I’ve long believed that the way you get a women says a lot about what you’ll experience from her. It’s one of the many reasons I avoid Tinder. Only about 10% of girls have a Tinder account and they are essentially putting themselves in a very obvious shop window on an app known for hook-ups. The usual Tinder date involves meeting them close to your apartment and banging them within a couple of hours, then feeling a bit disgusted with yourself for scraping the barrel. You don’t, of course, see these girls again.
Nothing wrong with that from a casual sex perspective  but you are basically filtering for lunatics and sluts. I’ve never been into that demographic and time has only made me more averse to it.
At the other end of the spectrum is social circle, where a girl sees you around for months, can watch you closely in your interactions with others, and then eventually tips her cap at you and chases you down. That’s how most men get girlfriends and then backwards-rationalise the process as if they were the party doing the picking up. Nothing wrong with that either, and the main reason I avoid social circle game is because of how the tiny pool of prospects essentially cripples your choice. You end up taking what you’re given. That’s never been my style of living.
Daygame has it’s own pros and cons for what type of women you’ll meet and what you can expect from them. My own personal experience has run the gamut from lunatics looking to get quickly fucked to archetypal good-girl virgins hoping to get married. What interests me today is a particular type of daygame girl: Easy Come Easy Go.
Have a look at this video. This chick was such a case.
She’s rather nice, no? I was sitting on the patio of Kamchatka bar on Kuznetsky Most one evening with Roy and Seven, drinking a beer and not very full of social energy. Roy was with one of the birds he’d pulled  and I was staring into space wondering when I should go home. Then the blonde chick of the video rushed passed.
I felt rather than saw her IOI. Jedi mind powers or ninjitsu, I guess.
It was an easy set. She was loving ‘umble Krauser from the off and happily gave up her number. I pinged her two hours later and we struck up a chat. She was meeting friends then going to a nightclub to dance. I received a couple of club bathroom selfies (nothing naughty) and we set up a date the next evening in a fusion Asian restaurant next to Nikolskaya.
It was all so easy.
This chick, Tanya, was full of excitable energy and extremely agreeable. We were kissing within half an hour though I knew it was to be had within five minutes. Two hours later her pals picked her up outside the restaurant in a car and she went off to some other club. She sent me a video of her dancing on a podium (unofficially).
The second date a few days later was at a mall. She invited me out, pinging that she was in the centre. We ended up in the Irish bar where the above video was shot. It was another exceptionally easy date where Tanya proved to be full of beans and agreeable. I smelled a rat.
I had that gnawing feeling that other girls I’d dated like this had not put out. You get easy dates, easy make-outs, and probably even a bit of hands-up-the-sweater action but they rarely end in sex. That turned out to be the case with Tanya. She agreed to a third date by my apartment and walked straight into my room without murmur. I could just sense she had not come to fuck. We drank a beer, fooled around on the bed, and she was resolute about keeping her tights on. After two hours she was gone.
That was two days before the end of my trip so I considered it over. She replied to my message the next morning and then went radio silent. Easy come, easy go.
I’ve been trying to figure out why girls do this and I’ve hit upon a hypothesis. Everything about Tanya suggested she was a good-time gal. Not a slut. Tanya was looking for fresh experiences that would brighten up her life. She wanted excitement and happiness. If friends called and said “we’re going to drive out into the forest for a picnic, are you in?” she’d most certainly be in. Same for a bungee jump, a jazz concert, a finger paint class, or more nights dancing on a podium in a club. She wants diversions. She wants to drink from the cup of life.
I had (not in so many words) propositioned her with, “would you like to spend a few evenings fooling around with an exciting foreign man?”
She’d been all-in for that but sex wasn’t part of her deal. I don’t think it ever was. She was delightful company and I enjoyed our three dates but that’s all I was getting. And then when I left town she moved on to the next thrill . This is why she was so easy and agreeable at everything up until the moment of truth. I’d never gotten the sense at any moment that she was hoping to get fucked, or even a Maybe Girl waiting to see whether I’d successfully seduce her. She was Yes from the first moment for fun while simultaneously a No for sex.
If you are quite prepared to have dalliances with such women while filtering through for the ones who do fuck, there’s no better way to build up leads than buying Daygame Overkill here for a detailed video guide on how to do daygame properly.
 Aside from the horrendous average quality, of course.  The hottest of them, in my opinion. A tidy petite blonde.  This is, of course, all supposition.
Now that my forty-sixth birthday is rapidly approaching, I’m intimately aware of my age. I can honestly admit that it’s preying on my mind. I ask myself: how long can I keep this up for?
I did my first daygame cold approach in 2009 when I was thirty-four years old. I do believe I asked myself a similar question back then: am I too old for this? At that time, I’d been propagandised into believing in “age appropriate” dating, that men should date women of about their own age. That was just normal. It’s what I’d seen all around me for decades. Older men dating young women were usually figures of ridicule for sitcoms and drama shows on TV.
Once I started getting dates with SMV-prime women- and eventually fucking them- it was a great liberation. I really wasn’t past it. I could do it! For the following ten years it felt like I’d been given a second youth. A second chance to do all the things I really ought to have done in my twenties. As readers of myinterminablylongmemoirwillsurely attest, I took full advantage of my second chance.
But those ten years have gone. I’m forty-five now, soon to be forty-six. Is it still possible?
Covid suspended the possibility of finding out through the real-world feedback of daygame. I got a month’s worth of daygame in on my Moscow trip and that limited sample suggests that yes Nick, you’ve still got it. You’re still sexually relevant to prime-SMV hot birds. Great!
Nonetheless, I am not taking my extended SMP lifespan for granted. My mind is fixed very firmly on retaining my sexual relevance as long as possible, as I get a girlfriend and, eventually, a wife. I’m certainly not going to let myself get fat and knackered again. I am taking all things anti-ageing seriously now and I don’t care if that makes me a faggot. Some of my regime now:
Four-times weekly hard gym training with a personal trainer 
Target 15,000 steps daily, whether daygaming or not;
Calorie- and macro-controlled diet of healthy food with no junk;
Severely reduced alcohol and sugar consumption.
So far, so 2020. I’ve now added a few new items into the mix. These are currently on an experimental basis to see if they have a noticeable effect. If they don’t, I’ll drop them:
5. Daily supplementation of Vitamins B, C, D, and E, Zinc, Omega 3, Apple Cider Vinegar, and MSM;
6. Daily facial rub of Vitamin C serum and retinol 
7. A course of Epitalon;
8. A repair course of BPC-157.
I’m looking into the bio-hacking world to see if they have any additional reliable protocols for either extending health-span or limiting the effects of ageing (either literally, or even just the visible markers of ageing). This is a new passion of mine as I firmly believe that ageing can be slowed and many of the symptoms of ageing put off for decades. There’s no reason you have to be fat, lethargic, and knackered at fifty. Personally speaking, I look younger now than I did five years ago. I feel better than ever, even better than at the peak of my kickboxing aged twenty-six.
Obviously, I know ageing is remorseless and unavoidable. However, you don’t have to surrender to it immediately. If there’s reader interest, I’ll go into more detail on each element of my regime.
Young and free, or old and knackered, I’m still the world’s best daygame coach. If you want to max out your own daygame skills, you have to get my Daygame Overkill video instruction series here. There’s nothing else even comes close.
 I just restarted in Belgrade this Monday and I’m very pleased to be back on it.
You all remember the Steve McQueen classic The Great Escape, right? If you haven’t seen that perhaps you’ve at least seen Escape To Victory. The six years of World War 2 were dark days, as the whole of humanity was under the cosh. Looking back now, the war seems absolutely insane. What on earth were our leaders thinking? Why did all of white Christian Europe fight each other when we could’ve easily just ganged up on the rest of the world? Imagine the Wehrmacht teaming up with the British and French Armies to kick the fuck out of Turkey. Wouldn’t that have been glorious? We could’ve kept going, all the way to China.
Imagine a world without China. Doesn’t that sound beautiful?
But no. The big daft cunts had to fight each other with the predictable result of surrendering half of Europe to communism and laying the foundation to surrender the rest to a flood of unarmed Africans sixty years later. What a shit show.
Speaking of shit shows, let me tell you about my own great escape. This is the inspiring story of one plucky freedom fighter’s daring breakout from Gulag Britain at the peak of Covid bullshit.
I recently expressed an interest in getting the fuck out of Britain before Boris instituted a blanket travel ban or mandatory Bill Gates “vaccinations”. My primary concern  was the UK turning into Australia and trapping its citizens for a whole year  so I decided to beat it. As Robert De Niro’s character says in Heat, never have anything you can’t leave behind in thirty seconds if you feel the heat coming around the corner. Belgrade is still mostly open. Restaurants, cafes, shops, gyms and so on are operating as normal until 8pm. You only need a 48-hour PCR test to enter. No special permits or citizens-only bullshit. I like Belgrade. I’ve got stuff going on there. So, Belgrade it was to be. I booked a ticket by KLM to fly from Newcastle on January 11th. It was an eye-watering £320 one-way but beggars can’t be choosers. Most flights are discontinued right now.
Four days beforehand, KLM sends me an email saying I need a negative PCR test no older than 72 hours to pass through Amsterdam (even in transit) and of course I already know it’s 48 hours for Serbia. No problem. I get an NHS PCR test and proudly hold the negative result email.
On the day of the flight I check-in at 4am for a 6am flight, having stayed up all night. My dad dropped me off because the Metro isn’t running and there are no taxis anymore because no-one travels or goes out, because everything is locked down in Tier 4 Newcastle. Two Colombian girls ahead of me in the queue are sent home because Colombia announced the day before that anybody who has been in UK in the past 14 days is banned entry to Colombia, even it’s own citizens. No tests, no isolation. Not even allowed in. They are rather distraught as it’s the first they’ve heard of it. Two other people are refused entry for reasons I don’t yet know.
It’s looking ominous for Krauser but I know Belgrade hasn’t barred entry and I’ve met all the requirements in the KLM email. I pass my passport across the counter and get out my email certificate. “Oh, we don’t accept NHS tests,” says the KLM check in assistant. “New policy, a week ago.” “You didn’t tell anyone,” I retort. “Your email says PCR test. This is a PCR test.” “It’s policy.”
I’m refused boarding. I get talking to a sailor who works in Norway who was refused boarding for the same reason. Another two after me suffer the same fate. KLM specifically exclude the NHS test but didn’t inform their customers. Cunts. I borrow the sailor’s phone to get my dad out of bed to pick me up  or I’d have been stranded at 4am in sub-zero weather.
Three hours of sleep then I get on the phone to sort it out. KLM customer support confirms the no-NHS policy then tell me Air Serbia hold the ticket so I have to call them. Air Serbia said under my ticket terms I must pay a £150 rebooking fee plus the additional fare rate, quoting me £500 for a one-way ticket on Thursday (on top of the £320 I already paid). No thank you. I go to my travel agent, Opodo, who keep me on hold two hours before telling me I have to go back to Air Serbia to get the rebooking fee waived.
I spent all day on the phone. Finally I sent an email to Air Serbia with attachments of my test and the KLM email, then finally get to bed. I wake up the next morning to find Air Serbia agree with me and have waived the fee. I get back on the blower and rebook for Monday 18th. Same flight, same price, one week later.
You’d think that’s the end of the drama. Oh no!
I need a private PCR test within 48 hours of arrival. It’s a six-hour total flight, so gotta be within 42 hours of departure. Now, the clinics only guarantee delivery of test results within 48 hours, though 24 hours is realistic. So, I try to get an appointment. There is only one clinic in the North East open on Saturday and its final appointment of the day is 10:45. I’m due to arrive in Belgrade 12:30, or 11:30 UK time. So, that appointment would render my test 45 minutes out of date. There are no Sunday appointments (and likely result wouldn’t arrive in time for check-in).
There’s no wiggle room. The clinic won’t wait the 45 minutes longer, and said the system would put appointment time on the certificate. So, there is nowhere to get a private test.
I chat a bit to the clinic receptionist and she tells me all the local clinics send their samples to a laboratory in Barnard Castle. That’s a tiny scenic village at the south of County Durham, about 80 minutes drive from my house. Obviously there are no trains or buses there. “I think they allow you to test at the laboratory itself,” she says.
I check online, find the clinic, and yes they offer a click-n-collect service 24/7. I get support on live chat and they assure me they’ll be open on Saturday and results usually take 24 hours. I book a kit online and strong-arm my dad to agree to drive me down. That problem seems solved. That’s Tuesday evening. I go to bed at least reasonably confident everything is squared away.
Then I’m talking to Roy Walker. He just got to Cape Town.
“Mate, I got stopped by an undercover cop at Boarding in Heathrow. She was asking me where I’m going and the purpose of my trip. You’re not allowed to leave the UK for holiday. You need a business reason.” “Did you have one?” “Yeah, my mate there wrote me a letter asking for an engineering quote. I told the cop it was a business development trip. She bought it.”
So I spent Wednesday sorting out my bullshit cover story for travel. On Thursday I go walkies with Brooding Sea in the city centre. Just as I’m about to get the bus home I get an email from KLM. My Monday flight is cancelled. The square-headed Dutch government bastards have just banned all flights in and out of the country, it says. Fuck. I rush home and call up Air Serbia to arrange a refund. While the phone is still on hold I open Sky Scanner and desperately search options. The only non-KLM flights are out of Luton and Heathrow. There’s a good direct Air Serbia flight at Sunday lunchtime and….. there are two seats left. I book without even waiting for Air Serbia customer support to pick up about my existing Monday ticket. At least now I’ll be taking the PCR test on Friday.
I need to get to London. There are only four trains each day and none of them arrive early enough to catch the flight. So I buy a ticket for the day before. I’ll have to spend Saturday night at a friend’s house in London. I call Xants who offers me his spare room but adds, “you might not want it, because my flatmate literally has Covid right now and is in isolation in his room.” That wouldn’t bother me but there’s a fair chance I’d not get to board the flight and have to return to Newcastle, where I’m staying with two parents who are in the legitmate Covid risk demographic. I try another pal and his landlord isn’t even allowing his girlfriend to come over, due to bullshit Covid fears. Finally, Big Baldie offers me his floor.
“Don’t have a sofa. Don’t even have a lounge, mate,” he adds.
I take it and then order a click-n-collect sleeping bag from Argos for £10, to collect on my way back from the lab on Friday. It’s at that moment that KLM sends me a new email implying the Monday flight is still on, and this entire Heathrow rigmarole might be unnecessary. But, the money is already spent and I really don’t trust the squareheads to fly on Monday. At least now KLM has added a line to the email saying they don’t accept NHS tests. They must’ve had a lot of angry customers over that.
Friday comes and it’s heavy snow. There is one road to Barnard Castle, over the moors. There’s heavy fog and visibility is severely restricted. At any moment we expected to come onto Road Closed signs that would force us to call off the entire trip. Luckily, we get there. I take the test in the lab car park, under heavy snow, then get some fish and chips. The test is timed to be valid for the Sunday Heathrow flight. It will have expired by Monday morning’s Newcastle flight (if it’s even on).
On the way home through the moors, I get a message from Salman. it’s a screen cap of newspaper headline that Boris has just announced a travel ban starting 4am Monday morning- two hours before I was due to leave. Sunday is now Last Chance Saloon. Now I’m concerned  that the worst-case Aussie situation will play out: total travel ban from UK. While sitting in the car as my dad drives through the fog I search Skyscanner for ANY country that (i) will let me in, and (ii) isn’t crazy expensive to fly to at short notice, and (iii) flies on Sunday.
The entire EU is ruled out because citizens or residence permit holders only. Most of the rest of the world too for the same reasons. It looks like Latvia is open and it’s £13 from Edinburgh on Ryanair. I book that before it disappears and figure to check when I get home. I get home and read the newspaper sites. Ah, Boris didn’t ban all flights. He just ended the travel corridors through which people can enter the UK without isolation. Still, the papers say many flights will now be cancelled due to onerous new requirements. You can fucking bet KLM will be one of them. It turns out Latvia wouldn’t let me in anyway, so that option was a false hope.
I have a brainwave over night. This is a chance to set up a satisfactory fall-back plan if London-Belgrade falls through: Go to Russia. My business visa to Russia expires on 1st Feb and the governments ban on UK nationals entering the country expires on the 15th. It’s the fifteenth right now. I could fly as early as tomorrow, spend a week or so in Moscow, then take one of the convienient Moscow-Belgrade flights into Serbia. Problem solved!
I’d even have a solid business case for leaving the UK and a business visa to back it up.
So the next morning I call my visa contact and ask him: do I need extra days on my visa after my stay (like you do with a passport expiry) or can I remain in Russia until literally the last day? “You can stay until the very last day no problem,” he answers. “But, this morning the Russian government extended their ban on UK nationals until Feb 1st. You cannot enter until then.” “My visa expries on Feb 1st.” “Yes.”
So, it all came down to catching a train to London. There were engineering works on the line making the usual sub-3 hour journey now take 5 hours, via Cambridge on slower, shitter lines. If anything goes wrong with my train, I can’t get to London, and therefore can’t get out the UK. Just before bedtime, Xants sends me a screencap of the overnight weather forecasts. Heavy snow and sub-zero temperature: the kind of weather that leads to train cancellations. He seems to find it amusing. As I fall asleep I can hear heavy snow and wind thudding against my windows.
I wake up to bright, clear weather. The snow has already cleared. I hop on to Trainline Live Service Updates relieved to see all four trains are on time. My PCR test comes back and I print it out. I’m ready! My dad drops me off in town and now I’m wondering if the Covid police are gonna give me shit boarding the train. Nope, it’s a breeze. I get to London on time.
I check Kings Cross underground station for service updates and I’m dismayed to see the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow is suspended due to engineering work. Literally nothing in this trip is going to plan! I must get a bus to Paddington and then the Heathrow Express. I spend the evening walking around Camden with Big Baldie then get a reasonable night’s sleep. He walks me to the bus stop at 9am and I’m off to Heathrow.
Now I was just hoping I hadn’t misread the Serbia entry restrictions (or they hadn’t changed overnight) and that the Covid cops wouldn’t interrogate me. The Air Serbia staff, bless them, barely glanced at my certificate. I could’ve written my own in crayon for all they cared. They never asked the purpose of my visit. I took my boarding pass with great relief and this was the first time in a week I believed I might actually succeed in my travel plans.
I didn’t see any Covid cops. I spent £4 on a copy of the Financial Times and rolled it under my arm when walking to the gate, just to look a bit more business-trip-like. There were no questions. The last hurdle was Serbian immigration but they too just checked my PCR test and let me in on the usual visa.
Thank fuck for that!
So, what a drama. I got an email that same day from KLM confirming they had indeed cancelled the Monday flight. So, it had been London or nothing all along.
This is all very interesting I’m sure but has nothing to do with shagging hot birds. Daygame Overkill, however, has everything to do with picking up and shagging birds. It’s the best video instructional available. Buy it now from this link or be a fag forever.
 Concern, not fear. I’m fuckin’ rock, so I don’t fear anything or anyone.  Like my Aussie pal Joe who has been locked down all year and has to entertain himself my smashing up his house under the guise of “renovations”.  High value.  Just concerned, mind you. Not frightened.
Old time Christian advice is to count your blessings each morning. I think this is excellent advice and I’ve tried to stick to a routine of it throughout 2020. Partly, there’s the moral case for looking on the bright side of life. Despair is a sin. Hope is good. Even false hope is better than despair because at least false hope motivates action to improve your life. Despair traps you in inactivity.
Since I started investigating bio-hacking- beginning a month ago- I see many speakers are offering a biological case to support the old time advice. Essentially, your thoughts influence your physiology and happy thoughts encourage a healthier body and better moods.
Think happy, be happy.
When you’re unhappy and stressed, your heart beats faster, your breathing becomes shallow and more likely to come from the chest than the stomach, and your body dumps cortisol into your blood. All of these are bad for you. Cortisol is the unhappy chemical that makes you feel agitated. Its purpose is to spur action. Cortisol in your blood is good if you really do need to act. It’s a curse if it’s a false alarm. It inhibits lots of the body’s natural processes.
Looking back on 2020 I had a pretty good year. It was considerably less fulfilling than 2019 due to Covid but judged objectively I did alright. Despite cancelling or postponing five of my six residential coaching programs, my income didn’t drop below my expenses. I’m grateful I didn’t take backward steps on my routine yearly living. That’s a reason to be cheerful.
My grand plan to get back on it with daygame on April 1st was totally wiped out by Covid. When April came I was under full lockdown in Belgrade. There was a 6pm weekly curfew and nobody allowed out at all for any reason on weekends. Everything bar food and pharmacies were closed. It was a bag of shite. Somehow, I still enjoyed myself. The weather was nice, I stayed on point with gym and diet by training at home and getting all my usual food delivered. My home brewed coffee was tasty. I wasn’t even especially bored as I was into my book reading (160 total books read by end of 2020), wrote a little, played a few games, and occasionally even met friends. Daygame was frustrated but I was in the country I wanted to be in and doing alright. Could’ve been a lot worse. Reasons to be cheerful.
I’d originally intended to dial back the obsessive gym work by April 1st to focus on daygame. But with skirt-chasing off limits, I rededicated to gym and diet. Belgrade gyms opened up and I spent most of the rest of 2020 training at 100% in quality gyms. Diet stayed on point. So I actually ended 2020 in physically better shape than I would have planned had daygame sucked up my primary focus of time and energy. Reasons to be cheerful.
I spent all summer hanging out in Belgrade with Jimmy. We’d sit on a cafe patio chilling out trying to at least get the occasional set in. We’d eat well and both had our training routines. To a normal person, it was living the dream. We were frustrated by the horrible daygame prospects but everything else was great. I evaded the entire year of lockdown bullshit that Brits endured in the UK. Reasons to be cheerful.
We averaged something like one set each every two days and with poor results. Girls just weren’t much interested in meeting men and the volume was never enough to hit critical mass where you get into a flow and there’s enough going on to deal with normal attrition. But we got our 10k+ steps in every day, had a laugh, and at least occasionally had hot girls to shoot at. It wasn’t all bad, hanging out with my pal in a nice city. Reasons to be cheerful.
The highlight of my year was unquestionably the first of my two months in Moscow, beginning September 2nd. The weather held almost all month with bright sunshine, t-shirt and shorts weather, and lots of girls out on streets barely affected by Covid. Roy came over for a month too. I got in over a hundred sets and many were great. There were idates, dates, make-outs, near misses, and one of my best ever notches. In terms of attraction generated, I’d literally never had a better month. The sheer volume and quality of girls expressing interest in me was the best I’ve experienced in my whole life. It was a reason to be extremely cheerful.
Gyms in Moscow were fully open and my Russian pal found a top class place, even better than my usual Belgrade gym. I didn’t have a personal trainer in Moscow but I did have a reliable gym buddy so we cranked out nine consecutive weeks of high intensity training without a single skipped session. Add in the 15k daily daygame steps average and I ended Moscow in the best shape of my life, both in health and aesthetics. I felt amazing. October was cold and bleak in comparison, with a desperate shortage of sets to shoot at, but I still enjoyed myself.
So, as of my November 8th return to Newcastle I was feeling alright. I’d mostly escaped Covid bullshit and despite logging a sub-optimal year I could in no way complain that it wasn’t a good year by more objective standards. For fucks sake, I’d only worked a total of five days and I’d spent almost all the year in my two favourite cities hanging out with pals.
November in the UK was nice, being back home to see family and chill out. It was a month of lockdown but it didn’t matter as everything I wanted to do was at home anyway. I read books, plugged on with my final memoir, and finished a few video games. It was relaxing. I barely even thought about the fact I was locked down.
This is all lovely but the alleged horrible year of 2020 finally got me down in December. I think it was primarily hormonal, a result of a second month of Covid restriction. It started to agitate me that shops were closed and I couldn’t sit in cafes or restaurants. Gym opening and closing was unpredictable so I did what I could. It was bitterly cold and wet so I didn’t get my steps in. I think my body rebelled. Adding to the stress were health problems in my family. My dad had a heart attack in mid-August meaning I came home a couple weeks to be there. Fortunately it was mild and he made a full recovery. He’s got a stent in his heart now and daily heart pills but is otherwise doing all the same things he was. Then he had a bowel cancer scare and needed a biopsy. Fortunately the test came back with an all clear. Those scares really made him face his own mortality and he went on a doctor-advised diet and has slimmed right down to a healthy weight already. My mum has continued to slowly lose her mind so two months of sharing that burden has been stressful. Additionally, my youngest aunt is in the highest Covid risk demographic due to pre-existing conditions so she’s been completely locked down since March and is feeling the isolation and depression of it. I’d been cocooned away from all this during my trips but now I was living in the middle of it and doing my best to provide moral support. It does drag you down.
The US election nonsense didn’t bother me too much. It was certainly dramatic, having Trump win by landslide then Biden blatantly stealing the vote, and all the various fallout of the courts, media, GOP, Congress, and Big Tech all go fully lawless in supporting the steal. I didn’t like to see evil bare its teeth but it was at least fascinating to follow. The masks are off and the Great Awakening has happened. Fully 50+% of the US population now knows that the election was stolen, voting is rigged, the Establishment is in China’s pocket, and elites are selling out the West to its enemies. Back in 2015 normies would’ve thought you a deranged conspiracy theorist had you explained all that. Now it’s common knowledge. The people in denial of it are considered the crazies. I don’t know how it’ll all shake out but as of early January I found the drama exhausting. The ups had cancelled out the downs for two months but finally it was just tiring to pay attention.
So, it’s the second week of January and I’m a bit antsy. I want to walk more  and get back in the gym. I want to get the fuck out of the UK at the earliest opportunity, and I very much hope that at least some popular daygame destinations recover their street traffic in spring. I found 2020 alright and remain optimistic for 2021 but, fucking hell, I wish I could get on it. I want winter to end.
Reasons to be cheerful:
In the best shape of my life;
Birds still love ‘umble Krauser;
Finances didn’t take too bad a pounding, even allowing for blowing a bunch betting on Trump’s election;
Big things still to come in 2021;
Memoir 95% complete;
Got myself a few tentative new interests that should keep me motivated throughout now that the reading orgy and gym is dialled back.
If this is all rambling nonsense to you, you’d best buy Daygame Overkill here. It’s the best in-field video instructional course in the world and what better time to polish your technique in anticipation of getting back on it yourself in spring?
 At the minute I’m stuck with Broody and his insane ramblings. I think I might shoot myself.
I’ve been back in Newcastle almost two months now. I’m sure we can all agree that 2020 daygame was a pile of toss. Thank you very much Chinky communist cunts and your globalist stooges. I’m due reparations from the CCP scumbags and oh do I hope and pray that Trump cancels all the US debt they hold. Fucking scumbags.
Anyway, the irony wasn’t lost on me that I spent two years away from daygame getting my life and health back in order and “transitioning” to a post-daygame life only to find that when I decided to get back on the streets (April 1st) the chinks had gotten the whole world locked down. I managed about one month of total daygame in 2020, doing 95% of my year’s pitiful total of approaches in Moscow in September 
Maybe I’ll write more about my 2020 if there’s reader interest. For now it’s just a longwinded segue into what I’ve been doing in Newcastle: inching through my memoir. It’s now up to 145k words which puts it on a par with all the other volumes  and I’ve completed what I consider the “full draft”. That’s just my own silly term to mean I’ve (a) gotten the full chronological period covered and (b) hit my target word count. So I’m now onto the “second edit” meaning I start at the beginning of the manuscript and read through trying to clean it up and improve prose quality and pacing. Funnily enough, this is the stage where I find out what I’ve written. When writing the first draft I just start at the beginning and plod through, never re-reading completed chapters, so I quickly forget what I’ve written.
Here is a sample section from the first draft. This is how my writing looks at the first attempt. It’ll get cleaned up a bit on this next pass.
“Bro, I’ve got some time off work. Let’s go to Odessa,” he said. I expressed my lack of interest. “Tell you what, Big Bro,” he continued. “I’ll fly you down and pay for your hotel.”
That changed my mind.
So, on the tenth of June I boarded a flight at Warsaw’s Chopin airport to the Ukranian sea-side resort. As I watched the blanket of clouds beneath me I still couldn’t rustle up any enthusiasm. We soon dipped back through the clouds over the sparkling Black Sea and even a panorama of natural beauty did nothing for me. I was in a good mood- life was going well- but I had low expectations and had made the trip simply because Kenan had made things so easy.
Odessa airport was a tip. It was a barn-like Soviet-era monstrosity.
I shouldered my rucksack and stepped into the hot sunshine, following the signs to the airport transfer bus. I had to fend off a few taxi drivers who’d stepped out of the 1970s to solicit my fare. When I arrived at the bus stop I couldn’t quite believe it. The transfer terminal was, quite literally, a shack. The blue paint cracked on every surface exposing deep rust beneath. A paper was pinned on the wooded wall in Ukranian gibberish with what looked to be a timetable. After a half hour a battered minibus arrived and I jumped on. The driver never asked for a fare.
I walked on through to the back seat and looked out the window. The bus stopped a few more times headed into town, picking up a handful of passengers. I continued gazing out the window in awe at the grinding poverty of the Odessa suburbs. First I passed isolated broken-down farm houses and then the clustered hovels of gypsy camps. These gave way to battered tenements and eventually to the city centre. Here and there I noticed shopping malls, which appeared to be the only buildings in good repair.
Odessa was the dirtiest, most broken-down city I’d seen since Belgrade. Yet it lacked Belgrade’s charm.
It appeared completely un-daygameable from what I’d seen. The pavements were empty and noisy disorganised traffic shuttled past at high speed. The few plazas we passed were choked off by unruly traffic roundabouts and street sellers. I kept my spirits up by reminding myself many FSU cities are like this outside the old centre. It’s always the old centre that counts.
To my relief, when we finally pulled around the corner from my hotel, we were in the nice part of town. Kenan had gotten us a room each in a fancy-pants hotel, the Frapolli Hotel on Derybasivska street. It was a delightfully retro hotel with blue painted outer walls, an art deco metal and glass street-facing lounge restaurant, and small balconies overlooking the famous street.
“This is certainly the nice part of town,” I thought as I noted all the brand new flash cars parked outside. I’d left all the rattling Ladas and Yugos a few blocks back.
The hotel reception did not disappoint. There was a large brick fireplace in one corner with a few leather easy chairs pulled up in front and a grand piano next to it. A winding dark brown wooden staircase spiralled up to the guest rooms. On the other side of the staircase were more leather chairs and pleasant decorative wrought-iron pillars painted pastel red. Whatever happened, this would be a nice getaway from my typical daygame squalor.
It was not yet four in the afternoon and Kenan wasn’t due until eight, so I went outside for a look about. A few miles distant I saw some ominous-looking clouds but as yet the sky directly over my head was brilliantly clear. I walked around the block, checking out the footfall and vibe to see if their was daygame to be had. I remember Tom telling me of a trip he’d made to Odessa around 2013-ish. “Shite for daygame, mate. Grotty as fuck. No sets. I got really lucky with a same day lay.”
Not that I believed him, but let’s not flog that particular dead horse any more.
His assessment of daygame opportunities seemed spot on, though. I didn’t see a single hot girl. Nothing even to the standard of “at least it’s a notch” shaggable. I returned to the hotel and had a lie down.
Kenan arrived, brimming with positivity. “Bro, let’s go out. I’ll buy you dinner.” “Okay.”
Kenan led the way to a nearby dining district composed of two long pedestrian streets lined with restaurants and with a long grassy park between them. The atmosphere was pleasant and I noticed it was popular with middle-aged couples and families with young children. It wasn’t at all popular with single women of shaggable age, however, and in the three hours we sat at an outside table to eat, I only got up once to do a set. Little did I know, that would be my only daygame set of the trip.
The next day, it started raining heavily.
And I do mean heavily. For several hours Kenan and I sat in the hotel lobby looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows shaking our heads in disappointment.
“Bro, this is not good. Already we have the problem that we are slightly early for the holiday season. This does not help.”
The rain did stop by dinner time so we went out again to eat but there streets had been washed of any sets that might’ve been abroad. Kenan suggested we hit a nightclub. I wasn’t at all enthusiastic, having been singularly unimpressed with Kiev clubs, but Kenan did make the very reasonable case that Odessa is a resort town and all the best tottie would be at the beach-front area called Arcadia.
“This is where the beach and clubs are,” he said. “The girls sleep all day and then drive to the clubs. It is far from here, so they don’t walk the streets. We can get a taxi there. It is our best hope.”
I checked my watch. It was getting on the nine pm. I didn’t have any other plans, so I agreed. Anyway, Kenan was funding the whole trip so it would’ve been churlish to let him down on a Saturday night. We went back to the hotel to rest, aiming to hit the clubs around eleven.
While waiting in the lobby I couldn’t help but notice and exceedingly beautiful woman sitting on a chair across the room from me. Tall, leggy, and in fantastic gym-shape, she looked an absolute knock-out in her figure-hugging evening dress. She was as close to a ten as exists in the real world.
And she was looking at me.
It took me a little while to realise it, what with the ten metres or so between us, and that stunners never give out obvious IOIs like that. Once I realised she was indeed trying to catch my eye, I got up and walked over. She gave me a welcoming smile and indicated I could sit next to her. After a few sallies, I realised she couldn’t speak English.
A woman old enough to be her mum came over and helped translate. “She says you look very nice,” said the old battle axe. “Thank you. She too is pretty, though I’m worried because Ukranian girls are crazy.” There was a short exchange in Slavic babble between the females and the battle axe turned back to address me. “She says thank you but she is not crazy. Where are you from?” By now, Kenan was coming down the spiral staircase. He looked over the bannister at me, assessed the situation, and then came over. “This is a professional girl, my friend,” he said. “I think you prefer the club.”
Kenan was only confirming what I’d already figured out- when something looks too good to be true, it usually is. I have occasionally rattled very attractive women but not ever have they sat in hotel lobbies making fluttery eyes at my fat ass before I’ve even had a chance to begin my silver-tongued magic. I said good bye to the young lady and her madam. It was all quite polite.
A taxi pulled up outside.
“Mate, I’ve heard Odessa is pussy paradise but so far I’m very disappointed. That one whore aside, I see more fuckable women on Northumberland Street.” “Where is this?” “Newcastle.” “Don’t worry,” Kenan laughed. “I’m sure the nightclub will be better.”
If you don’t buy Daygame Overkill, you’re a bit of a daft cunt. It’s by far the best in-field coaching product out there.
1 – One lay with a 24-yr old stunner I picked up in Gipsy nightclub at 2am while drunk out of my mind and banged ten days later on first date. Again, the irony is not lost on me. Also two near misses with very hot young women, a few make outs, and a few dates to nowhere. 2 – Except for Balls Deep second edition which is a whopping 210k words.
I think it will surprise exactly nobody to learn that I still have nothing but contempt for James Marshall’s bullshit outfit The Natural Lifestyles. They may not be the absolute bottom of the daygame barrel  but they are pretty close. The marketing is bullshit, the coaches have no ability, the owners are sleazy whore-mongers, and… well…. I’m almost lost for words. So, I was quite pleased when reader Ben submitted this unsolicited review. I present it unedited below.
Let the hate flow through you……….
I am probably one of the few people who have products from Nick Krauser and TNL as I imagine they attract a different type of crowd. The Black Friday nonsense is upon us and the TNL have all of their online courses up for sale. Of course that includes the ones they said would never be available again. It has been quite some time since I last looked at the TNL courses. I have three. The Five Principles Legacy Edition, Dating Accelerator and the Masculine Touch Blueprint. If you think about buying their products then I would like to point a few things out about them and compare them to Daygame Overkill. These are of course just my opinions.
I would recommend Overkill to anyone who is interested in Daygame and wants to know what it looks like, what to do, what to say and how it works. I would only recommend the TNL courses to people who are nervous wrecks and take anti anxiety medication. The boring and monotone voice of James Marshall droning on for hours without ever teaching you anything of substance will calm you down. And maybe in a way, somehow it will help you get laid. But I would not count on it.
Overkill is 5 1/2 hours long. The Five Principles LE is estimated 30 hours long (if you include all the webinars). Overkill costs a fraction and is worth much more. You will actually learn something from Nick. Both products have a talk and infields. But Overkill has more infields and actually shows you different types of girls and teaches you different concepts like yes/maybe/no girls, IOI’s, yours and her body language, how to spike, how to stack, hook point, how to stop a girl and much more. You will of course never hear about any of those from the Five Principles, the flagship course. If you want to know how to stop a girl in the street from TNL you will have to buy the dating accelerator which costs as much as Overkill and includes a few hours of boring talks and is basically telling retards how not to harass women. And of course a few videos where James is demonstrating how to stop a girl and what not to do. But that is it. Not how to open, not how to stack, no structure, no nothing. In one video (not in the same product ) James is also saying that Dating Accelerator is basically a sales funnel to get guys to buy more courses. And it costs as much as Overkill.
So now you know how to stop a girl. What is next? Well in Overkill the answer is simple (but not easy to execute) and straight forward. Nick is giving you examples and explains why it works. So you can go out and practice for yourself and try it out. And the Five Principles? A course that is supposed to teach you how to seduce women. You will get access to one of the principles each week. The first principle is awareness. Inner and outer awareness. In the Legacy edition there is a one hour talk on inner and outer awareness each. Plus the original talk. Basically it is you knowing what goes on inside you. You know, your feelings. And what goes on around you. The outer one is looking at a girl and trying to figure out if she is in a hurry or not. Or if she looks sad or whatever. And countless suggestions that you should meditate. And at the end there is you first mission: approach girls and be aware of what goes on inside you and around you. Not how to approach not how to open, nothing. Just be natural. Just do it. I probably don’t remember the right order of the missions but there was also one where you are supposed to feel your heart when you approach and one where you are supposed to go to a club and meditate in the middle of the dance floor.
The next principle is Intent. Nick talks about this for five minutes in Overkill and it is clear as day what it is. James wastes your time for more than an hour with the Dr. Fox effect. There is also an hour long interview with Liam. The mission for this week is: approach girls and feel your balls. Not with your hands! Again you are not taught how to do daygame by James. The next week it is the principle of Emotional Impact. It is paramount according to James that you create an emotional impact with the girl if you want to sleep with her. Ok how do I do that? I have watched the hour long video several times and I still don’t know how. Either I am too dumb (entirely possible ) or he never explains it. This week also includes an interview with John Keegan. Pressure and Release. TNL’s version of pull/push. Now here James actually gives examples but not many and its still an hour long. And lastly it is Decisiveness. An hour long talk about how not to dick around and actually „pull the trigger“. Basically being direct with the girl and going for what you want. Another interview this week and this time it is Sasha Daygame (one certainly has to be decisive to drink once own piss so he is the perfect man for the subject). In the infields, five of them, James shows how he and others have used the principles to get girls numbers.
And that is mostly it. You can also watch the hours of webinars on each principle. Maybe you will see highlights such as one student saying that he did not learn anything from the course and that he regrets spending so much money on it and James trying to defend the course. You can also watch how James demonstrates how to spank a girls ass. Somebody asked about it. Apparently there was a photoshoot going on with Liam and a few models in the next room. In the middle of the night in their Airbnb. So he gets one of the ahem „models“ and pulls her pants down to demonstrate how to spank a girls ass.
And if you have never touched a girl in your life the Masculine Touch Blueprint gives you many examples of how to do it. Where to touch in what context and how. This course is done by Liam and there are a few practical videos on eye contact and silence. Plus a few infields and interviews with girls. But I would not recommend it. I mean again if you have no experience at all it might help.
I bought all of these courses before I even knew about Nick and his stuff or the LDM. I was taken in by the marketing and the constant PUA-bashing and the glorification of being natural. Overkill is showing the structure of the LDM in action. I was really angry that I wasted so much money on TNL and got basically nothing out of it. And then I watched Nick’s stuff and I was floored. Here was actually some good practical advice that I could try out for myself and see how it works. A lot of detail and also in my opinion a lot of fun. You will learn the model and how it works. There is a lot of technical jargon and its very detailed. All the steps are explained. How stop, open and what to do next. Daygame is hard and if you rely on finding yes girls it will be hell (unless you are good looking of course). Of course there are no guarantees in life and Overkill will not magically get you laid. There is a lot of hard work to be done. But with Overkill you will at least know what to work on.
Do yourself a favour and don’t fall for the TNL stuff even it is on sale right now. It not worth that amount of money.
I began volume ten of Giacomo Casanova’s twelve-volume memoir. That means I have a pretty good idea of who he was and what he wrote, seeing as I’ve read these books in sequential order over the past three years. The difference between the Casanova myth and the real man  is a wider chasm than you might’ve imagined.
Myth: Casanova is the world’s greatest seducer, a charmer with legendary skills who glided gracefully through the aristocracy of 18th Century Europe, bedding the highest value women of the era. Reality: Casanova was a weaselly mealy-mouthed hypocrite, child molester, homosexual bottom, swindler, whore-monger who paid for most of his lays.
There is nothing at all to admire about this man, bar his dedication to writing about his sordid life in such great detail. But that life itself was unremarkable except for its depravity. He wasn’t really a seducer, he was a libertine. Casanova was full-rabbit and addicted to hedonism. He was also unscrupulous about how to achieve his fixes. Perhaps worst of all, he took real pleasure in trying to ruin broke-ass young girls who hadn’t even finished puberty.
Let me just show you three passages from chapter one of volume ten. This is just one chapter! These events all occur while he’s 38 years old and living in London. First, he hears of a woman from Hanover who is under house arrest with a bailiff and about to be sent to debtors prison. She has five daughters, the youngest of whom is 15 (Gabrielle), and they are reduced to grinding poverty. Casanova goes into the house and suggests he’ll pay the mother twenty guineas for each girl for sex. This exchange follows.
The girls refuse so Casanova lets them stew and the mother is arrested the following day and thrown into prison. Finally, the oldest sister (22yr old) comes into his room and lies still for fifteen minutes while Casanova bangs her. With the twenty guineas he pays her, she gets her mum released from prison the next day. Casanova then bangs each girl in turn for twenty guineas a time, right on down to the youngest. Like every other sleazy predator, he writes the story as if three of the girls were falling in love with him.
In the middle of this chapter, he has lunch with his illegitimate daughter Sophie who is in boarding school. She brings her friend. In the previous volume he was crushing on all her friends, from eleven year olds upwards. Here’s what he says about her bestie.
As if that’s not loathsome enough, here is how he feels about his daughter. Not his step-daughter  but his own flesh and blood:
This is all in Casanova’s own words. It’s not some enemy slandering him. In this one chapter alone he has pressured a desperate mother into prostituting all of daughters, at least one of whom was still a kid, then molested his daughter’s thirteen-year-old best friend, and then fantasised about fucking his own pre-pubescent daughter. In one chapter!
Anyone who tells you they admire Casanova is either a bullshitter who has never read him, or a sleazy degenerate who needs to be hanged from the nearest lamppost.
You thought I’d given up, hadn’t you? “Nick Krauser is gone. He can’t hack it any more. Gilbert Stones‘ relentless hounding of him has broken his spirit.”
Well, you’d be wrong.
I had actually completely exhausted my entire enthusiasm for writing and at 3am yesterday morning I was about to concede defeat. But then the strangest thing happened. A truck pulled up in front of my house at 4am and dropped off several boxes full of enthusiasm. Then a computer algorithm switched a ton of enthusiasm from Brooding Sea to me. For the whole of the next day I kept finding new piles of enthusiasm in dumpsters, in store rooms, and was even able to count some of my enthusiasm multiple times.
So, I went back to writing and it’s with great pleasure I can announce I have completed the draft manuscript of my sixth and final  volume and will present it to the state legislature for certification by December 8th.
Ham-fisted US election satire aside, here’s the deal: the hard work is done.
I am sitting on a 120k-word first draft now. It’s of the same length and quality as the first drafts of my other memoir volumes and I expect the rest of the publication process to go like those did too. The story is written. All the anecdotes are in there 
What happens next?
First, I turn my attention to collating the art and photos that will prettify the book. That means commissioning girl caricature art and combing my hard drives and phone gallery for the girl photos to hand over to the artist. I’ll also assemble a folder of my photo souvenirs from that year, 2016.
Second, I’ll park the manuscript for a week or so to cool off so as to view it with a fresh pair of eyes when I begin the first editing pass. That pass is mostly about getting a feel for the shape of the book and where it is light or plodding, for how I treat the characters , pacing issues, and so on. I’ll also try to track if I’ve opened loops that never close, or missed key themes.
Third, some poor sods will agree to test read it for feedback on everything and anything. Hopefully at least one of them will have something helpful to say that I can incorporate.
Fourth, I’ll send out some clandestine feelers among the Krauser Informant Network to see if anyone knows what Bodi is writing about me in his new memoir. If I reckon he’s failing to give me my due recognition for my lifetime contribution to daygame, I’ll do another edit to strongly imply he’s a homosexual.
Fifth, I’ll do a solid edit/re-write to tighten up all the prose, all the issues identified, and beef up the wordcount to around 150k words to include all the themes and stories I’d forgotten first time around.
Sixth and last, I’ll submit my final manuscript to the layout designer to begin assembling the final PDF and cover. I’ll probably not bother hiring a professional editor this time around. It all depends on how happy I am with the final rewrite.
If you’d like to read the world’s best seduction memoir, you should probably get cracking on with volume one, Balls Deep, because it’ll take you fucking ages to get through to volume six and time waits for no man. And buy Overkill.
 Chronologically speaking. It’s actually the seventh of seven in publication, if anyone even pays attention to my ramblings nowadays.  Yes, including yours Salman, you big daft cunt.  My first drafts are always very harsh on my pals and then I soften them for publication.
Sometimes names start popping up. A bit here, a bit there. They start to become familiar even if you can’t quite remember why. Daygame Breeze has been like that, as the NYC daygamer’s blog and Twitter have started gaining some traction. Maybe Gilbert talked about him once, or something. Anyway, it turns out the young whippersnapper has just posted a lengthy review of the second edition of my Balls Deep memoir.
That was rather nice of him.
It’s a proper lengthy review too, comparing the themes of my book to those emerging in his own daygame adventures.
“having just finished Balls Deep, the first volume in Nick Krauser’s voluminous memoir series. And oh my, it is a hell of a book.”
“In much of the book, we read of Krauser’s journey through Game as told through a chronological collection of new experiences with different women. Perhaps I’ve read enough lay reports that, although I enjoyed every bit of his memoir, I wasn’t moved by those stories as much as I was by the change in his mental model of reality. At the beginning of some chapter, he explains that he goes through pains to ensure that all of his thoughts–whether it be on economics, government or women–are consistent with one another. Like Krauser, I got in to Game to solve a scarcity problem in my life, yet found myself going down a rabbit hole of psychology, philosophy and history. We learn how Krauser gets red-pilled and his reaction to it.
You see, Balls Deep is much, much more than 650 pages of racy stories. It also transcends the narrative of a technical man learning/developing Game technique.”
Breeze goes on to consider how, as a second (or third?) generation London Daygamer he related to my material the way I related to Roissy’s famous blog, back before he got cancelled. Like many of my pals, Breeze soon realised that getting laid is just the entry point of Game. Once you make that big Red Pill step – the decision to confront your existing beliefs and put them to the test – what Roissy called “where pretty lies perish”, you disappear down the rabbit hole. Everything is fair game. You become a changed man.
Or not, for the soyboy spergs who run around like numpties, perhaps taking a The Natural Lifestyles bootcamp now and then, and failing to get laid at all.
But the real guys- Team Top Lad, and those intending to join said team- they know Game isn’t just technique. It’s about complete personal overhaul. It’s deep level identity change. It’s what Breeze terms realising (or generating) the Inner Chad.
“Game isn’t a hack to the sexual market place either. Rather, it’s a challenging path that lets us improve our lot in life by realizing (or generating) our inner Chad. To me, this means improving my fitness, fashion, social skills (through cold approach) and frame. Guys who optimize their position in the SMP without cash or fame tend to focus on inspiring feelings in the girls we date through high-quality attention. I believe this is synonymous with “charisma” as Nick refers to it.”
Yep, more or less. I suppose you could call it the process of Krauserfication. Not sure that term will catch on. Have a look, lads. It’s a nice little post. And he says nice little things about my book.
If you can’t control yourself and you must have Balls Deep right fucking now, head over to your local Amazon website and give it a search “Nick Krauser Balls Deep” for hardcover and softcover options. Brits click here. Yanks click here.
I already did a little online due diligence on con-trepreneur Andrew Tate‘s kickboxing record, proving quite easily that he’s a liar. Go read it here. I don’t actually have a problem with Tate: as far as I’m concerned he’s a lolcow– that is, a public figure who exists purely for normal people to point and laugh at. If you are dumb enough to swallow his bullshit then you deserve everything you get. My problem is more with all the manosphere/Red Pill charlatans who keep inviting him on their shows and promoting this shabby liar. They have a duty of care to their listeners that they are flagrantly derelict in.
So, I wasn’t particularly invested in exposing all Tate’s other lies. The kickboxing record was enough for ‘umble Krauser.
However, while sitting in a cafe bored with Jimmy, I thought that as an experiment I’d see how many lies I could find about Tate in just five minutes of online searches. I’ve been saying for months that these Red Pill/Manosphere podcasters are outrageously negligent in not doing any due diligence on their guests. Or, more likely, they are complicit in the lies. So, in order to win a beer from Jimmy, I challenged myself to run a Five Minute Online Due Diligence Test.
Andrew Tate wouldn’t be a controlled experiment, as I already know about him and his whores, rented sports cars, grubby suburban compound, fake ForEx business, and so on. But, maybe he has a brother?
Oh, the indignity! Google records him entirely in reference to his big bro. So, let’s look into Mrs Andrew Tate a little and see if he’s engaging in the same false front building as his bro.
1. The Kickboxing
As you can see from his IG profile, he too claims to be a K1 World Champion. So, I searched for his kickboxing record and…. I can’t find it. His big bro was quite successful on the amateur/semi-pro circuit but Tristan Tate fought at such a low level that you can’t even find out who or where he fought. He may be the first K1 World Champion in history to have an unrecorded title fight! . Jerome Le Banner must be really pissed!
lol, “weapons”. Did you fall for this, Cerno?
Tristan is a kickboxer, though. Just not a top one. Watch this fight here:
Note how sloppy his technique is. Winging wide open punches, stumbling forwards, falling into his shots, and it’s like both of them are moving in Bullet Time. They are harder men than I am – no doubt about that – but this is not world class kickboxing. I respect guys who fight, but I repeat the same as about his big bro: the real story is impressive enough, so stop lying about it! Go watch actual K-1 Max to see what world class really looks like.
2. Natty or Not?
Tristan has a habit of standing shirtless in car parks holding cheap Chinese-made swords. Presumably that’s what Musashi Miyamoto would be doing were he born in our epoch. There’s no question Tristan has a very buff, muscular body. So, imagine my surprise when he claims in his IG that he’s natty. Let’s do a before/after comparison. So, taking a still from the above kickboxing video we see how he looked after years of training, and compare that to a recent IG post, taken about eight years after the fight.
Not only has Tristan been the first ever kickboxer to have an unrecorded world title fight, he’s now the first ever bodybuilder to make his most significant natural muscle gains over ten years into his training. Not even Arnie could do that! Note also all the obvious testosterone / anabolic tells: grossly over-developed shoulders and upper arms, traps eating his head, glowing leathery skin tone, extreme muscle fullness at low body fat percentage. It’s pretty damn obvious.
3. Buying IG followers
The Tates would have you believe they have built organic social media followings based on good content, networking, or some other social media magic. However, the fastest and easiest way to grow your online follower stats is to simply buy them. We can test for that by checking out Social Blade, a web analytics site that analyses social media accounts to track when followers were added and lost. The obvious tell for bought (i.e. fake) followers is that you get a massive spike for a day or two, then gradually haemorrhage followers. So, let’s look at Tristan.
Oh! What a surprise!
4. Planting articles
Did you know that there are blogs and “news” sites whose business is entirely about accepting money to plant articles on their site? Forbes magazine does this, taking money to run puff pieces, a trick used by many high-budget con-trepreneurs. But what if you’re low-budget, struggling to get by in the suburbs of a third-world shithole like Bucharest? What if you can’t afford Forbes?
Fiverr and Upwork are your friend. For $10 a go, you can get some Indian or Filipino to write a puff piece on you in broken English then plant it on these fake sites. But why would anyone do that, Nick? Why would anyone lie on the internet?
It’s to paper the first page of Google with articles you control, so that if anyone does Google you, you get what they want you to see. It’s a way to push a false narrative . So, let’s Google Tristan and see what pops up.
Note all published in same couple of days
So, he’s planted essentially the same article a half-dozen times on fake news sites. Some of those sites even explicitly state they publish any old shit if paid.
Click on them. Note same articles slightly rewritten, all in terrible English
All of the above took me just five minutes to find. That’s all it would’ve taken Troy Francis, Hardy Haberland, Rollo Tomassi, Bobby Dino et al to know that they were inviting a liar onto their shows. It’s all it would take you fucking goons  to figure it out, rather than ask me questions in the comments, “what do you think of this guy?”
Shame on you, manosphere dupes
Is Tristan a cool guy? I don’t know. Scrolling through his IG I’m actually inclined to think he’d be a lot of fun to hang out with. He’s a competent amateur kickboxer, works hard in the weights room and kitchen, and is pro-actively going after the lifestyle he wants. He seems pretty chill too. A guy like that is normally fun to hang out with.
But, would I buy any of his products? Would I take him seriously on any issue whatsoever? Absolutely not. His entire public image is a false front, built with shameless, premeditated lies. He’s a bullshitter. Bullshitters are often good crack to go drinking with  but you never let them near your wallet.
I haven’t gone into Tristan’s hookers, staged photo shoots, or sock puppet accounts as that would’ve taken more than five minutes. I think I’ve done enough to demonstrate that lies and bullshit are a persistent feature of every aspect of his life. You can draw your own conclusions over if he’d also lie about his sexual hijinks.
 I shall now update my IG profile to claim the WBC Super Middleweight title.
 I experimented with exactly this tactic for my band.
 It’s been a while since I insulted my readership. I was starting to think you miss it.
 Tom Torero and Antony Hustle are both engaging company in person, for example.