Blog regular, AJ Liberphile, recently took a trip to Germany and reports back on his findings......
It's been four months since I was last in Germany, but all I saw of it last time was Hitler’s cursed legacy of evil Nazi roads defiling the virgin countryside. Events both personal and political propel me to return. I find Germany such a fascinating place that it's not good enough to simply read what's going on here any more; I have to live it. Along, apparently with a million newly imported savages and snackbars. I thought it was exports that Germany was so good at, but there you go.
It was great to fly with a German airline again too, rather than one of those so-called ‘budget’ operations that charge you £6,000,000 for a bloody Mary, then try to sell you bogus lottery tickets on top. It was also rather novel to see women with blonde hair going all the way to the scalp. Both my charming and middle-class flying companions were complete cucks, replying to my questions on the invasion by blithely pontificating about how Germany’s magnificent economy could easily absorb a few trillion kebab operatives. One was a little lost for words when I asked him how to avoid contravening Germany’s strict holohaux enforcement laws. I took the hint and STFU. I guess that’s the basic intention of them anyway, so lesson learned. Kinda.
To be honest, Flying over Dresden gave me the absolute shivers, and not just because by this time we’d transferred to a vibration-prone twin-prop the size of a large Audi. So, big relief to finally touchdown and get the usual culture shock. Can you really imagine, in your wildest dreams, getting on a spotless and almost-empty tube from Heathrow to central London for £2? With an onboard display showing ETAs for all the stations? Then the conductor politely explaining to you that you should have stamped your ticket before boarding and brushing away your apologies? They’re not all Gestapo you know.
The city is divided by the River Elbe into ‘New Town’ (North) and ‘Old Town’ (South). This feels a little topsy-turvy since ‘New Town’ looks old and ‘Old Town’ is a dismal 1970s-style Communist effort. The logic is that ‘New Town’ is a 1990s perfectly rebuilt reproduction.
The streets of Dresden are not mean. They are spic and span, graced with trams, and full of young Germans drinking, smoking and socializing. It all feels very convivial and safe. There are few kebabs or apes, but a great many kebab shops. This is how it starts.
Once ensconced in Little Amsterdam, having missed PEGIDA’s supposed celebration of Krystalnacht in Adolf Hitlersplatz, I chance a little fraternization with the natives. The demographic is universally university educated and for some reason fully onboard with Fürher Merkel’s genocidal plans for the eradication of Germans. Having myself (sort of) grown up to students incessantly chanting “Maggie Maggie Maggie, Out! Out! Out!” I find this more than a little incomprehensible. I guess they’re following orders of some sort. Apart from that, the under-35s speak better English than many Englishmen (the over-35 East Germans speak Russian as a second language); their general high intelligence and education more than makes up for the odd continental turn of phrase. The barman even corrects himself from ‘less’ to ‘fewer’ with no more urging from myself than the merest raising of an eyebrow. He explains to me that the PEGIDA rabble are mostly bigoted working class oiks, cursed with a lack of university education, and unreasonably fearful of losing their jobs. My fellow guests are an upmarket lot too, more than up for a spot of late night verbal jousting and philosophy. In answer to my question of where lies modern post-Christian Germany’s ideology and moral compass, they reply with talk of complex issues and gray areas. In other words, it has none. This bar cartoon perfectly sums up the spirit of 2015 Germany.
I awake fresh and ready, with 101 things to do. The first, obviously, being to sign on. Sadly, this experience is not as trouble-free as train travel. I am first misdirected to the Spastic Social Security, where I see for the first time the kebabs and apes. The Spastic SS sends me to the Joke Centre. The Joke Centre sends me to another Joke Centre. The other Joke Centre, which is the size of the Ministry of Truth, sends me to the Foreigner Person. Finally I feel I am getting somewhere. I am getting a lot of places in fact, but yet not the bank, let alone a gaff. The Foreigner Person tells me that Dresden has welcomed 5-6,000 kebabs and apes so far, and sends me to the Foreigner Registration Centre. This has a lot of prospective Germans and a very efficient ticketed waiting system, which it needs. The atmosphere is so thick you’d need a well-sharpened scimitar. The Foreigner Registration Centre Person eventually sends me in an infinite loop of getting my landlord to fill in a form so that I can be registered. I explain that I won’t be able to get a gaff, and thus a landlord, until I get SS payments. The highly efficient foreignerregistrationcentreperson explains that my temporary host will do. I walk another 5km back via a purveyor of portable telephonic communications apparati, where I deposit a retinal scan, a DNA sample and my fingerprints in order to purchase a SIM, then remember to eat and drink. I return to my host, who is also tired, from volunteering in a refugee centre all day, and charitably fills in my fucking form. I examine my blisters, read some Herman Hess, go on the Stormer, write this and retire.
A very good day. I strain my blisters further becoming an official Dresden citizen, then return and relocate to more affordable digs, sharing with an affable spic barman and a mysterious lady of few words. Phone data’s up Shit Creek and I can’t make head or tail of the network message, delivered in some guttural and verbose gobbledygook, despite my requesting English. I can see me ditching this T-Mobile toss. After lunch, I treat my blisters with a trip to the luxury spa, which includes two saunas, steam room, cold bath, Jacuzzi, foot bath, bar, rooftop terrace and numerous naked Germans. It roundly thrashes my Marbella five-star hotel on quality, price and clientele.
I engage a beautiful full-breasted 17-year old fräulein in conversation (well, beautiful apart from the tattoos and green hair - and they do shave actually; this may be the one advantage of porn). If she wasn’t naked you could mistake her for a man. She tells me that Germany is ‘not [her] favorite country’ but is unable to name one that is. This lack of pride in the world’s most advanced nation appears both ubiquitous and mysterious. She’s thinking of studying study social work. Advising her to find a nice bloke and reproduce, I point out the disadvantages of having anything to do with Cultural Marxist social sciences, where, unlike engineering, the professors swim in an ocean of bullshit, and that career women end up attempting to have children too late and end up as lonely cat ladies. An erudite young couple join in, also intent on racial suicide. They justify their decision on the fact that there’s no such thing as race. I start talking about blacks’ prowess in sports but I’m ten minutes late out and efficiently get fined 70c.
It strikes me that being in Germany is basically like being in the company of intelligent adults rather than badly-behaved children. All they need to do is sort out their ideology and they’ll be back on top. I decide to draft a decent version of the Bhagavad-Gita to upsurp Prabhupada’s As-it-is head-in-the-clouds meditation nonsense. I don’t see how the Cultural Marxists can possibly be intolerant about another foreign religion. That would be undiverse, incongruous, intolerant and hypocritical.
Returning, I pass a bike decorated with a #NoPegida sticker. Young Germs are deeply ashamed of any attempt to preserve their race.
Back at the gaff I try to write. Affable Spic engages me in long discussion on the state of the world. He explains his ideas at length. It seems to boil down to “why can’t we all just get along?” I quickly agree.