4th Generation Warfare Handbook – Daygame Edition

March 21, 2017

I recently finished reading William S. Lind‘s 4th Generation Warfare Handbook. “That has little to do with daygame. Why aren’t you out doing sets?” you may ask, “RSD just put another rambling video with an hour of goobledegook and rehashed ideas to draw in the spivs and no-hopers, surely that’s a better use of your time.”

Well, not for me. I may happen to focus my blog on daygame but it’s only a small part of my life. My period of PUA Cognitive Capture has long since passed. [1] Evidently there is still some lingering cognitive capture because throughout Lind’s book I kept thinking this kinda relates to daygame. So, let the mindwank begin.


Artist impression of me thinking

The concept of fourth generation war naturally presupposes the existence of a prior three generations [2] and Lind describes those as follows [roughly paraphrased]:

  • First Gen – This began from the Peace of Westphalia in 1648, in which the modern nation states of Europe were created, until the American Civil War in 1861. Think of it like the orderly lines and columns of the Napoleonic Era in which armies meet on a pre-defined battlefield aiming to win a decisive battle.
  • Second Gen – This began with the French in World War 1 after trenches, barbed wire, artillery and fast firing guns made open orderly charges suicidal. Think now of the trench warfare of WW1 in which the artillery pounds a position for a week and then the infantry runs in to occupy the battered enemy lines. The goal is to kill enemy soldiers, destroy his equipment, and advance the line.
  • Third Gen – This developed concurrently but developed by the Germans and is best embodied in the Blitzkrieg. Defensively, it sought not to hold a line but to instead draw enemies in and cut them off. Offensively it sought to bypass (rather than destroy) enemy strongholds then roll them up from the rear. This is “maneuver warfare”.
  • Fourth Gen – This style existed before the Peace of Westphalia and has come back again now that the ordered nations are breaking down. Wars are no longer fought as one state army against another – they are fought by clans, gangs, tribes, and ideological fanatics. There is often no clear distinction between “military” and “civilian” participants. On the ground it resembles the hit and run of guerrilla warfare.

Lind suggests that the first two generations of war grew out of the orderliness of nation states. Having acquired a monopoly on war, states imposed their bureaucratic nature onto war itself. Thus a culture of orderliness was encouraged on the training ground (drills, salutes etc) and on the battlefield (field manuals, rigid chain of command, reliance on orders). The transition from first to second generation was driven by the increased mechanisation of war but the battlefield remained orderly and defined. The third generation sought to take advantage of disorder [3] by relying upon speed and tempo rather than firepower. This required a culture of looking outward at the scenario rather than looking inwards at orderly procedure. When 3rd gen met 2nd gen in the early days of WWII, the former won until it’s tactical and operational advantages were overwhelmed by strategic blunders [4].

So what on earth has this to do with daygame, you ask? Let’s ruminate…….

“She was so rude!”
“Don’t worry mate, harsh blowouts are part of the game”

The key drivers determining war’s passage through the four generations has been linked to the orderliness and coherence of nation states. The Westphalian states were mostly ethnically homogenous, increasingly capitalist, high testosterone, and thus notable for their high social trust and strong sense of shared identity within the nation and also a competitive rivalry with the out-groups of other nations. A man’s primary identification was with his nation and thus he was willing to fight for his country. For the most part he’d be fighting other men from similar countries (i.e. Britain fighting France is closer to fratricide than Britain fighting Sri Lanka) and thus the rules of war took on a relatively honourable tone with many shared values.

Then socialism, multiculturalism and feminism happened, in the West, and the colonial lid was lifted from the simmering conflicts in the second and third worlds. These undermined the pillars of order from which orderly war sprang. Nation states lost legitimacy from the ground up from trends such as diversity importing people who identified primarily with a different country and from the top down such as the surveillance state flourishing. Cultural Marxism destroyed the social fabric and now patriotism is a dirty word for many. Oh, and all the men became faggots.

Shoreditch Special Forces

The social collapse that led to Game as an adaptation to the sexual market place is the same as what led 4th Generation war as an adaptation to conflict. The improved technology that changed military strategy leaked into the civilian world to change sexual strategy [5]. Let’s do a rough mapping of the generations of war to dating.

First Generation Dating – This is the strategy of your grandfather’s era. A highly ordered society with restrained K-selected social mores included a very specific narrow area in which men and women would be introduced. These includes church groups, Saturday night dance halls, and a Mad Men-esque work environment in which women take bullshit secretarial jobs as office flowers as a way to meet the office men who have the real jobs. Just as 1st Gen war relies upon orderly line and column formations on a defined battlefied, 1st Gen dating relies upon orderly etiquette on a defined space.

Second Generation Dating – This is your dad’s strategy. The four sirens of the sexual apocalypse have hit (Contraception, No Fault Divorce, Workplace Equality, Welfare) like a breech-loading rifle fired from a trench but they apply to a generation raised the old way and thus haven’t yet wrought destruction upon the social order. There’s also no diversity, so social trust remains high. Think of it like a loosening of the ‘social corset’. Dating, as with much of social life, loses much of the defined etiquette which delineates acceptable behaviour but men and women haven’t changed much in what they want. Look at a 1960s or 1970s sitcom for a view how this dating works – beta provision still works and rather than put firepower on target as in 2nd Gen war, you are putting value on target through getting a good job, some social status, and following loosened rules of courtship.

Third Generation Dating – This is the old school player’s strategy that ran concurrently with your dad’s 2nd gen version. Just as the squareheads [6] relied on speed and tempo to take advantage of battlefield disorder in a world where the cheese eating surrender monkeys [7] clung to more effectively unloading firepower onto target, the old school players relied on setting up an “in” and then milking it opportunistically. Think of your medallion-wearing disco dancers, your rock star, your hippy cult leader, or your racing driver. While the previous generation acts like there is an ordered hierarchy, a static world, and rewards accrue to those who pile up value (e.g. increased promotion prospects at work), the players are slipping past that Maginot Line with a fluid strategy.

“Hey baby….”

So far, so mindwanky. What happens in the fourth generation?

Just as modern war is now notable in its lack of structure, lack of uniforms, and lack of trust, the fourth generation of dating is equally guerrilla and it’s players frequently operate on the same shoot and scoot tactics. Urban anonymity combined with modern technology such as smart phones, Whatsapp and Tinder allow the sexual war to be conducted on smaller and smaller levels. No longer do massed armies of males and females meet in a disco hall to mark each other’s dance cards – that level of logistical planning is unnecessary. Instead a girl need only log onto Tinder, alone in the comfort of her own room, to engage the enemy. A player need only walk into a shopping mall to set off his daygame IED on a passing column of girls.

In modern dating the battlefield is anywhere and no one is wearing a uniform. The fighters hit and run, often unseen by the passing population.

[1] – Don’t take that to mean I’m “beyond daygame”. It’s still a hobby of mine.
[2] – It doesn’t mean you, your kid, your dad and your granddad are all at war simultaneously, thus having all four generations of your family at war. Maybe in Shitholeistan countries that is true.
[3] – I’m sure someone in the comments is going to mention Anti-Fragility.
[4] – Such as Hitler fighting a two-front war, and making a foolish alliance with Japan that drew USA into the war.
[5] – I’m looking at you, cell phones, Tinder, and budget airlines.
[6]- Sorry, Germans
[7] – Oops, slip of the pen

If you thought that was ill-thought out rambling that probably misunderstood the point of its original inspiration you should see my books. They were written with the same slapdash approach in between sessions of Dark Souls.

Still your mind, grasshopper

March 20, 2017

“Krausersatthva, how do I find vibe?” asks the intermediate grasshopper daygamer. “I have looked hard for it but haven’t found it.”
“Where have you looked?” I ask.
“I read some books on inner game. They tell me many things about my mind, about the conversations in my head and they try to get me to correct my self talk.”
“When you engage in self talk, who is it that is talking? And to whom do they speak?”
“Well…….” the intermediate daygamer thinks, screwing up his eyes and putting a finger to his lip. “It’s my observing ego talking to my base self.”
“So what is it that watches your observing ego talking to your base self? Who is observing the conversation of the observing ego?”

Got you there, you little shit

“I’m not sure that’s the point” he replies. “We could call it a theoretical structure to represent what’s going on in my mind. It need not be literally true. The point is that by understanding the dialogue I can gain some kind of control over it, and steer it in a better direction.”
“And how do you do that?” I ask.
“I learn better self talk. The inner game books give me new things to tell myself.”
“I see” I nod sagely. “So your answer to the problem of being in your head – that is to say of a noisy chaotic self talk that creates anxiety and thus prevents you finding vibe – is to attempt to attain greater control over self talk, and to shackle it under even more conscious control?
“Yes. That’s mental mastery”
“Is it?” I ask, wishing I had a long beard to stroke thoughfully. “Is that not like trying to calm disturbed waters by swiping your palm across them?”

I visualise myself something like this

The intermediate daygamer looks disturbed. “No, no. It’s not like that at all. It’s a more positive mindset.”
I sip my green tea. A gong sounds somewhere up in the hill, probably at a temple. I decide it is time to nudge my conversation partner in a different direction.
“The problem with finding your vibe is that you can’t find it, because it isn’t there. The very act of trying to analyse, control, and shackle your internal thoughts is precisely what creates the disturbance, and with it the anxiety.”
I’m enjoying this. I continue.
“The way to find your vibe is to look so hard for it that you eventually realise it isn’t there and then give up looking. It’s precisely by turning over every little corner of your brain and rattling off every silly mindset mantra that you realise your vibe isn’t to be found inside your head. It’s only when you’ve looked everywhere there and not found it that you can be confident it isn’t there at all.”
“I’ve done as much as I can. I’ve followed all the advice out there. My vibe still sucks. Sometimes it comes, but usually it doesn’t” says the intermediate daygamer. He looks like he’s about to cry.
“And that means you can stop suffering” I say. “You’ve done the work and you’ve suffered enough. Your penance is over and you can stop punishing yourself for not having good vibe. You are ready to let go and accept the vibe was there the whole time – but it’s out here.” I wave expansively at the world around us. “It’s in the air, it’s in the feel of the sun on your face, and in your connection to the street. It’s in the very absence of all these futile attempts to develop your mindset.”
“You know what” he says. “I feel like the pressure is off.”
“Great. That’s the best time to hit the street. That’ll be £50 please.”

The Infinite Experience Machine

March 13, 2017

I sat in a comfy chair in a Costa cafe today, sipping on a hot latte and letting my mind wander. All told I was ensconced in my bubble of tranquillity for around two hours and loved every second of it [1]. Measured in terms of happiness, it was a successful deployment of my resources. That said, I achieved absolutely nothing. Time passed, I enjoyed it, but I gained no new experience in anything of value. Which was the point. But what if I had wanted to “move forwards” with some area of my life? [2] To move forwards we need to do things. By doing things we accumulate experiences. These experiences are the fuel we shovel into the Improvement Furnace [3].

“Here, take another set”

Activities which get you out into the world doing things, especially difficult things in an uncontrolled environment, are great for rapidly accumulating experiences. That’s one reason sports are so good for kids – they learn about all kinds of things tangential to the sport itself from the very act of doing sport [6]. How about daygame? What does an extended period of in-field work give you?

Saturday rolls around and you’re feeling that ominous dread in your gut at the thought of hitting the streets and talking to women. You don’t much fancy the sting of rejections nor the negative feedback it suggests as to the current state of your Game and SMV. Nonetheless, you potter through your own personalised pre-daygame ritual [7] and get those first few sets in. The AA dissipates and you might end up with a good session.

Improvement Furnace result: increased ability to overrule hindbrain angst using forebrain willpower

Mid-way through that Saturday session you still haven’t hit your stride. The weasels are chattering in your ear, trying to talk you out of it. One particular set goes badly, a girl just waving you away while you’re left hanging. You think you catch a ghost of a smirk on your wing’s face, laughing at you. Negativity surges from deep down. You remember something similar happened the week before and you’d spent the rest of the afternoon ranting about how women are bitches, game is shit, and really it’s a much smarter plan to just save money and fuck whores. You’d gone to bed that night feeling terrible, having talked yourself into a seething mess. “Not today!” you tell yourself. Rather than bitch and moan to your wing about the blowout you shrug your shoulders, chalk it to the game, and resume your usual positive self talk. “Fuck me, she wasn’t having it was she?” you laugh. Your wing agrees. Crisis over, vibe maintained. You can feel the session begin to shift towards the positive.

Improvement Furnace result: improved emotional control and increased ability to manage your own vibe

“Let me guess, I look French? Bye bye, loser”

It’s getting on to 5pm now and you’ve had a couple of good sets. You’re pretty glad you came out and especially pleased with yourself for overcoming the earlier wobbles. A pretty girl flashes you what might have been an IOI. You’re not sure but there was something there, vanishingly subtle but you’ve been practising your sensitivity to IOIs and you think that might’ve been one. You go in. She lights up and giggles, hooking immediately. The set goes great and about four minutes in you just get the sense “this girl fancies me, and she doesn’t want me to go”.
“Look, I was thinking about having a coffee over there. Would you like to join me?”
She enthusiastically agrees and comes off on the idate. At that point you don’t know if there’s anything in it, but daygame has just generated another experience for you.

Improvement Furnace result: improved ability to recognise, interpret and act upon subtle social cues.

I could go on [8]. My point is that whatever immediate tangible results you are getting (or not getting) from daygame, so long as you keep going out the Daygame Infinite Experience Machine is replenishing your fuel stores and keeping the Improvement Furnace going. There are all kinds of active and passive skills levelling up in the background like a real life Skyrim character [9]. You still need your introspection, your theoretical study, and your process of continuous improvement. Just don’t forget that you also need the fuel of new experiences and can feel blessed that the streets are always there and thus you can always go out and replenish your stocks.

If you’re wondering which books you ought to buy to improve your theoretical study, I may have just the thing for you here.

Cigarette break at the foundary

[1] Indeed I’d highly recommend you try that sort of thing more often for the relaxing effect it has on you.
[2] Other than happiness. And aint no one got time for that.
[3] And perhaps the animal holding the shovel is Improvement Furnace Otter, should you be of the indulgent neurotic type who wishes to personalise these sorts of things. [4]
[4] Was that mean? [5]
[5] Probably was, wasn’t it. I think I don’t have a strong leash on Needless Insult Leopard today.
[6] I’m referring to things such as teamwork, self-control etc
[7] In London, mine came to involve the Number 13 bus, a Starbucks filter coffee with semi-skimmed milk, and an M&S sausage roll.
[8] But I won’t
[9] If you take an arrow to the knee, you may need to transition towards coffee shop game.

The Daygame Uncertainty Principle

March 12, 2017

I recently found out that at its highest levels, mathematics is an experimental science. How very very odd! Now, while I was always top of my class in maths at school, I haven’t done any since I was sixteen and thus I’m in no position of authority to speak. I’m just telling you what I heard. From a man in the pub. Nonetheless, it got me thinking. I’d assumed mathematics is the most analytic and most precise of all knowledge systems. I’d thought it was a closed system, tautologically true. I’d already heard Stephen Hawking waffle on about physics as being quite open-ended and exploratory which had come as a surprise at the time [1] [2] [3]. So I start thinking.

Something like this

Much of our male attempt to poke our dicks into pretty females comes down to imposing order and control onto a messy world. Within the daygame community that can express itself in a daygame model, mapping the stages of an ideal type interaction. A model allows someone with little experience to form an expectation and to narrow his seemingly infinite potential choices of action down to a small set that tend to lead in the right direction. A rough model is like a rough map, pencil on the back of a napkin. A detailed model can be more like a periodic table.

Unfortunately, the map is not the territory. It always involves high levels of abstraction and the removal of the specifics of time and place. There will never be a daygame model that perfectly describes and patterns the reality of daygame. We just have to do our best. Anyone watching a rank beginner will soon see that a half-decent model is far more effective than nothing at all.

So far, so meh. Let’s fly on our intellectual wings, up and away into a higher tier of mindwank. Let’s ask ourselves this question: Do we ever really know what’s happening in a daygame set?

  • Do you ever really know if a girl fancies you?
  • Do you ever really know what your odds of fucking her are?
  • Assuming you didn’t fuck her, can you ever figure out why she didn’t put out?

Lets say a girl appears to IOI you so you open. Sometimes you’ll get the “confirmation” of the IOI because she immediately laughs and hooks, as if your opener was actually the second sentence in the set (her IOI was the inaudible first). But other times she acts like she hadn’t just IOId you. So, was it really an IOI?

Well, was it????

How could you possibly know one way or the other? Even if you explicitly ask her and she denies it, it doesn’t mean it ain’t so.

Lets say you’re out gutter gaming and a girl seems to hook well, her eyes wide. You squeeze her hand and she squeezes back. You suggest a drink and she follows you to a bar, but at the last moment refuses to enter.
“I have a boyfriend” she says. “I shouldn’t. Something might happen.”
“Yes, I may kiss you” you reply, doubling down on the r-selection.
“Yes, you may. I can’t.” Then she leaves.

How close were you to fucking her? Give it a percentage and then consider a different scenario…..

“I think this one might be 50/50”

You’re back out gutter gaming and meet a different girl. It’s a fairly uninvolved conversation with low sexual energy but she’s smiling, chatting and agrees to a drink. You sit with a beer each as she tells you she’s on a weekend trip from St Petersburg, that she works as a graphic designer, and isn’t it exciting to be here after you only just met. Midway through the first drink you are playing with her hair and you even get a light makeout. You finish two drinks and suggest a walk, which of course finishes at your apartment door. She comes upstairs, telling you she can only stay half an hour. Music on, some making out. She resists when you squeeze her tits but you eventually get her shirt off and a mouthful, but she’s firm about not unzipping her jeans. Then around the half hour mark she puts the shirt back on, swaps Facebooks and disappears unfucked.

Now give this set a percentage probability. How close did you come? Which is the nearer near miss?

On raw “objective data” the second one is MUCH closer. You kissed her, got her home, and rolled around on the bed. But is that actually closer? What if she’d made a decision early on of “I’ll fool around with this guy a bit but I’m never taking my jeans off”? In that case you were never going to fuck her, and everything that came after her decision was kabuki theatre. In contrast, that first girl may have been thinking “If I kiss him, I’ll fuck him. I’d better not kiss him”. By this formulation, it is the girl’s internal mental state which really determines how close you are to fucking her and a girl who is wavering 50/50 at this “if I kiss, I fuck” stage is arguably a nearer miss than a girl on your bed determined not to fuck. [4]

But there is yet another tier of mindwank above even that.

A Russian girl once told me “Nick, you are too logical with daygame. Often even we girls don’t know what we will do or why we do it. Often we do it and then don’t even understand afterwards why we did.” So consider in both these situations the girl’s internal mental state wasn’t necessarily etched in stone. The first girl may have flipped between parallel yes/no states multiple times during the set like Schrodingers’s Cat. The girl with a firm resolution to fool around but not fuck may have suddenly changed her mind to either fuck, or perhaps not even begin fooling around.

Given this, it helps to relax our hold on the dream of making daygame a precise science and to instead embrace the chaos of the world. Whenever humans are involved you can rarely say “this definitely happened” or “this is why.” The best you can do is assign probabilities, based on adding your experience to that accumulated by the community, to know what tends to happen when certain outward behaviours seem to manifest, based upon your reasonably decent calibration.

But you’ll never actually know. And even if you fuck the girl, you can’t be sure if it because of or in spite of your game [5]

If you thought this was uncertain, you should consider resolving it by making certain to buy my book, which is certainly great.

[1] Although perhaps this is nonsense as equally uninformed as his recent blabbing on about how we need to one-world globalist government to constrain “aggression”.
[2] And he claims women are “a complete mystery
[3] And he’s a spazz
[4] Most intermediate daygamers who’ve toyed with heavy r-selection will have experienced “sex on the street” sets where you talk to a girl for five minutes and she leaves without even giving a number, but you were eye-fucking each other so hard you know she was fantasising about your dick. What does that count as?
[5] Though you will definitely know you don’t really care because you fucked her anyway and that’s what really counts.

A Deplorable Cad – Chapter 1D

March 3, 2017

Everything came to a head when two of the girls brought their new boyfriends into the house; a pair of young black guys who dressed hip-hop. Had they met Tony and Jimmy randomly in a bar they’d probably all have had a couple of drinks together and shared a few stories. However, the girls set them up to fight by playing victim and asking their boyfriends to stand up for them.

Tony and Jimmy sussed immediately that the boyfriends weren’t violent men. They were just full of bravado and ghetto talk, accompanied by a little bit of pushing and shoving. It was clear that that was as far as it was going to go. Tony would’ve probably de-escalated a confrontation but it was catnip for Jimmy. He loves provoking others and isn’t averse to kicking off either, especially when drunk. So when the girls goaded their boyfriends into action, it didn’t go as planned.

“You should leave this place. You’re not wanted here.”

“Sorry pal, I’m just not scared of you. You couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding.”

As the repartee flowed, the two boyfriends got so worked up they started shouting threats, informing Tony and Jimmy in vague terms about the many kinds of doom that would befall them if they didn’t cease their taunting forthwith, retire to their rooms, and lock the doors. It was at that point that Tony got his mobile phone out and started recording the scene on video.

“Can you say that again? What did you say?” he inquired. The angry boyfriends told him in explicit terms that they intended to do him in.

“Perfect. And how would you do that exactly?” Tony asked, gaining a few more valuable seconds of angry footage. The impassioned threats went on for a while longer until the boyfriends could see that nothing positive was going to come out of the confrontation, and they slinked off.

The next day, Tony and Jimmy went back to the agency.

They sat down and, in grave tones, Jimmy said, “Look, we’ve had death threats from the boyfriends of the tenants.”

“Yes,” Tony added, “we feel unsafe there.” As he showed the agent the video, Jimmy put his head in his hands as he tried to keep a straight face. “So you can see why we’re upset. We fear our lives are in danger.”

Jimmy looked up at the agent with a sigh, and then with just the right hint of desperation in his voice, asked, “Do you have any other property?”

Visions of litigation danced in front of the agent’s eyes. In its desire to avoid a lawsuit, the agency was ready to propel Tony and Jimmy all the way to the top of the queue for a prime property. Their response was immediate. “Well, actually, next week we have this really good place coming up in Hampstead. Why don’t you guys have a look at that?”

Tony and Jimmy looked at each other, and then back at the agent. “Yes. That could work,” they conceded.


They drove out to the property that same day. It was a stunning twenty-five room building in a leafy suburb. As they looked around, Jimmy and Tony could hardly stop laughing.

“Fuck me, this is absolutely incredible. We have to jump on this!”

They then began to negotiate with the agent, saying, “Look, given our bad experience of sharing with people we don’t know, we no longer feel safe with strangers. Could we perhaps fill this place with our friends?”

Agencies view properties as problems to be solved, and whether they are filled with guardians or friends of guardians didn’t matter as long as the buildings were filled and the paperwork filed. Nobody wants a lawsuit.

“This is really quite irregular,” he moaned, straightening his Next polyester tie and shuffling his papers unhappily. “We can hold the property back until the close of business today and no later.”

Which is how I came to receive a phone call from Jimmy while standing in the tiny backyard of my flat, eating a Curly Wurly I’d bought from the corner shop. I was renting my flat from a friend’s wife on a verbal agreement that I could leave with just a month’s notice. There were no contractual issues to moving out quickly.

“Look, we’ve got this amazing place. The location is perfect. It’s massive. It’s cheap. And if any gypsies do come around, you can take first crack at them. But you’ve got to sign up today if you want it. Are you in?”

“Of course I am,” I said. We all were.

Sitting in the office in Islington, my pen poised over the contract, I was given a rundown of our tenancy terms: we would be on two weeks’ notice and could be thrown out at any time, real estate agents could come through with prospective buyers, and we were expected to keep the property clean. I signed contracts, exchanged keys, and walked out into the office lobby where the rest of the RSG gang was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on rickety chairs each clutching their own signed contract and pair of house keys.

“To Hampstead!” announced Jimmy then strolled out the door like Captain Cook leading his explorers up a mountain trail. The great adventure at Château RSG was about to begin.

If you thought that was awfully long for one chapter, just imagine how long it’ll take you to read the book. It’s got thirty-eight of the fuckers. It’ll take you FUCKING EONS, if you’re dumb enough to try it here.

A Deplorable Cad – Chapter 1C

March 1, 2017

The Château RSG experiment owes its genesis to a side of Tony’s character that always aggravated me. He’s a cheapskate. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never had a real job. Every time we had team meals, he’d insist on a happy hour or a restaurant accepting the Taste London discount card. It jarred with me because I’d spent the last few years in a $100K office job and couldn’t fully appreciate the minimalist lifestyle Tony adopted.

Like most things I’d learn about game and life, I resisted it in the beginning. Watching Tony live, I’d gradually pick up on his soft, easy-going vibe, his unwillingness to be rushed or buffeted, his deep passion for the emotional pay-off of seduction, and his continuous effort to challenge and suppress his own ego. Looking back I can appreciate the profound impact he had on my eventual success. But at the time I thought he was a sanctimonious cunt and we frequently clashed.

He’s one of those guys who has always managed to get by on whatever crazy idea he’s had, sometimes much better than merely getting by. He was a competitive salsa performer and milked his salsa classes as an “ecosystem” to score girls. Being a good-looking man who kept himself in shape at the gym helped, but he still had to be able to dance and make the whole thing work… which he did with great success.

Tony’s a masculine guy and very much a hustler. He stretches each idea until it stops paying him or it starts to feel like work and then he finds something else. After the salsa became humdrum, he started selling himself to medical experiments – drug trials specifically. Those paid well, but it was feast or famine. We always knew he’d been at a trial because there’d suddenly be a plush leather recliner in his room, a new flat screen TV, and M&S food on his fridge shelf. Then he’d be back to scrutinising itemized bills at restaurants and clipping Asda coupons from newspapers to stock up on value-brand beans. Easy come, easy go. Tony very much lived for today.

At the time, I thought it was dissolution. Madness, even. I was brought up as a saver, not a spender. Later, as I continued to extricate myself from the rat race, I came to empathize with his laid-back attitude to money. Why wait for retirement before enjoying it?

Not this madness

Not this madness

I suppose the best way of summing up Tony is to say that he’ll always look for the edge in any situation. If there’s a dodge, he’ll take it. He’ll do virtually anything to make money, except getting a job. That mindset led him to hit upon the idea of property guardianship.

At any given time there are thousands of properties sitting empty in London. Perhaps the tenant has moved out and his replacement is delayed, perhaps the building is to be re-purposed and remains empty in the interim, or perhaps it’s to be rebuilt but the developers need planning permission. Amazingly, for a country with so many vacant properties, England’s legal system is very much biased against landlords. This has created an entire class of predatorial rent-seekers, be they gypsies or anarchists, who move in and steal the place.

There are all manner of sections, sub-sections, clauses and sub-clauses in English common law dating from hundreds of years ago which give squatters (i.e. Occupy Wall Street-type characters) legal rights that you wouldn’t really expect. Often, there isn’t much a landlord can do to kick him out. That makes it very easy for hustlers to move illegally into an empty property against the owner’s permission, and as long as they don’t cause any damage that can be construed as the criminal offence of “breaking and entering” the police can’t evict them. The law deems it a civil not criminal matter, thus the landlord is on his own and a squatter’s downside risk is capped at simply leaving the house and trying it on again elsewhere. Within the eviction process there are also all sorts of odd time limits and human rights laws that further complicate matters. In fact, in some cases, squatters who manage to stay put for ten years are awarded legal title to the property as “adverse possession” under the 2002 Land Registration Act.

The scammers in England, mostly Irish or Romanian gypsies, took this as a green light to break into empty properties, scam the legal system to get title to the property, sell it, make money and move on to the next score. Continental Europe’s solution to the gypsy squatter problem has, historically, been murder and mass expulsion. Being fair play, cricket-loving English, we came up with a rather less extreme solution. It’s called property guardianship.

Anyhow, I digress. There are specialist letting agencies who deal in vacant properties. They promise the owner that they’ll take over management and then introduce tenants (“guardians”) to live there. These tenants have agreed to restricted rights, including exclusions from all those laws that squatters take advantage of. An occupied building keeps the squatters out, both as a deterrent and also because if squatters enter, it’s a clear case of criminal entry and thus the police can be involved.

If they looked like this, we wouldn't need to keep them out

If they looked like this, we wouldn’t need to keep them out

The only downside for guardians is the lack of choice over where you stay. Many properties are shitholes and the plum properties go to those the agency know and trust. Tony and Jimmy were in that boat when they signed on with one of the two main agencies in London. They first moved in to a massive residential care home way out east. I visited Jimmy one evening and felt it was Project Auschwitz. It was good forty-five-minute ride on the Underground just to get a sniff of civilization from a Starbucks or Pret-A-Manger. Not only that, the place was horrible. It may have been massive, with about a hundred rooms in the whole place, but only a tiny part of it was habitable. The ceiling had fallen in and there was rubbish strewn all around.

I’m not joking when I tell you it reminded me of a Vice documentary I’d seen about Liberia – that tiny West African rat-infested toilet engaged in civil war. Part of the documentary visited the old Hilton Hotel of Monrovia. During European colonial times, it had had a top-quality restaurant, a glittering swimming pool and a roaring tourist trade, but since being handed back to the Africans it had become a crack den, not safe to walk through without armed guards. And that’s exactly how Tony and Jimmy’s first guardian property looked.

But that wasn’t the worst aspect. Already in residence were six horrendous women. They were a mix of English, American, and Dutch girls, ranging in age from their mid- to late-twenties. They didn’t like the idea of new tenants moving in to share their place, having nurtured the idea that it was their place. Rather than make the best of it with the new tenants, they wanted to drive Tony and Jimmy out. They started blanking them, locking doors on them, complaining all the time, and even hiding shower gel. It was Mean Girls in Zone Six.

Unfortunately for the girls, Jimmy and Tony are strong, resourceful characters, and they certainly weren’t about to be pushed around by a pack of soap-stealing hags. The script was soon flipped. The boys stood their ground with cocky smirks, knowing this would prompt the girls to double down on their annoying antics to no avail.

It couldn’t go on.

If you can’t bear to wait for the next instalment, buy the full book here for a reassuringly expensive £25. Otherwise, wait a few days for the next post.

A Deplorable Cad – Chapter 1B

February 27, 2017

Jimmy and Tony were clearly the leaders of RSG and not just because they were the founding members. Both had amassed immense experience picking up girls. Jimmy had rattled over a hundred girls since going to university. A phenomenal number for late-90s and early-00s England that simply didn’t have the “hook-up culture” of modern USA universities and metropolitan bar scenes. He also had high standards, which really depresses a man’s lay count.

Jimmy was a smart methodical man in all areas of social dynamics, and he’d work a bar with the same precision as Mystery advised. At university his creativity and strength of character had established him as leader of his small pack of bad lads, then he’d take them out drinking, causing a ruckus, then see which girls gave him the eye. In many respects, RSG was just a more grown-up version of his bad lads gang.

Tony was a sniper with women and deeply immersed in romantic fiction. He worked out, was an excellent salsa dancer, and dressed like a modern-day Valentino. He’d shaped himself into the smouldering masculine archetype women fantasise about while reading novels. He didn’t like cold approach but had learned how to ease into sets in bars or on the dance floor. Often, the women came to him. By the time I met him he’d rattled three hundred women and kept copious notes on each seduction.

The penny wouldn’t drop until much, much later, but the innovation of RSG’s coaching was our ability to blend the mechanical systematic style of Mystery Method (via Jimmy) with the masculine polarity and seductive vibe of romance fiction (via Tony). The West Coast PUA movement that had inspired us was almost entirely the former, and it felt unbalanced and hollow.

A douchebag, yesterday

A douchebag, yesterday

RSG would grow and evolve. Ace brought in his love for the douchebag game of Hank Moody in Californication. I took a one-one-one with him in Jewel bar in early 2010 and was amazed with his playful arrogance. Midway through the evening, I brought over a pair of Chinese English girls who told me they worked in city law firms. Ace sat in a chair, legs wide open, a whiskey glass dangling precariously from his hand as I approached him.

“Who are these bitches?” he asked.

Both girls cracked up laughing and couldn’t keep their hands off him the rest of the night. He never fucked them but it felt like watching a glitch in the matrix; he was so rude and they lapped it up. Later that night as we stood outside in the smoking area I said to him, “if there was anyone in RSG whose game I want to emulate, it’s yours.”

I’d learn incredible things from being surrounded 24/7 by talented seducers. “Project London” would be a pivotal period in my life and this is its story.


“We’ll each have an en-suite room,” Jimmy enthused over the phone, one month prior. “The location is amazing. It’s probably a third of the market rate, with all utilities included.” Standing in the tiny backyard of my grotty south London flat, I can’t say I wasn’t tempted.

“It’s £300 a month.”

“How?” I replied, “How is that possible?”

There had to be a catch. I lived in a ground floor one-bedroom flat in an old Victorian building, a thirty-minute walk from my office at St Paul’s on the river. I had a lounge, bedroom, small dining room, kitchen, and tiny enclosed yard. It was £900 a month rent, and another £200 to pay off the council tax and bills.
This sounds OK, right? A decent-sized flat in a central area.

No. I lived in Kennington, which is next to Elephant & Castle. The price is low (for London) because it’s a majority black and Muslim area and thus, absolutely disgusting. South London is like a suburb of Monrovia or Mogadishu. Every time I went outside I was reminded that my country was under foreign occupation, and I was being taxed to feed, cloth, house, and educate the invaders. It wasn’t good for my vibe.

“Well, it’s not exactly a typical renter’s agreement,” he responded. “We have to keep the gypsies and squatters out.”

I don’t like gypsies, their travelling parasitical lifestyle being very much at odds with the host culture in Britain. Vlad Dracul had the right idea when he invited them all to a feast then barred the door and torched the place with them still inside.

“You’ve got an hour to decide. The letting agency said they’ll hold it for us until 4pm, and after that they are calling their waiting list. Really, you don’t want to miss this.”

The chateau

The chateau

I looked around my pokey little flat with its chipped paint, rising damp, and bad memories. It was where my ex-wife and I had first moved in together after the wedding and where things had all fallen apart three years later. Every room held memories that scaled the full range of emotion. There was the kitchen that she’d once lovingly kitted out with red pots, pans, and other assorted utensils, and which she’d used to cook me a different meal every evening, always delicious. Now it was bare and unused as I tended to get takeaways on my way home from work. Then there was the dining room with the walnut-shaped table around which my old friends would gather every second Thursday for a poker night, until they all quietly disassociated themselves from me after my divorce. I barely saw my old friends now. Rock Solid Game was my new social circle.

I visualized my walking home every evening from the investment bank where I worked, just across the Thames; a brisk half hour’s walk ending at my 1930s-era apartment block, where I stepped in off the street and knocked on my door with an expectant smile. My wife would always be waiting for me, wearing her make-up and a beaming smile, and then stand on tiptoes to welcome me with a kiss before ushering me through to the dining room, where dinner was on the table. That felt great every single time.

But I also remembered making the same walk home in February 2009, after we’d separated, to find she’d come by in the afternoon to strip the apartment of every single one of her possessions, including all the cute accoutrements that had added life to it. She’d left £400 in an envelope with a note that it should cover the shared property she’d taken.

My flat now seemed like a dilapidated old prison. In spite of that, since becoming a player, I’d managed to fuck a bunch of new girls on the same bed (and couch, floor, and walnut-shaped table).

However, the apartment was part of my old life. I needed a clean break, so the decision wasn’t hard to make. I tipped all my bank statements into a bag, grabbed my chequebook and passport then took a tube to the agency’s offices in Islington. I was taking the room sight-unseen.

When I finally moved out a week later, as I closed the door for the final time, it felt like a grand symbolic gesture. I didn’t so much feel that I was finishing a chapter of my life, more that I was opening a brand new book.

If you liked this, then you’ll like my book. Seeing as this is in fact just a copy/paste of my book, so it’s literally the same thing.