For much of my youth I was puzzled by the attitudes towards ageing that people around me adopted. Generally, people’s future time orientation and expectations of ageing were both unabashedly low to the point they assumed getting “old” (basically 50+) was inevitable, shitty, and totally out of your locus of control. I never agreed.

My great uncle Tommy died last year aged 85. It came suddenly over the course of less than a year, as his hearing went, he became confused, and he suddenly lost alot of weight. A fairly unpleasant final year of life although he was only bedridden for about a month of it. However, the preceding 84 years were full of world-travelling and activity. A keen mountaneer and cyclist in his younger days, Tommy continued to cycle up and down country hills 20 miles a day, several times a week, into his eighties. He was slim without being skinny. And until that final year was also mentally alert.

Mature at middle age

Old at middle age

In short, as an 80-year old man his general fitness, alertness, and overall quality of life was higher than most 30 year olds. These days it’s common to assume that physical degeneration sets in from thirty (back pain, aches, weight gain) and accelerates through middle age (sendatry hobbies) until by age 60 you’re hobbling around with bad knees and piss-stained trousers. Fuck no.

I expect the final 20 years of my life to be as high quality as any other 20-year section. My death will be preceded by a short rapid unravelling rather than multi-decade degeneration. Bad luck aside (e.g. cancer, stroke, accident), that is. I will not abuse myself in my 30s and thus compromise my 60s and 70s.

Generally, ageing is an opportunity. It is time you can invest in making yourself a better man. This was brought into stark relief for me a few days ago when I was in a restaurant in Thailand and noticed to men of similar age on adjacent tables who were light years apart in how they’d handled ageing. Guy A was cool as fuck. Guy B was a shambling schlub. So I snapped off a quick video on my phone. Apologies for the low res.

Note the following:

• Guy A has maintained a solid trim physique with well-proportioned lean muscles whereas Guy B has let himself get doughy skin, stooped shoulders and gone to fat.
• Guy A dresses with style and good accessorisation while Guy B covered himself in superglue and ran through Primark, looking generic and plain.
• Guy A holds strong posture with slow decisive movements and his lean-in towards his girl is interested without neediness. Guy B is sloppy and leans in from weakness.
• Guy A had a hot (I’d rate her high-7) young local girl who spoke good english, no tattoos, and an all-round nice girl look to her. She was most certainly not a bar girl. She spent the whole of the meal listening intently to her man and giving of soft female vibe. Guy B had a middle-aged emancipated woman with dowdy clothes and haircut and an air of uneasy equality between them as he ran every decision past her. Twenty years ago, she’d have still been no competition for the other girl.

You can look at a middle-aged man and know if he’s capable of dating young girls without artificial props and ruining his own life.

I know what it’s like to have your heart broken. It happened to me once. It was my motivation to learn game and chronicle my journey through this blog. I know what it’s like to have sleepless nights, to worry what your ex-girlfriend is doing and who she’s meeting with, and formulating plans to win her back. I know how it feels to have someone you love so entwined into your life over the course of years that you can’t imagine life without them, and then the gaping emptiness you feel when they are wrenched away from you. And then you’re staring at the abyss… wondering what happens now that your future has collapsed.

My current girlfriend was in a six-year relationship with a beta who I stole her from. He’s taken it pretty hard since she gave him marching orders. It was last summer that he got his P45 but he’s still pining. I know how that feels. A couple of weeks ago he made another attempt to win her back, which we chatted about.

sympathy and understanding, yesterday

Later this week I shall be headed to Cuba with Toe for country three of our Central American jaunt. We’ve never been. I’ve got some expectations which I’ll detail here. Jimmy went years ago and fucked eight girls in two weeks without handing over cash. Any other country in the world and that would be a phenomenal score, especially considering JJ doesn’t bang below a seven and rarely below an eight, yet he was very blaise about it commenting “you can’t not get laid in Cuba”. He explained it thus:

Girls will approach you all the time. If there’s a particular girl you like, all you need is to say hello and start a trivial conversation. Be nice, they’ll come on to you. Take them around for a couple of hours like an instant date, then back to your private apartment to fuck them. It’s soft prostitution. You don’t need game, you just need convertible currency and a foreign passport then girls will flock to you for the novelty and the chance to get into tourist-only venues they are normally excluded from.

I’ve checked some forums and it would appear quite accurate. Most of those places are for mongers / sex tourists and thus those guys end up paying actual cash – they aren’t exactly attractive fellows from the right-hand side of the male bell curve. So repeat the above formula but with a taxi driver introducing the girl, zero game, and a $30 cash exchange at the end. This leaves many ponderables. We won’t know for sure what the score is until we get there, but these are our draft rules of engagement:

• No lays go on the official notch count / flag count / lay reports. They don’t count as game.
• F-Town is in cryogenic suspension until we touch back in Mexico.
• To the extent we can call a lay an achievement, the girl must be extremely hot, a nonpro, selected by us in a normal cold approach encounter (i.e. not pimped and not selecting us), sticks around until we dismiss her, and does not get uppity if we don’t pay her.

I suspect I realise now why so many keyboard jockeys rant on about how “easy” it is to pick up girls in Eastern Europe. I used to think it was the normal hating dynamic where everyone on the internet is a self-delusional seven feet tall model-banging badass (when not in his mum’s basement playing WoW), the type of guys who hallucinate about picking up supermodels the moment they step off the plane in Moscow simply because they have a US passport and a +7 Staff of Enchantment. But no, perhaps there is an actual logical reason for their delusion and by jove I think I understand it.

These guys are all American

"I adore US passports" - artist's impression of LIthuania

I’ll explain. American’s generally don’t leave their own country and when they do it’s to nearby Americanised resorts that sell twinkies and budweiser. I just suffered such a hellhole in Cancun before decamping to cleaner pastures. What little world history they have is about the collapse of the Soviet empire in 1989 and the brutal impoverishment there as gangster capitalism ran wild, thus leading many young women to whore themselves out. They probably still think Eastern Europe is like that. The oil and gas boom in Russian, the EU membership of Romania and Poland, the ERM mechanism for the baltic states, the ability for Poles and Bulgarians etc to simply take an Easyjet flight to London and start work the next day for a high minimum wage (a legal entitlement in the EU treaty)….. these all pass by the typical American. They don’t realise that Eastern European girls don’t need the money from whoring and don’t need a new passport.

What they do see is Cuba. Those girls do need the money and would love to snag a US-passport-holding boyfriend. Cuba is still a communist hellhole with long queues for the basic necessities of civilised life. Banging girls in Cuba is a clear case of economic disparities.

A hot Cuban, yesterday

Two weeks from now I’ll have an answer for you. A direct comparison of street gaming in the former Soviet satellites and “gaming” in the still-Soviet Cuba.

I’m didn’t come to Mexico for game, quite unlike my last 18 months of trips which were unabashedly about hitting on the local birds. 2012 is my year of not giving a fuck about knobbing women. Sure, I’m still gonna open and still gonna close but for the first time in years I have a who-gives-a-fuck-I’m-a-man-and-everything-is-in-order tranquility that allows me to focus on other pursuits. There’s an interesting story about the dappy tarts Toe and I dated last night (we didn’t bang ’em) and it begins when they didn’t show up at 8pm outside McDonalds for the Day 2. We agree to give them 15 minutes maximum before bailing and then I see a gorgeous girl go by. Perfect mix of youth, prettiness and not-overdone-hotness. So I open her. It sticks, so I decide the dappy tarts have missed their chance and I idate the new girl instead. Here’s the street open:

I haven’t bothered with editing the idate itself. It was routine stuff for an hour. She wants to meet again but time will tell. It’s not long till I go to Cuba and I’m far more interested in stockpiling a mountain of cheap Cuban cigars than I am about closing a bird, despite the fact she’s clearly my type. Wouldn’t turn it down, but I’m not in the mood for chasing girls when I could be swimming in the sea or breaking out my Rosetta Stone to learn Mexican.

A nice bird, yesterday

After the date I meet Toe back at the hotel and we go out for a fine feast at Taco Loco (recommendation of a local hostel owner we’ve been drinking with). The dappy tarts get in touch making all manner of excuses then agree to come to our hotel bar. We sit playing Jenga and they do in fact show about 11pm all dolled-up like proper club tarts on their way to the BPM music festival. The chance of us going to a club district full of monotone screeching dance music is about the same as the chances of Burnley winning the league. We decline and let the girls go. They are in high spirits and a bit drunk despite having tottered on their high heels for 20 minutes to get to us. Toe and I decide to chill in the hotel room and wait for the late-night post-club text, if it comes. The decision seems binary: they get a better offer and we never hear from them, or they don’t and they come to our hotel for a nailing. Neither happens. Toe begins the light text game at 2am.

Toe: Pacifico or Victoria?

Girl: U guys have a bad attitude u shouldn’t talk like that. U think we r sluts we’re not. Stop harrassing us [I paraphrase]

Uh??? These girls had been texting us 3-to-1 for 24 hours. It’s an absolute non-sequitor. We hadn’t done the slightest escalation verbal or physical. Can only imagine its a classic case of projection because they are sluts. Whatever. I was sleepy so I went to sleep.

In keeping with my goal of financial and geographical independence, I’m experimenting with spending my winters outside of London. Although I think its good to keep my base in London – it’s where most of my friends are, the most lucrative work, and it’s just….. English – I want to be able to travel anywhere anytime at the drop of a hat. So when Toe started his six-month Central America tour I decided to join him in San Diego and then again in the Yucatan. As I write, I’m sprawled out in a hammock sipping coffee listening to The Clash on the hotel speakers. We had a swim in the sea earlier and we’re meeting two dappy tarts from Mexico City that we picked up yesterday lunchtime in a grotty (but delicious) local eatery.

Local eatery tarts, yesterday

My dance card is pretty full. I had that bootcamp in San Diego, then went up to Newcastle for Christmas. New Year in London was pretty wild. Now I’ve got three weeks in Mexico with a sojourn to Cuba next week. No sooner do I get back to Old Blighty but my bird swoops in from Lithuania to lick my balls for a week. Then I pack my bags for Thailand and a month of hardcore muay thai / hitting up university girls with Bhodi. I’ve barely got time for Skyrim.

I’m rather unimpressed with the girls here. It would appear there’s two entirely different species of local. There’s the Mexicans, who are normally-proportioned, kinda pretty (both girls and pretty-boy greasy men), and basically humanoid. Then there’s the Mexican’ts who are 4 foot tall, 4 foot wide, with no necks and little Tyrannosauras arms. I’m leaving the latter for Toe. He’s got a couple of girls into him from earlier work.

They must be the next beach along, or something

I think I’ve done about 5 opens since I got here. Just not in the mood and it doesn’t seem the most conducive environment cos I can’t speak Mexican and there’s very very few hot girls. I street-opened a really lovely Mexico City girl last night and bounced her to a two-hour i-date and kiss close. Lovely elegant girl but it was weird because she was in Playa Del Carmen with her boyfriend (temporarily separated on the way back to their hotel) and her friends were at a pub across the road unaware of my nefarious attempts to bang her. It was fun seeing the age-old forebrain/hindbrain conflict as her eyes spazzed, she kept pawing my forearms, and complimenting my good looks (yes, really) then worrying her boyfriend will be angry that she’s late. I straight out told her I want to fuck her and she invited me up to her mum’s house in Cancun later this week.

I suspect it won’t go anywhere…

There is a quiet war ravaging our world beneath our noses, a war most sense but cannot put into words. On one side are the men and women of greatness, of a commitment to truth, reality and excellence. The men and women who lead lives like beacons of hope, who inspire you with the belief that you too can be great, that life can be everything you hoped it would be. Set against them are the ragged collectivists, the cultural relativists who would drag everyone to the equality of the gutter rather than let a single soul shoot for the stars. The Guardian-reading, Islington-dwelling, Labour-voting, WholeFoods-shopping intellectual vandals who would have you believe there is no objective good. That Beethoven is no better than Britney Spears, that Jason Statham Alfred Hitchcock is no better than Ken Loach, Alexandre Dumas no better than Dan Brown.

There are people who will deny greatness exists. They wish everyone to be equally miserable.

They do so to rationalise their own miserable existence. They have given up the challenge of life and it’s struggles and now wish to insulate themselves from the harsh feedback of the real world. They set up internet echo chambers to pat each other on the back as they snitch, sneer and snide on those who acheive.

One part of this war is to persuade you all women are tramps, harlots, and whores. They wish to denigrate the greatness of a fully-developed woman and the joy she brings to those around her. These losers are stuck in an ever-repeating cycle of find-slut-fuck-slut-hate-on-slut. The only way they can stand the soul-death it brings is to deny life can be better. These practical men will bullshit you down to their level.

Should you need a mast to cling to, a patch of dry land in a storm, return to this video. Female perfection exists, and this is what it looks like.

Watch this video and try to tell me women are just warm bodies to fuck

As much as I disapprove of his stewardship of the Italian economy over a cliff and into the gutter, I have immense respect for Silvio Berlusconi‘s relentless tooling of other world leaders and his nailing of dappy Italian tarts. Despite the political putsch from the Politburo of the EUSSR casting him aside, the sly old dog can still rile the little dwarf Sarkozy and moisten the crotch of butch dyke Merkel

An alpha male, yesterday

You’d think PUA types and MRA types would get along just fine. Both have swallowed a red pill to see the true nature of women, male-female relations, and the structures in society that discriminate against men. On the surface, at least, there are grounds for a common cause. However there seem to be two broad types of PUA and two types of MRA:

PUA

1. Young guy with little life experience, gunning it solo in the clubs and streets, up for adventure and a high laycount
2. Older guy coming off some bad experiences, trying to relearn the ropes and lower the age of the girls he dates.

MRA

1. Burned out older guy suffering the consequences of a horrendous divorce raping, finding a community of like-minded sufferers to vent with to ease the pain and disillusionment.
2. Guys who had a near miss with the forces of misandry and has hurriedly educated himself on the bullet he just dodged. He is seeking to rearm himself before going back into life.

Crude, I know. You’d only expect the (2) guys of each camp to get along. PUA (1) doesn’t give a flying fuck for the sociology of Game and hasn’t had any rude awakenings with women. MRA (1) is a totally broken man who is light years from accepting responsibility for his hand in his own broken dreams. I think most of the hostility between PUAs and MRAs is between the type (1)s.

That said, I think there is a genuine bone of contention that can’t be explained away by mere divergent interests and life situations. A common charge by MRAs against Game is that no matter how successful you are with women the very fact you chase them is supplication and the process of chasing them diminishes you as a man. Thus the PUA lifestyle is supporting the pedestalised position of women to the detriment of men, enabling bad female behaviour, saving them from the loneliness such behaviour deserves, and ultimately it is traitorous to the emancipation of men.

an MRA, yesterday

It’s a hefty charge. I also think it’s mistaken. Partially. I’ll allow Ayn Rand to offer her thoughts via Atlas Shrugged:

“People think that a liar gains a victory over his victim. What I’ve learned is that a lie is an act of self-abdication, because one surrenders one’s reality to the person to whom one lies, making that person one’s master, condemning oneself from then on to faking the sort of reality that person’s view requires to be faked. And if one gains the immediate purpose of the lie – the price one pays is the destruction of that which the gain was intended to serve. The man who lies to the world, is the world’s slave from then on.” Hank Rearden speaking on page 859.

Thank you Ayn Rand for eloquently stating both the fundamental flaw in approaching Game from the Dark Side, and also for why MRAs dislike PUAs. Let’s unpack the statement as it applies to pickup.

MRAs assume PUAs are all dark side and thus Game relies upon changing your identity so you can tailor all your responses to what you think will win the girls approval of you for sex, and that chasing skirt is the main goal in your life. Thus when the PUA lays the girl, the “liar gains a victory over his victim…. one gains the immediate purpose of the lie.” There’s no free lunch. The cost of the lie is in surrendering your identity. You have accepted the target’s frame and allowed yourself to be sucked into her reality. You are not the selector. You know that showing your real identity and intention will lead to a “no” answer and therefore you must create an impression in the girl that you are something you are not, that you are the man who meets her criteria. Thus you fake a reality that is not your own. This is “living a lie” and creates cognitive dissonance which corrodes your identity and self-esteem. The girl’s reality becomes your master.

I think this is what MRAs are trying to articulate when they bash PUAs for being shameless skirt-chasers. They have a point. Few things are more important to a man than his strength of character, his word, and his willingness to impose himself onto an uncompliant world. Surrendering your masculine purpose to get your cock inside a girl cheapens you as a man, and MRAs are very sensitive about their masculinity.

How about the PUA side? Well that’s rather less esoteric. They look at MRAs and see a group of whiny guys not getting laid who are trying hard to rationalise their way out of their sense of inadequacy. Decent PUAs have done their 1,000 Sets Of Hell and are rightly damn proud of that achievement. They don’t take kindly to keyboard jockeys telling them they aren’t masculine when they are going out every weekend and taking rejection after rejection, clawing their way up Pussy Mountain one notch at a time. Being masculine isn’t just about what the MRAs value, it’s also about taking control of your destiny, not relying on somebody else to fix your problems, and getting laid.

"because it's there"

My conclusion? If MRAs were to resist holding a 2002 Mystery caricature of Game they’d see that Light Side doesn’t diminish men at all and moreover it returns women to their rightful submissive role – which is where they always longed to be.

I’ll have a few words to say about the current spat between PUAs and MRAs that’s cluttering up teh interwebs. Till then I’ll leave you to ponder on this news that appeared in the Telegraph. On the off-chance anyone is wondering if I still consider myself an MRA, and if I intend to get married…..

Report: “Divorced fathers are to be denied a legal right to a relationship with their children in a review of family law due to be published tomorrow.”

My prediction (not recommendation) is pushing much further will lead to lots and lots of murders. At the moment allowing “meaningful contact” with the kids stolen from him give the father one last thread to retain involvement in society. Cut that thread and the State creates angry desperados. Angry desperate men who know the names and addresses of the people who destroyed their lives. That’s a ticking time bomb.

It’s all well and good to learn Game so I can date the women I want, but never forget this is an individual response to a society-level problem. I’m not going to throw myself under a bus for the good of society. I’ve already written about that. No matter how good life gets in Game, no matter how much success, and no matter how relaxed and chill I become I never forget the simple fact: Modern western society is collapsing because it is turning all the virtues of it’s men into vices to be punished. 

Fuck the lot of them

Feminists and Cultural Marxists are still my sworn enemy. I simply don’t write about it much anymore.

Ladies, if you are dating a player and you don’t know where you stand, have a listen to Aretha Franklin. And for the men, just listen to her wonderful voice – this is how a girl can sound powerfully feminine without losing any of her charm.

This song nails it perfectly. I can fake rapport and comfort. I can fake hugs, passionate sex, hypnotic scanning and a whole host of other things. One thing I simply cannot do is fake a kiss. There’s a barrier somewhere that means I can only turn it on for a kiss if I really like the girl – like her physically and romantically.

So ladies, stop stressing about these things:

• He didn’t text me for over two hours
• He’s out with his friends getting drunk
• He’s been acting a bit strange lately
• He has a pin code on his mobile phone

Just give him a passionate kiss and see how he matches it. If he returns it with real enthusiasm dead on the lips and commits fully, he’s into you still. If it’s distant and half-arsed, he’s found a new girl to fuck and she’s both younger and hotter than you.