much easier when misogynists are just the moronic fuckwits nobody cares about or criminals who deserve prison time. If a misogynist can make things you love then maybe you worry you have to stop declaring them evil. If a misogynist can make things you love then maybe you have to look for the wisdom you agree with amid the bullshit.
And yeah, betrayal sucks.
Here is the important thing though that I think is important. Driving someone from a media platform is not a victory, convincing them you are right is, and when that person used to think you were right to begin with and maybe still does, all you are doing is encouraging them to disagree with you by being a dick to them.
Joss Whedon didn’t hate women and maybe he still doesn’t but if you think women stalking him, insulting him and harassing him will make him love women again then you don’t understand human psychology. Which is odd really. You’d think Women would be experts on how online harassment feels.

Sunday, 18 June 2017

On Censorship

On Censorship

Cross Posted From My Tumblr

By

Alexander Gordon Jahans



Let me be clear I am not advocating in favour of female sexual objectification. This isn’t about saving my own arse as a shitty writer. I think some on the left might have misunderstood something very important.

CENSORSHIP IS NOT YOUR FRIEND

Criticise men who write, direct or draw women poorly. Criticise me, I know I deserve it and I also know at this point that I won’t stop writing this way

Hire more women writers, directors, artists and producers.

Have editors and executives ready to call men on their bullshit if they try to get published with a company that isn’t writing flat out fetish fiction.

I am not for one minute telling you to push for stronger and better representation in the media but don’t be fooled into thinking censorship benefits you.

Censorship is a tool of the powerful and who are the powerful in our society? Still? Old, white men.

Writers didn’t rail against Mary Whitehouse because she was stopping them showing T&A in Doctor Who. They railed against her because she was a christian conservative who wanted the world tailored to her backwards view of the world. 

Censorship has routinely been used to oppress people pushing for gay representation. That I know for a fact and I’m damned certain it’s been used to hold back attempts to represent women and back people better.

Yes, our society objectifies women. There is a gender disparity that traps and brainwashes both poles of the gender spectrum while utterly fucking up those in between. These are serious problems and they need to be addressed with criticism, education and proper representation. Not by pushing for the elite establishment of old white guys to have more powers with which to fuck you over.

I apologise if people apparently backing censorship are simply critiquing the shitty arguments thrown against them by clueless misogynists but I felt this was too important an issue to risk unhighlighted.

So I'm Chill

Thursday, 15 June 2017

Not Dead

Not Dead

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Shit title. Sorry.

Okay so I have spent the past two years in limbo. I keep waiting for the moment my life kicks into gear. I need another ‘build a dalek’ moment. Except life isn’t that simple now. The ‘build a dalek’ moment happened because I had another part of the track laid out for me and I just needed to find my crazy arse way there. I turn 25 in five days and I’ve run out of track. I mean when the remaining bits of track are “get a job and move out” and you’re living at a time when people your age are fucking lucky if they can get the shittest jobs then it just becomes about survival.

I expected a tory landslide come the election. I expected the abolition of hope. I expected the excuse to die. I’m not dead. The tories are going down. Socialism will rise. Capitalism will face a restoration and then we can transition to post scarcity. I mean okay Donald Trump is a cancer on the world but I have faith that the incentives are now in place to see about his removal. There is reason to hope again.

I mean I am seriously thinking of deleting my youtube channel since it’s making no money, I despise the majority of my viewers and they despise me, also I got recognised the other day and I’m just thinking ‘Nah...’

Yet I’m walking. All this shit and misery and I’m walking. I am slowly lurching towards better fitness. I walk to town while listening to podcasts and I passively gain confidence and reduce awkwardness being around people. It’s great. Just plodding along with something to keep my mind from exploring all the reasons why I suck.

I’m also writing. Lots. I have been holding a lot back but it is coming soon now. Lets say by the end of the summer maybe. I have found how to write in a way that gets stuff done and satisfies my varied writing moods. I have been re reading through those scripts I wrote in university and I am impressed 1. By how far I have come as a  writer and 2. By the fact that I think I can redeem this stuff. That I can write it better and do it justice as something worth reading.

Things have changed though. I feel as though I have been reforged in fire by the holiday and now I have the perspective needed to maintain clarity on things. There are other things too. The Boots website has updated so hopefully I won’t have to panic about getting the meds I need to survive because their system crashed. I’m getting new glasses so not only will I be able to see properly again but the new anti-glare coating should make in easier to keep my eye windows clean. And I’m dieting. Which I’m sure will have me raging but for now is just a weight off my mind as I don’t have to fret about getting in a proper meal at the end of a long day. At least for a while.

I have survived, Britain limps on and though I remain in limbo I am cautiously happy.

Saturday, 10 June 2017

Extremis

Extremis

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


As a write this the Conservatives are still in power despite a hung parliament because they have gone into coalition with the Democratic Unionist Party. A small ultra right Northern Ireland party whose policy positions could perhaps best be summed up as: WRONG AND EVIL

The DUP are misogynistic, transphobic, homophobic, climate change denying, religious, racist, xenophobic, terrorists. Even the Trump core of white supremacists at least claim some sort of international solidarity with white nationalist fellows. The DUP just have to eat babies and hunt kittens for sport and they can complete their transformation into abhorrent monsters in flesh suits. Next to them, Donald Trump -A man so predatory the head of the fucking FBI did want want to left alone in a room with him. -  looks like a fucking Neoliberal.

So yeah... As votes go this did not have a fantastic result. All that hope and progress achieving a hung parliament and it turns out we’ve made Adolf Hitler so scared he’s summoning in Yog Sohoth to remain in power. This is not good to say the fucking least. It’s like finding out your abusive father was so scared by your attempts to call in the police he’s now strapping a bomb to your genitals to ensure your future compliance.

Yet I am happy. Firstly you need to remember that the conservative party on its own is so full of rebellious backbenchers that David Cameron called Brexit in a misguided attempt to keep his party in line when it had a much larger majority. Theresa May now has a majority of 2 thanks to the aid of ten monstrous shitebags. Oh and Brexit has yet to be resolved and there’s still the small issue of Scottish Independence to deal with. Theresa May has clung narrowly to power but in doing so she has built her parliament on a foundation of gunpowder and dry tindling as two great fires approach. The monsters may have won but in so doing they have trapped themselves in a situation that is about to go very bad very quickly while Jeremy Corbyn quietly makes plans and builds support to step in and take over when the dust has settled on her self destructive clusterfuck of a coalition.

The next thing you need to realise is that I am not a socialist. I am a classic capitalist. I don’t want anyone to feel comfortable in power. I want all the greedy, lazy, self interested shits to work for their power. I feared revolution and bloodshed because I saw a stupid, arrogant establishment too powerful to be opposed peacefully. That is no longer the case. This is what the ‘unelectable’ Jeremy Corbyn has achieved in just two years with massive media bias against him and even hios own party working against him. 70% of the young voted in this election and they radically altered the balance of power.

We may have failed to gain power so far but we have achieved something far more important. We have ended the complacency of the establishment. We have ended the assumption of neoliberalism eternal. We have pricked the side of Rupert Murdoch and as he comes for us we embarrass and further wound him, letting his empire bleed out. We have not won the battle nor have we won the war but the enemy are mortally wounded and we have shown that we have the strength to destroy them and we absolutely will not stop no matter what bullshit spin they try.

I feel like the Farsh-nuke in that story Downfall that I wrote and published recently. The enemy has won. They have humiliated and scared me, they rub salt in my wounds even as I have nothing left in my life but tiredness and pain. Yet I know their victory was cheap, their victory may have been devastating but it works once and I have time on my side. See the question is not if the empire of the enemy will fall. The question is not if my suffering will end. The question is when. I may be trapped and I may be doomed to a life of uncertainty and pain but I can endure because I know that this is not about me. Humanity itself is turning against the enemy and the enemy will be destroyed. So I can wait.

Another reason I can endure is that I have made peace with myself and the pain that is part of me. I hate myself because I feel like I should view and write women in a more feminist manner. I hate myself because I want to be a good man and I fear that I am not, that my kinks mean that I am not. What I have come to understand is that this hatred, this self loathing, it is part of who I am, it is part of what makes my kinks so pleasurable. I may not be a good man. I may actually be a very cold and cruel sadistic misogynist on some fundamental psychological level. What I understand though is that this negativity will never define me or my actions. I may only do good things because I have rules. I may only treat women with respect and understanding and fight for their liberty and equality out of a desire to conform, a fear of their judgement and a need to abide by my own sense of right and wrong but I will do so.

All this negativity I have about myself. It’s just how I cope. And it makes my fantasies all the sweeter even as they are increasingly mundane and boring. Even the pain in my feet which drives me to madness on occasion has freed me from my bedroom by making any distance walked just as painful as the walk to the bathroom in the morning. I don’t mind that it hurts, indeed I have learned to gain power from the pain of my existence. Even the thing that brings me most shame and cannot be solved, the Kallman’s syndrome induced underdevelopment of a critical part of me. Even that cloud I find has an unexpected silver lining that I shall spare you the details of.

I expected that the election would be my death. It has instead been my rebirth as I have come to understand just who and what I am and why that is not going anywhere. In extremis I am revealed for my true self at last and I am not as weak as I thought.

Friday, 9 June 2017

Downfall NSFW

Downfall
NSFW

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


6 years after the Farsh-nuke returned from the dead. 2 years after Richard Raspberry won despite the Farsh-nuke’s efforts to stop him. 2 years after the Farsh-nuke snuck into his bedroom, held a knife to his throat and threatened him with agonising death if he dared to commit genocide or pop a nuke. 2 years of travelling the world organising a synchronous Political Coup/Civil War/World War against the Raspberry Reich. The Farsh-nuke was not going to let the fascist win again.

Richard Raspberry strode out into the sports stadium as school cheerleaders provided the marching music of the Raspberry Reich. He grabbed hold the podium and smiled a predatory grin. “Ladies and Gentlemen, my reign has been majestic but it has been hampered, stilted and very much held back. There are problems in this world. Problems that need a solution and I very much hope to provide a final one. Under my rule the trains run on time and that is for one very good reason -”

The Farsh-nuke materialised out of thin air and stabbed Raspberry in the heart. “I warned you, but did you listen...” He turned the knife.

Raspberry started coughing up blood but he was smiling. “The problem with good men, Farsh-nuke is that they are predictable. Didn’t you see the trap?”

The Farsh-nuke snorted. “I am no good man and my life is nothing to stop genocide.”

Raspberry started laughing, the blood making it sound like a disgusting gargle. “As we speak stealth bombers over every country that could pose a threat have dropped nuclear bombs. Any moment now -”

The Farsh-nuke was blinded and deafened as the atmosphere lit up with radiation.

“Total Genocide!” hissed Raspberry in the Farsh-nuke’s ear. “Only my most loyal and trusted supporters have been saved,”

“You killed your own race?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

Raspberry shrugged. “I only take the best which reminds me -”

Raspberry unlocked his podium and let the mutilated corpse of Lucy Danse tumble out. “Puts a rather different slant on the women in refrigerators trope don’t it?”

The Farsh-nuke stared at the madman before him, disgusted. “She did nothing to you?”

“She was in my way and I took great pleasure in taking her life by the pussy...” Raspberry licked his lips.

The Farsh-nuke wretched and he pulled the knife out to let the mad fucker plead to death. “Rot in hell.”

“Yes.” said Raspberry with a grin. “You will.”

“Allow me to introduce myself.” said a tall handsome blond man in a black suit. “My name is Adam Godwinson and I am the Alpha God.” He pulled out a gun and shot the Farsh-nuke’s cock off then handcuffed him. “Heads, I win, tails, you lose.”

*

2 years later the Farsh-nuke was tied to a rack that was stretching him slowly and painfully apart as a nazi called Jake carefully flayed the skin of his cock off and coated it in the most potent chilli powder in the multiverse.

The Farsh-nuke had screamed so much his throat was bleeding.

Richard Raspberry entered. “I just thought you ought to know I’ve found someone who will be more helpful in making sure my daughter returns my affections.”

“His name is Ivan. He is your son and you are an incestuous rapist. Rot in hell.” said  the Farsh-nuke angrily.

His tormentor smiled sliced a hole in his sack and proceed to pull out then chew on one of the Farsh-nuke’s testicles.

Raspberry frozen then said icily. “My daughter will be cured. We’ve found a very good Doctor. I think you know of him. He’s called the Bam-Kursh.”

The Farsh-nuke stared at Raspberry, horrified. “You’ve got the Toy Maker on your side?”

A thin smiled crossed Raspberry’s lips. “He’s a business man, he knows I can make him a rich man.”

The Farsh-nuke groaned and Raspberry left.

A moment later a short balding white man entered and smiled sadly. “How is it you aren’t dead yet?”

The Farsh-nuke shrugged. “I have a strong constitution.”

“You have been stripped of agency and your life is pain for the pleasure of a regime you despise.” said the Bam-Kursh. “Why not pull the ripcord on the emergency escape hatch away from this life?”

The Farsh-nuke was silent for a long moment. Even when his tormentor sliced off an eyelid and ate it, he barely reacted.

The Bam-Kursh watched his old friend carefully.

“The trick...” He said at last. “Is not minding that it hurts.”

The Bam-Kursh stared at the Farsh-nuke. “You have to be shitting me?”

The Farsh-nuke tried to shrug. “I did my best. I made mistakes and I hurt good people but I tried my best and I am not dying if I can stand it for even one moment a day. I’m not giving up.” He looked the Bam-Kursh in the eyes and said. “Heads, he wins, tails, I lose but this too shall pass and he will die. I won’t.”

The Bam-Kursh nodded then he turned and walked away, listening to the founder the Logicios and the United Civilisations of the Multiverse screaming in pain behind him as he left. The world had ended and evil had one but hope was not dead and the story was far from over.


Die Another Day

Die Another Day

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


First up apologies for typos. I am writing this while very tired and very drunk.

So, real talk, I expected to be dead as I type this, or to be desperately thinking up excuses not to die. I have had two years of jobless limbo. 2 years of emasculation, uncertainty, bullshit, nazi stalkers and depression over inability to get a job. Everyday I experience pain and tiredness. I was ready to die. Theresa May’s reelection was just the last gasp, the last aborted hope to be hurdled. The last chance to be ticked off before I gave up and let shit go so bad that suicide was inevitable.

Except Theresa May didn’t win. Now granted Jeremy Corbyn is not Prime Minister yet but make no mistake the ‘unelectable’ has come amazingly far given his chances were so shite the tories expected a landslide to devastate the electorate. He faced infighting, media bias and less time than Ed Milliband and he played a fucking blinder of a game. Now even if the conservatives remain in power they do son with great fragility and compromise.

I expected to be dead, or denying how very dead I was. I expected a tory landslide. How could anything good ever happen. How could this would of nazis and neoliberals see reason? Answer: Jeremy Corbyn provided hope and he was fucking good at his job.

I shall die another day. I have reason to live. I feel energised. there is hope for humankind. There is hope for Britain.

I turn 25 in twelve days. I’m getting old. I’m in fucking denial and I’ve been listening to all these old podcasts where a couple of lines stuck out for me. “Victory is a moveable feast.” and “It’s my turn.” I was ready to die. ready to say goodbye to all the pain and the bullshit. Except two things happened today. Obviously the election, removing the excuse of certain death. Then also something else.

I mentioned that phrase from T.E.Lawrence. “The trick ... is not minding that it hurts.”  in a video but today I felt it. I walked for literal hours from polling station to doctor’s surgery for my testosterone injection. My feet have been in near constant agony whenever I stand up but I just don’t mind anymore. The pain is just a signal and I know it’s a false signal, I’m okay. I can stand. I can walk. I can walk for miles and miles, for hours and hours. The pain is real, the damage not so much and I don’t mind the pain so much anymore now I know I can physically take it and distract from it.

I was so scared about today. So very very scared. I know the conservatives may still lead but Corbyn has played a blinder and made a difference and I shall die another day. I don’t know if I can do this forever. I am still stuck in limbo but I no longer feel utterly damned. There is light, there is hope. We can do this. Make a better world.

I’ll make a proper video and blog later but fuuuuuck, guys, we did it! We won! The world turned upside down!

Monday, 5 June 2017

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These NSFW

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These
NSFW

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Alfred Hitchcock said once that a bomb under a table exploding as a couple having dinner isn’t scary. Scary is when you know there’s a bomb under the table and you see the couple having their conversation then it explodes.

To fear you don’t just need disaster destroying normality, you need time asnd frustrated hope that maybe disaster could be avoided.

I was not afraid about the conservatives winning the election when a landslide was likely because I had no hope to be destroyed. 3 days from the election and I am so fucking scared I’m shaking. Never have I wanted quite so much to just stop existing. Not to die but just to skip the waiting because the tension is intolerable.

I am not scared of death. I do not give a shit about my own life any more. I have spent two years waiting for the last straw to snap and my fragile oasis of relative calm to be destroyed. In the last two years I have gained a nazi hate cult, accidentally insulted and alienated people I regarded as good friends, been threatened with eviction at christmas, witnessed tirade after tirade and ultimatum after ultimatum from my parents and seen more of the police than I have of my own friends.

Hell is a relative term and I know with sick certainty that my life might be seen as comparative heaven for some poor souls. None the less it has knocked the shit out of me. I don’t do drugs but my body is a strung out perpetually sticky, sweaty and smelly thing held together by caffeine, mints and over the counter pain meds. Every day feels like a struggle just to get up and get moving. Creaky joints and aching bones as pain and tiredness pulls at me.

Dying is easy, I tell myself. Painful if executed poorly sure but once it’s over. It’s over. I tell myself it could end. I tell myself I have a parachute, an escape hatch I can leave through. I tell myself this because my life right now is like being stuck at a party you don’t want to be at. It’s not your place so you have no control. There’s nowhere great to sleep, nothing much good to eat and you’re hanging on using what’s available to maintain your interest because you just don’t quite want to leave yet and enter the cold dark of the night walk home.

Death does not scare me and frankly my social life is an immolated mess, my job prospects are shit and my every online activity is hounded by the muted screeching of the nazi hordes. I have nothing left to lose - and I swear for the love of fuck that is not a challenge nazi trolls, your penises are all very lovely - I don’t care about terrorism. I don’t care about the possibility that one of my stalkers might decide to come and kill me because my life is already over as far as I am concerned. I just haven’t stopped moving yet.

Which brings me to Donald Trump. His fans are obsessed with me and honestly here’s the terrible thing. I understand it. I understand him. Donald Trump is like a frustrated boy going through puberty decided to write an Ayn Rand Superhero. Donald Trump is the Farsh-nuke if I had never got into sci fi. He has a child’s petulance and insistence that the world work for him. He has a child’s insistence that he can fix all the world’s problems because he can be the brutal pragmatist who gets the job done. So of course all the children pretending to be adults find solace in this bold hero who says what they want and sees what they see.

It’s like in Doctor Who, Moffat’s done this cute thing of making the Doctor President of the Earth in emergencies. This has echoes of the Romans having a special dictator to oversee resources in tense conflicts or even like how at the end of the first world war the allied powers eventually got one single coordinator to oversee the distribution of troops in the final days of the conflict. It also practically makes sense that after fifty years of being on TV the authorities of Earth just quietly step aside to let the great hero do his job.

It is also incredibly fucking stupid. I mean maybe I’m just biased from my perspective as a fan of the Seventh Doctor and the Virgin New Adventures. Tennant’s Doctor could be trusted with the Presidency of Earth because he wouldn’t want it but seven? The Seventh Doctor was the monster who thought monsters. The chessmaster across a thousand chessboards. He manipulated his friend’s boyfriend into becoming a suicide bomber against mushroom invaders, he destroyed a universe where humans and Silurians made peace out of fear and made deals with the Eternals.

Power is toxic. Power is dangerous. Yet you can’t do anything if you don’t have power. The danger of the Doctor is that he is so powerful and dangerous even when he doesn’t technically have any official power. He doesn’t carry a gun or a knife, he generally isn’t physically imposing, he generally doesn’t fight. He has special abilities but they aren’t even defensive so much as about surviving once he is attacked. He has a time machine but he doesn’t use it as a weapon. All he has is knowledge, charisma, deductive reasoning and the ability to improvise. The Doctor is a hobo alien with no money, no weapons, no equipment save a screwdriver and the seventh doesn’t even have that. Yet he defeats army after army by just acutely understanding the consequences of actions and how to set events moving in just the right way to achieve the ends he wants.

There is a definition of utilitarian morality that Star Trek embraces which is very ethical and loving. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few so the few will sacrifice to save the many. As my stalkers are at pains to point to me however (Ironically given where I learned about Utilitarian Morality) it also has a darker interpretation and can be taken to dangerous extremes. It’s fair enough to quote Utilitarian Morality as the reason to tax the rich or take out a suicide bomber about to detonate a bomb in a public place. the problem becomes where you stop that reasoning.

The Seventh Doctor was haunted by the realisation that one of the faces he could have had as the third Doctor was the same as the dictator in the alternate universe the third Doctor visited in Inferno. The Doctor knows he has the potential to destroy freedom in the name of ‘The Greater Good’. This is the danger of Donald Trump. This is the danger of fascism. The seductive temptation that if you just had a little more power you could solve all the world’s problems.

I think in the world of Doctor Who the reason the Doctor hasn’t deposed Trump is that he knows he would be worse because unlike Trump he would play the game, provide fair justifications and work behind the scenes to control politics without overtly doing much. Trump is a republican in charge of a republican dominated congress, senate and supreme court. If he was smart he could destroy freedom and oppress more thoroughly without seeming anything other than a standard neoliberal. He could milk that Caitlyn Jenner thing and be all “Let the trans people use bathrooms.” while enacting harsher vetting procedures for immigration and refugee status. If he was smart noone in the establishment would question him.

If you doubt that, remember that when Clinton ran against Obama her team spread racist propaganda to help her case yet now she is the darling we so nearly had because the sins are forgotten if you play the game. Trump’s madness stops him playing the game and it’s why his supporters are so rabid because to them he is a maverick hero playing against the system. Despite that this is why he’s so ineffectual.

As for me, I am powerless yet I feel such weight upon me. I have no ability to dictate where I live, no ability to increase the likelihood of it happenning. I am a passenger in the events deciding my own life. I have no say in what happens with Trump, Terrorism or really what happens to Britain after June the 8th. I cast my vote and hope, except I live in a Tory safe seat so I’m pissing into the wind.

All I can do is stay alive and hope I might be of some use later. I mean I do have this blog and youtube but again my stalkers are so insane I do more good not doing anything. If I tried to speak out against injustice maybe I might inspire some people or change some minds but one very real consequence is that my stalkers would get active again and very real harm risks being done to the people I care about. Heck, fuck me and my family, these nazi stalkers have taken up police time and we now know that the police are seriously underfunded and understaffed.

So I pull my punches, I withdraw from the world and I write in a desperate attempt to feel like I am doing something. Except that’s another problem. I have tried and tried but I just can’t not be influenced by my perspective as a white male English writer going through puberty in his twenties after I have been through phases of being feminist and anti-feminist. I am so driven by lust right now and I am very definitely aware that Wonder Woman has just come out, a woman is Prime Minister again (though hopefully not for long - Come on Corbyn) and we very nearly hade a woman President.

I am writing three series right now. One of them features the replacement for the Farsh-nuke Robert Gordon Banks taking on a nazi spacestation where a Trump expy aided by a Troll expy enlists the aid of the Bam-Kursh and the Farsh-nuke in developing a cure for trans people (and this time it is exactly as bad as that sounds and is meant to be. If not actually much worse in context. No journalists are harmed however.). The other was supposed to be a pseudo feminist tale of a woman setting up a multiversal media empire to hold the elder gods and various empires to account. It has since got bogged down by the female lead becoming addicted to seducing women and needing Tyler Durden to remind her of her submissive feminity so she doesn’t become the Farsh-nuke. The last is about the Bam-Kursh’s apprentice and it is just unapologetic wall to wall submissive women.

What I am saying is that if Hell exists I fully expect some lady demons to be waiting with red hot pokers and all kinds of penile torture instruments. This is why I’m also very much thinking up excuses not to finish any of the stories. Only pain awaits upon publishing. Only pain. Pain which frankly I deserve. Yet I can’t stop writing because I have all this time and I feel so powerless. My computer isn’t even that powerrful so it’s not like I can just play video games. And TV series are just so passive. I mean I walk while listening to podcasts but there are only so many podcasts and my body can only take so much.

So fuck it. Lets go one step further. Lets answer the one question I have never really done before. Fuck it, come June the 9th if Theresa May is still Prime Minister I may be dead. So lets answer why I find writing about submissive women so attractive.

The first thing you need to understand is that while there is a power to be kick to be gotten from simply imagining submissive women, it fades fast. It’s like playing your favourite video game on easy mode with all the cheats turned on. It gets very boring very quickly because it is so artificial and cheap. People say that if sex bots existed the human race would go extinct. That is bollocks because people get bored of sameness. I mean people get bored of long term relationships with real humans when humans are subject to change. Compared to the sex bots we are likely to see in the coming decades a human will always be infinitely more interesting and engaging. Heck in my multiverse toy girls primed for submissiveness and a desire to be dominated can be bought in shops. If all I cared about was cheap domination I could write story after story about different people buying toy girls and their lives being turned around.

It is cute when pretty girls want to be dominated and behave in passive stereotypically feminine ways. There is a certain amount of glee to be taken from the taboo of the white male nerd dominating a beautiful intelligent powerful young woman. The very guilt that makes me hate myself drives the eroticism of the fetish for me. Microphilia works as a fetish for me because it takes the powerful and turns them into a powerless pet or plaything. It’s nice to be on top. It’s nice to win. This much is obvious. It is sick, shameful and boringly predictable. Man takes pleasure in women suffering in news shocker. Well in fictional portrayals anyway.

Except it’s more complicated than that. I am fascinated with the idea of submissiveness as outsider driven by a central core of thought that states I must always have agency in my own life. I don’t want to just write the male’s perspective, I want to explore the female perspective. I am man. There are certasin things I just can’t do, I’m just not allowed to experiment with or admit to. Even in fiction. I have written many terrible things and if this nazi story ever sees the light of day you will see just how dark and fucked up I can go in my writing. Yet there are some things I am morally in favour of that my brain just won’t let me write, like a limiter chip preventing me expressing myself.

When I write a woman being submissive its like I can trick my brain around the limiter. I mean it’s still me as a man writing these things, exploring what it is to be a person in these situations, thinking these things, yet because I am a male writer presenting a woman through the male gaze my brain lets it go. No, it’s okay you can say this because your masculinity and sense of identity is secure. You’re just being a sexist prick but hey you’re a white male writer in the 21st century, you were that anyway so no harm, no foul.

I am a capitalist and I am a man. Masculinity is defined by doing stuff. The woman might be the trophy at the end of the adventure but the man has to save the day before he is worthy of her. Poor Aragon has to save middle earth from the dark lord before he can get married. Even when men are objectified we have to work so fucking hard to do so. We have to lift heavy shit, regulate our diets and go for run. Even when we are passive it is only because we are otherwise active. And of course capitalism puts a literal price on a man’s life and a man has to work justify his continuing existence.

I well you it is easier for me to fantasize about seducing a woman and taking her as my plaything as go on to build a harem than it is to imagine that someone might actually find me attractive and want to seduce me for me. I’d love to be a proper scifi writer focusing on my bullshit science, the tech, the character arcs and plot. I’d love to study popular science for the fun of it and I’d love to do all of this because I wasn’t held prisoner by fear, lust and the need to survive.

I want female empowerment and objectified men because I want to someday let myself fantasize about  -struggling with the limiter chip here - somebody deciding they like me for me and that they want to support me and help me while I get myself together because they - gag- love me. *retch*

Everything I write the submissive women in my fiction having are things I myself want. Immortality. Youth. Not minding, even enjoying pain. The ability to be useful. To be cute. To be sexually attractive. To not be a burden but a sound financial investment. To be happy. To have someone to take care of you, to make the decisions for you, to enjoy you. And yes even that off-switch. Perhaps especially that off switch. I mean bikinis aren’t my style but you get my point.

I have spent my whole life having to figure shit out for myself because my dad was a terrifying emotionally stunted provider of money (he’s gotten better lately) and my mother was an arrogant clueless drain on my time and energy (no comment). I so always have to do anything that after I was bleakly honest in a facebook post and my family freaked out I had to invent bullshit jobs for my family to do so they’d feel like they were helping and quit adding unnecessary and unhelpful stress.

The worst thing is the shite hole I am in now is one I can’t see a way to escape. Maybe if Corbyn gets elected I can move out into council housing and live a good life but honestly I’ve spent the last two years thinking up solutions and I don’t think logistically there is one. I need a hero. I need a knight in shining armour to rescue me from this precarious and dangerous situation. Except I don’t believe in heroes, just selfish greedy people doing good things for their own reasons. So if my hero is going to save me it is going to be because I offer them something, because I add value which exceeds the financial, emotional and time burden I put upon them. I don’t honestly see that I have anything capable of providing said value. I mean I’m an ugly rude fucker with a shite reputation, no job prospects and a hate cult on my arse.

So I write about pretty girls getting plucked off the street like an apple from a tree because at least I can understand why someone would want to take the pretty girl home and financially support them. Heck even being shrunken cage sylph like in The Shrinkening feels like a step up. At least then there’d be stability and security.

I am free yet I am vulnerable and powerless. I am scared, tired and in pain with no stability or security just an insistence that I somehow survive and keep on as civilisation seems to fall about my ears.

Now If you’ll excuse me I’m going to watch Bakes 7 series 2. I really love the character of Avon. Ascerbic, cynical, selfish, greedy, smart yet loyal enough and brave. Also a genius with computers. I do love a man that has me wondering whether I want to be him or be with him. 

Friday, 2 June 2017

The New Introvert

The New Introvert

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


The time was that an introvert was defined by being indoors or being the man out in public with his eyes on a screen. How is autism defined in Neurotribes? The great pandemic of children who don’t make eye contact? Except that’s not really true anymore is it?

Oh Baby Boomers and Gen Xers likely have a bias towards the old forms of interaction but the information age defines us Millenials. We are the Screenagers. The generation raised on iPhones, Facebook and Youtube. Even our most introverted and autistic members have more casual awareness and interaction with other people than the most out going Baby Boomer in their prime. We grow up with a casual awareness of enough people to fill stadiums and that’s if we’re conservative about who we add. I mean I’m an obnoxious neurotic introvert driven mad by paranoia so I only add people to my facebook I’ve met and considered friends in real liffe with very few exceptions and I have a good 200 facebook friends that I am just casually aware of. I even knew of one guy so autistic and terrified of people that he couldn’t leave the house and seemed almost pathologically incapable of engaging in face to face conversation. Yet he ran a server catering to regular users and hundreds of guests that he regularly interacted with. Compare that to the tales of woe in Steve Silberman’s Neurotribes. To the gaunt victims of a society that refused to integrate them.

So in a time and generation where the social thing to do is to always have your eyes on a screen what does a modern introvert do? They unplug. The modern introvert will be out in town listening to podcasts, audiobooks or music as they engage with the world on a slow one to one level. They’ll use self check out tills or purchase goods with with one ear still listening to their distraction of choice. The modern introvert will eat outside in the sun, will take pride in collecting physical books and reading them out and about. They will write in cafes, read in libraries and feel bizarrely at home in the quiet of the unplugged world.

You see I used to fear going out because going out meant people and people meant hard work. Nowadays even the social people I meet up with in person specifically to do stuff with will have their eyes and hands permanently on screens. I can walk about town freed from fear because the media zombie fixed on screens or wearing headphones is so common place that you are not likely to be approached. Though this is itself an example of my privilege as a white man. The person who looks foreign will get accosted by white nationalist scum and the woman will get accosted by desperate men. We still have a long way to go, both to educate out the bigots and to stop the harassment of women.

Yet society has come a long way and if this is the future for the unprivileged. I have to say, it looks pretty good. Soon VR will become common place and affordable, aughmented reality headsets will sync up to social media profiles so all the tedious asking of uninterested people will be eliminated. Women will be able to broadcast an aura of “No. Fuck off.” and minorities an aura of “More English than you and anyway I have a black belt so jog on”.

As society becomes increasingly digitised, the hermits will emerge blinking into the real world once more, happy to find that the extraverts may still inhabit and run the real world but they have trapped themselves in the digital domain. Leaving the hermits free to appreciate the glories of a sunset, a nice flower, a well prepared meal or indeed the casual thrill of people watching when you don’t need to fear awkward conversations.

So if you see me or my ilk with a set of chunky headphones about our ears and a smile on our faces, know that we are the introverts and we are happy to have our world back, now that all the pesky social people have fucked off to the land of information to rage at Covfefe and whether Wonder Woman is or isn’t the greatest and most significant film in the history of everything.

For the record Trump is a nazi who likes getting peed on works for the Russians, boasted about committing sexual assault and just enacted a policy that will kiill the world by pulling out of the Paris climate agreements. I don’t care about ‘covfefe’

Equally Wonder Woman could literally be made by Trans Exclusive Radical Feminists and be part of a plot to kill anyone who isn’t a cisgendered female and I would still judge the film on its own merits while being pessimistic as fuck about whether it will be any good because DC has so far churned out crapfest after crapfest. It’s like if the team behind the Sharknado films decided to make a Black Lives Matter hitpiece film against the Trump Administration. So much bullshit controversy over a film that has fine probability of being shit just considering who made it.

Now I’m going to drink my tea and watch Many A True Nerd letsplay Medieval 2: Total War. Good night.

Thursday, 1 June 2017

The Duty

The Duty

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


I keep telling myself I’m not a writer. I have written 41,000 words across 7 different documents, 6 of which are part of the same story but I’m not a writer. A writer has purpose, a message, morals, ethics. I keep telling myself I’m not a writer because I’m writing for myself. I’m writing to write. Write fantasies to keep me going. Writing as a form of therapy. Then why do I care about form and narrative? Why do I care that arcs are consistent? That character growth and turns make sense? Why do I fix typos? Why do I waste part of my mental capacity worrying about edits to make later?

Look, I’m an atheist, I don’t get confessionals. I have no good book to refer to for guidance, no priest to turn to for wisdom. I am a nerd and I have nerddom to guide me. When I left school I was so powerless and alone. I doubted I could ever have impact on the world or friendship because I was weak. I was - I had convinced myself - a monster. The people must not like me because they must know about the anger, they must know that I am different. Then I discovered the seventh Doctor and I discovered that this impish problematic loner became powerful and gained friends despite his shittiness because his smarts were useful because they took down monsters.

Except I have run from monsters. I’m not afraid when it’s my life and reputation on the line but I don’t stand alone anymore. I can’t go out to battle when those I care about might get targetted, are being targetted, when I know my every slightest mention of the enemy gets them so excited they start furiously masturbating. I can’t fight the monsters because I do more good running from them. And there’s something else.

I fucked up. I fucked up bad. I didn’t see it at the time and I didn’t see it when it blew up in my face months later but I fucked up and that guilt has been sinking slowly through my armour, slicing ever deeper and deeper into the core of who I am. That guilt has been poisoning me, hurting me more thoroughly than the Growth Hormone Deficiency. I have lived my whole life avoiding actions I deemed immoral and then - Then I did something that I now understand to be heinous.

I don’t have confessionals and I don’t have a justification I can lean on. I have no great “needs of the many” excuse here. I can’t claim I was fighting monsters. I fucked up and I hurt people and then in my arrogance that I deserved an explanation when I was met with the consequences of my actions, my enemy used my fuck up to hurt those people again. To hurt them worse than before. How very fucking wretched to cause more harm after you fucked up than in the initial execution of the fuck up.

So I tell myself I’m not writing when I am. I tell myself this will never see the light of day as my guilt writes savage verse against my enemy, against even the parts of me responsible for the fuck up. I tell myself this is shit and I will never publish this. Tell myself I’ll probably be dead before its finished. I tell myself that my sin is my own to bare and if I must write I should do it privately even as I find myself preparing for publication.

I don’t have a priest to turn to or as good book to seek for advice. I have nerddom and in the podcasts I love and the comics I have loved I now see the only advice I can possibly take for this situation. Sometimes you write something you shouldn’t, something that has consequences and causes problems for other people. Sometimes you fuck up and people get hurt but you just have to keep going and hope not to fuck up again because every soldier is going to be needed in this fight and we cannot afford to have a single Achilles in his tent.

My name is Alexander Gordon Jahans, I fucked up bad and I am sorry, I am a stupid and insensitive man but I am a writer again and you will see a proper story published soon. Hopefully this one will lay my demons to rest. I did not mean for any odf this bullshit to happen but I have to live with the consequences.