Saturday, November 18, 2006

Beware the Gift of the Ancient Greeks

Who benefits from an Olympic Games coming to Britain? Athletes, sports companies, sports-broadcasting companies, airlines, hotel chains, politicians, hangers-on, leeches, parasites, construction companies, transport companies, Lord Sebastian Coe, His Majesty Ken Livingstone, and Uncle Tom State-Handout, indeed anyone who campaigned to bring the damn thing to Britain in the first place. And who pays? Yep, that's right pardner, me, you, and every other poor sap taxpayer who is going to be pushed up against the wall to have our wallets emptied to pay for all of the above to have their self-aggrandizing party.

And for what? Exactly?

For something most people will hardly be able to summon up the will to switch on and watch, because athletics as a sport is a joke because of the the never-ending speculation about who is on what drug and the question mark over every gold medal winner, with an unspoken assumption that they are all on drugs but somehow managed to figure out how to evade the current batch of drug testers, this time round. Pardon me for daring to breathe, but I have absolutely no interest in any Olympic event, especially now Matthew Pinsent has retired. And yet this still won't stop a motley crue of state-handout merchants helping themselves to my wallet, perhaps for the next fifty years, to pay off a gargantuan debt, virtually all of which they will be trousering themselves, especially that feckless self-satisfied oaf, Sebastian Coe, William Hague's very good friend.

So far the predicted cost of the British Games is £6 billion pounds, and rising, after an initial guesstimate of £2.3 billion; though let's face it, we all know £10 billion is about the least this rotten party is going to cost, and I wouldn't die of shock if it headed more into the £15 billion pound range. With socialist ministers claiming that they won't even know the final cost until after the event is completed - so much for the predictive wonders of socialist state planning - let's add on another £3 billion for fun, and round it up to £18 billion pounds. Every single penny, of course, making the huge £1 billion pound waste on the Millenium Dome look like a mere playful bagatelle of loose change.

Oh well. It's only other people's money. And if they won't pay, I'm sure the Bank of England can print it all up, instead. Thank goodness for state control of the money supply.

No doubt it will also rain torrentially throughout the entire event, and that will be blamed on the global warming brought on by ... errrr ... all the athletes and officials flying to the event from ... errrr ... that can't be right? Well, I'm sure it'll probably end up as my fault. I should be taken out and shot and then my estate should be subjected to a special environmental law claiming 100% death duty tax imposition upon all climate change belief refuseniks.

Oh to be in England.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

How Would You Destroy the Austrians?

I was sitting high on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral yesterday. I was eating my lunch and looking down Ludgate Hill towards Fleet Street when I wondered just how I would destroy the Austrian movement if I was a statist, in the spirit of King Louis the XIVth of France attacking Sir Isaac Newton's pure gold currency at the start of the 18th century to help preserve statism in France (and thereby help create Napoleon and eventually Marx). As we descend into an ever more violent world of ongoing conflict, with inflationism leading to ever more worthless money and worldwide incursions of English-speaking troops into non-English speaking lands eventually causing nuclear bombs to go off in either New York, London, or Sydney, thereby creating military dictatorships in the provinces of England and Australia, or even the Homeland itself, I wondered what a mushroom cloud going off over Trafalgar Square might look like?

Well, from where I was sitting, it would probably look like a blinding white flash followed by instantaneous death; but what if the bomb was a relative dud? What if it only killed most of the parasites of Whitehall and merely left the rest of London dangerously irradiated? Obviously, staring down Ludgate Hill towards Trafalgar Square I would be blinded by even a relative dud, but possibly remain alive. And then once the inevitable military dictatorship took hold I would spend the rest of my life trying to bring down the state which had caused this horror and my personal blindness, as would many others.

And eventually, the truth of Austrianism would take hold, and we would sweep the state away. But only if the state was stupid enough to let us. So how would they stop the truth of Austrianism getting out? How would they prevent their parasitism being rumbled and how would they prevent themselves having to enter the productive sector?

They would have to destroy Austrianism.

So far we've been lucky because we have almost been irrelevant, but so was Von Mises to the Germans before his fellow Austrian Herr Hitler came to power in Deutschland.

The first thing the parasites will do is to destroy At first they will use feeble stories about how Jeffrey Tucker, Mark Thornton, and Lew Rockwell et al are living it up on donations, cruising through life on yachts and first class travel; then paedophiliac materials will be planted onto the hard drives of senior Austrian professors and then drugs will be planted onto anyone else considered of relevance. As individuals, the state will try to disgrace prominent Austrians in the eyes of their fellows and even if they fail to incarcerate them in their modern forms of the Tower of London, they will try to make their words worthless to the general population via the paint brush of manufactured scandal.

So if I'm right, as the western world collapses gently towards a second dark age, expect a greater antipathy towards Austrianism from the state. Because just as emigre Lithuanians, Latvians, and other Eastern Europeans were always the greatest enemy of the Soviets, despite their seeming irrelevance, we Austrians will always be the greatest enemies of the collapsing statists because we know what they're about and we know how to get rid of them.

So are you ready? Are you prepared to be victimised, shamed, outed, and eventually arrested and tossed into a padded oubliette? Because to be an Austrian is to know that when the military dictatorship comes we may not be the first against the wall, but we won't be the last. However, if this sounds a little negative, I have hope. When the dark ages started coming to Rome, the Christians were the first scapegoats placed against the wall of the Colisseum, but eventually Christianity came to dominate the world. And our modern Romans, the creators of Pax Americana, have a revulsion of actually killing citizens just as the Romans had a revulsion against killing citizens as opposed to barbarians, so many more of us will remain around, even in our Newgate gaols, to evangelize the Misesian message.

We also we possess a far stronger rational truth than Christianity, because we believe in the universal truths of Human Action, for all peoples, and for all nations, and for all time, at least in this DNA-driven anthropomorphic Universe.

So perhaps, I thought, one day we will have our own cathedral in London, a tower of ideas built from the proceeds of voluntary contributions.

I heartily look forward to eating my lunch on its steps. But in the meantime, I shall continue, whenever I can, to get onto Sir Christopher Wren's hallowed steps whenever I can, as they are an amazing place to reflect upon every topic under the sun, from quantitative bet spread analysis through to cryptoanalytic identity management. If you get the chance, you must visit Sir Christopher's greatest creation. The views down Ludgate Hill are amazing.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Size Matters

The Big One is on its way, all 875 pages of it. I recently ordered a copy of:

Money, Bank Credit, and Economic Cycles
by Jesus Huerta de Soto

The tracking system in Auburn tells me that it's just been shipped. I have therefore posted my armed guards, 24 hours around the clock, to take delivery! I haven't felt this excited since a man knocked on the door to tell me the truck containing Man, Economy, and State had arrived. Fantastic.

You know, just like my favourite character in Neal Stephenson's Baroque series, Daniel Waterhouse, I sometimes feel that I am getting really very old indeed. Thank goodness for the Sugababes.


So, some of the comfortable seats in the Senate of Rome, sorry, Washington, are now being filled by different bums? Yawn. Wake me up, when the American Empire pulls its legions out of Iraq. Or Britain, come to that. Indeed, why on Earth are there still thousands of US servicemen here in Britain, 15 years after the Berlin Wall came down?

Could it be, perhaps, because we in Britain are just the favourite Corinthian satrap of this avaricious world imperial power? No, we're independent. We're not in any way beholden to the Yankee Dollar, or American foreign policy, or merely playing poodle as a rustic trapping of a greater imperial power? No, of course not. How dare you even suggest such a thing; we're British for God's sake. We are free. We can do anything we want. So long as we get the Emperor's permission, obviously. And as long as we don't ask for any American troops to go home. After all, Gordon Brown needs the cash infusion of all of their military bases paying into the British economy, courtesy of the hapless US taxpayer.

America has come a long way since it was founded by insurgents who through guerilla action tossed out the unwanted military presence of a large and hated empire. I'm sure the irony of the Iraqis doing the same thing, 200 years later, would not be lost on Thomas Jefferson. Let's all Hail to the Chief. And say good riddance to Donald Rumsfeld. No doubt he's going to starve in the wilderness, and through pride and honour refuse to take up any of the well-recompensed positions within the US military industrial complex which may come his way. Ho hum.

God Bless America.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Bonfire of the Inanities

A sickening feeling crept across my stomach as my host tuned their television to the BBC, or those Buggers Broadcasting Communism as we austro-libertarian nutcases brand these tax-fed Guardian-reading propagandizing enemies of West London. Ye Gods, I thought; no doubt there'll either be an endless wail about the horrors of global warming or a soporific paean to the wonders of welfare. Alas, I was far from being disappointed.

The screen came up, and yes, there it was, an Iceberg. "I wonder what this might be about," I thought. And yes, less than 30 minutes later I was being bombarded by sob stories about how all those liccle iccle cuddly Polar bears are going to die out if global warming takes hold. If you listen carefully, however, you'll always notice David Attenborough is extremely careful about his use of the word if. I'm sure it washes past most people, but he is always sure to place it in there somewhere amongst all the other horror stories about why most people, except David Attenborough and his friends like Michael Palin, should be banned from jetting around the world.

I won't spoil you with the details, but if you are forced to endure the BBC's latest dose of global warming propaganda, just turn the sound off. The photography is simply amazing, but aside from the usual global warming blabber, we get all the other typical communoid bananas, for example, "highly efficient predators spotting opportunities and then making a killing by moving in and cruelly exploiting their weaker targets". I wonder what the allegory might be, there, mayhap?

That I am forced to fund this patronizing moronic rubbish is one thing, but could they at least provide a different soundtrack, perhaps Jimi Hendrix or Murray Rothbard cackling over the downfall of the Iron Curtain? Oh well.

Or maybe even provide an alternative documentary about how humanity is currently living in the middle of an inter-glacial period, where it should be expected that the temperature will either be racing up to a hot peak or racing down to another Ice Age. If global warming is taking place, which is a 50% probability given our position inside an inter-glaical, and if mankind's output of carbon dioxide has more than an utterly minimal impact upon it, which is up to 1% of the effect of a single large volcano blowing off a billion tons of carbon dioxide in a single large explosion, then let's thank God global warming is keeping off the next Ice Age, which is almost certainly waiting in the wings to freeze our brass knuckles off. It's a great word that, if.

We really are living in a world of brainwashed fools. Next, they'll be wanting to ban bonfires, to cut down on carbon dioxide emissions. What? You mean there have already been calls for this? We should ship all of these idiots out to Siberia and watch the fools freeze. I wonder how long their proposed ban on bonfires will last then?

Friday, November 03, 2006

Tragedy of the Common Fisheries Policy

So, the policy wonks in the EU, and other mafia bodies, think the fish stocks around the UK will last no more than 50 years?

All seafood will run out in 2050, say scientists

Personally, I'm amazed the fish stocks have lasted this long since the EU set up a typical tragedy of the commons, when the British government joined the Common Market in the 1970s (thank you, Margaret Thatcher). So what do the EU policy wonks think the solution to this tragedy might be? Fortunately, I haven't wasted any time reading what these non-producing parasites think, because I already know what they've suggested: More regulation, more taxes, and more policy wonks. Alas, I also know it won't work, as they would too if they put more than two brain cells together.

There is, of course, only one policy which will save the fisheries stocks around the UK. But hell, and a storm-force high water will never let our Marxoid rulers ever consider it. And what is this nirvana? Yes, that's right, you guessed it, private fishing rights for particular fishing areas to be bought and sold on the free market, with original rights established by the homesteading of particular areas.

Although more statist than my own preference, the Icelanders have shown the way with their 200 mile fishing limit around their island, which has preserved their stocks for their fishermen. And the smaller these private areas go, the more successful they will be. So perhaps we could start with a 200 mile limit around Cornwall, for Cornish fishermen, the same for Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Yorkshire, unserweiter, unserweiter; though obviously it will work best of all for private corporations owning the fishing rights to homesteaded areas.

It won't be tried, obviously, as it's better to let the stocks run down to zero, and surround it in a blaze of stories about greedy capitalist fishermen raping the planet, rather than trying anything that would actually work. But, hey ho. This is the Marxoid world of regulatory idiots and tax consumer charlatans that we live in. As this is Friday, I may partake of a small parcel of fish 'n' chips, for my supper. I should enjoy it while the fish last, under the abysmal regulatory control of our masters and betters in government, God rot them all.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

The System of the World

I had to read the book twice, before I dared write a review, and I kept putting the review off, because of the fear of daring to pass comment on Uncle Murray's last book; but finally, I managed to put something up about what I now consider the non-fiction equivalent of Lord of the Rings. I.e. It is simply magnificent. If you want to read the review, and even better, buy the book, try here:

Austrian Perspective on the History of Economic Thought (2 volume set)

It's time to put off getting that iPod upgrade, and do something for your Beta-wave grey matter instead of your Alpha-wave white matter. Buy the book. Read. Learn. Think. Enjoy.

Father Cronos and the Lack of Time

One thing I love about human history is the never-ending chain of coincidences and historical tie-ins that get reflected in modern culture. For instance, we have seven days in a week. Why? Because there are seven objects that move in the sky, that the naked eye can observe. Each one became a major God. And each major God got a day of the week named after it. It's easy to see in the French:

Lundi: The Moon's day
Mardi: Mars's day
Mercredi: Mercury's day
Jeudi: Jupiter's day
Vendredi: Venus' day
Samedi: Saturn's day
Err..., well it should be Soldi, for Sun's day, but our French cousins got it wrong here and made it 'dimanche' instead.

Of course, Julius Caesar invented the English words for the day's of the week by contrasting Germanic Gods with his own Trojan-Greek-Latin derived ones, hence:

Monday: The Moon's day, the major feminine Goddess (think Hera)
Tuesday: The day of Tiu, a Germanic God of War, a corollary of Mars (obviously)
Wednesday: The day of Woden, a horse-riding corollary of the swift heraldic Mercury
Thursday: The day of Thor, a thunderbolt-wielding corollary of Jupiter/Zeus
Friday: The day of Freya, the Germanic Goddess of Love, sister of Venus/Aphrodite, the junior partner to Hera/Juno
Saturday: The day of Saturn, the Latin equivalent of Cronos, a God who later came down to us, alas, as a mere Father Christmas, once Jesus outshone God the Father
Sunday: Oh come on, catch up! :-)

So what has any of this got to do with anything? Well, the most powerful God of early history, the Greek Cronos, also known as Father Time, became subsumed by the Latins and renamed Saturn. He remained very powerful and transcendent within people like the Jews (hence the Jewish sabbath on Saturn's day), but within western people he descended into nothing more than a white-bearded man, last seen busking as either Santa Claus or on the ceiling of the Cistine Chapel (it's the same original God, who also masquerades in British religion as Bran, the God of Crows, whose head was buried at the Tower of London). But he always kept his powers of consuming time, the keeper of capitalistic time preferences, no matter what the Christians did to him with their socialistic Sun-God (The Son of God, just like in Star Trek), a.k.a. Jesus H. Christ, an Apollonic sun-haloed God, a Sol Invictus, whose holy day is, of course, the day of the Sun. Remarkable.

But, alas, the Father, Cronos, has still stolen much time from me in the last few months, hence my total disappearance from these pages. And I may still struggle to make an appearance, because of an ongoing committment to a major client. But I may still pop up for air, every now and again, for everyone who may be interested (which is probably me, and my major client, who may question why I have the free time available.)

Anyhow, that's enough nonsense from me. I hope you're having a great time, wherever you are, if you've read this far, and let us hope the Power of Austria continues to grow. All power to Jeffrey Tucker's elbow.

Auf wieder horen.