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 [1]

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 [2] 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 [1] 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.

Daygame Overkill is available here and it’s the best $200 you’ll ever spend on daygame. The various TNL products are available here.

[1] JMULV and Bradicus are ranging uncharted territory at that end.

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 [1] 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 [2] 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.

If you’d like to read an equally long but far better memoir both in writing ability and real-world achievement, consider my own Nick Krauser memoir that begins with Balls Deep, available in a handsome full-colour edition on Amazon here.

[1] As he writes in his own words. Let’s just assume he’s not LARPing
[2] Not that it would be acceptable either

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 [1] 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 [2]

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 [3], 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.

[1] Chronologically speaking. It’s actually the seventh of seven in publication, if anyone even pays attention to my ramblings nowadays.
[2] Yes, including yours Salman, you big daft cunt.
[3] 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.”

I agree, pal. It is. The full review is HERE and I suggest you read it in its entirety.

“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! [1]. Jerome Le Banner must be really pissed!

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.

As for MMA, he had one fight against a nobody and got knocked out in under two minutes. No shame in that, but not indicative of a world class fighter.

VERDICT: Liar

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.

VERDICT: Liar

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!

VERDICT: Liar

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 [2]. So, let’s Google Tristan and see what pops up.

Oh!

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.

VERDICT: Liar

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 [3] to figure it out, rather than ask me questions in the comments, “what do you think of this guy?”

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 [4] 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.

[1] I shall now update my IG profile to claim the WBC Super Middleweight title.
[2] I experimented with exactly this tactic for my band.
[3] It’s been a while since I insulted my readership. I was starting to think you miss it.
[4] Tom Torero and Antony Hustle are both engaging company in person, for example.

I often wonder why I never took my health and fitness seriously before. It’s probably not hard to figure out. My parents haven’t worked up a sweat in their lives [1] and are both rather bookish and non-physical people. The same goes for my extended family, and thus I had no physical role models as a child and no guidance in this area. Additionally, they eat badly and rely on being naturally slim. No-one ever taught me to eat well and it never occurred to me to figure it out for myself in a systematic way.

English culture doesn’t help any either. I started drinking in pubs from fifteen years old and it was absolutely normal to crank out eight pints of heavy beer on a Friday night then get a takeaway pizza before the last bus home. And then do it all again on Saturday [2]. Somehow I went from a skinny 126lb 16-year old to a 175lb lard-ass at the end of my first year of university without putting on a pound of muscle in the interim.

I distinctly remember my New Year’s Resolution midway through my second year at Uni was to reduce my drinking to just four times a week. I cut it further the next year, added in some jogging and cardio and, being young, I was able to slim right down to 147lbs very quickly. After a couple of years working in London I was up to 160lbs – this time with a bit of muscle- and I stayed around that weight right up until 2014.

By then I was in decent shape from fight training and a haphazard attempt to eat more healthy. Then, when I moved out of London in April 2014 everything unravelled. I always ate out, didn’t train regularly, drank far too often, and eventually ballooned up to 190lbs at the beginning of 2017. I held constant at a fat 183lbs until July 2018 when I began this two year body transformation.

I’ve written here in detail about my first year. This is an update. So, without further ado, let’s look at the before/after pics.

The studio photo was taken a month ago when I weighed 165lbs (I’m 171 now, about the same body fat) and- dare I say it- I’m in a mighty fine fettle. If you look closely you can see visible abs. In the right lighting and right posture, I even have a visible six pack [3]. There was no gym pump for that shoot, so I look slightly better during a workout. That’s all small potatoes, the point is the contrast with the rather awful before picture (the only reason I still have the before picture is that it actually flattered me alot so I never deleted it!).

I never expected to reach this level of aesthetic at my age without using testosterone injections. My expectations have been far exceeded and I’m thrilled at my progress. What was even more surprising was the impact of my body recomposition on my face.

Look at these before/after pics.

Again, it’s not quite comparing like-with-like because one is a selfie and the other a studio pic. However, the studio portrait is not photoshopped. I really do look like that. It’s shocking how old and battered I used to look. Now my skin is smoother and glows with health, most of my wrinkles are gone, and I have clearly-defined facial bone structure including the all-important jaw line. Again, expectations are exceeded.

So, what is my protocol, you ask?

1. Diet
After much experimentation with my personal trainer, we have settled on what we consider optimal for my body and goals. From Monday to Friday I eat 2,000-2,300 calories with a macro-nutrient target of 150g carbs and at least 180g protein. The carbs are below maintenance to reduce water retention and bloat. Then on the weekend I do a big carb refill, aiming for 400g on Saturday (rice, potatoes, bananas, bread) and 600g on Sunday (try to eat real foods but hard candy and low-fat ice cream is okay if I’m struggling to hit target). There’s no calorie limit on the weekend but I don’t eat more than I need to hit the carb target.

This is a carb super-compensation and the rationale is to deplete my glycogen through the week so that my body over-compensates in carb absorption on the weekend, while the weekly carb total isn’t too far above maintenance overall. I find my weight fluctuates predictably in a 2kg bandwidth doing this. Visually, I look a bit flat by Saturday morning and pumped my Monday morning. My endurance is notably improved on Monday too.

My goal is to keep doing this, inching my lean gains upwards.

2. Gym
I continue to train four times a week, under supervision of my PT every session. We do a weekly split of Back on Monday, Chest on Wednesday, Arms on Friday, then Legs and Shoulders on Saturday. Due to all the Corona lockdown bullshit, I’ve been forced to do nine weeks of home workouts year-to-date and missed two weeks entirely. That required remedial work upon returning to the gym, to get back up to my previous PBs on the usual split routine.

My sessions are usually two hours and consist of:

• Warm up and stretch
• Weight lifting (the meat of the session), 6-7 exercises, 3-5 sets each
• Abs, usually 2 exercises, 4 sets each
• 15 minute cardio on treadmill
• Cool down and stretch

Except for a week off at the beginning of Serbia’s March lockdown, and another week off upon returning to the UK in early June, I haven’t missed a single session all year. Those rest weeks were probably helpful too, as both times when my body realised I was taking a break it immediately shut down and went into recovery mode.

So, do I have any miscellaneous thoughts from what I’ve learned this past year? Of course. But first, a comedy fat bastard picture.

A. Personal Trainers Are Indispensable
I’ve now spent a full year with my coach and don’t regret a moment of it. It’s astonishing to me now to think I went my first year of training relying on the internet and a friend’s advice. That worked out okay, but the past year has been a quantum leap in taking my training towards optimal levels. I learned how to do each exercise properly, how to do the correct rep ranges and loading, how to sync it with diet, and then the additional fact that my coach pushes me harder than I can push myself. It’s been a revelation and I recommend everyone who can afford it to hire a coach.

It’s not unlike daygame in that respect. Loads of cheapskates figuring they can do it solo and then wondering why they have shitty technique. It’s the Dunning-Kruger effect in motion. They don’t know what they don’t know, just like I didn’t when I started lifting.

My advice on choosing a coach is the same as it is for choosing a mentor in any other area: find a guy who already has what you want, then ask him how he got it.

B. Testosterone is (mostly) a mug’s game
Synthetic testosterone is available over-the-counter in pharmacies in Serbia, and costs about £2 for a week’s supply. Yet I’ve never taken any despite training here for a year. Why? Well, I was very tempted in the beginning when I didn’t yet know what was possible naturally, and I was impatient as all hell. I’m very glad I chose against it.

Drug abuse is rampant in gyms and often the juiced guys don’t even look very good, so you have to learn to spot the androgen tells before you realise who is on it. I’ve noticed that very few of the juiced guys look good, for the following reasons:

• Most are idiots who use it as a short-cut and never bother learning how to train properly, or discipline their diets. So, they have over-developed arms and shoulders, fat guts, weak legs, and poor posture.
• Those who do train smart look great for a while but then….. keep going. They get way too big and push well past the aesthetic optimum. Presumably they are so thrilled with getting bigger and stronger that they just fall in love with “more” and keep pushing.
• You can’t stay on it. At some point all the toxins accumulate and you have to come off-cycle, at which point you rapidly lose over half of your gains. Your hormones plummet, your mood plummets, and your body visibly melts. To do a proper PCT to return to healthy levels, you need to be off-cycle for as long as you were on. By then, you look as if you’d never even taken testosterone. It was all a gigantic waste of time.

I can think of a narrow range of situations where injecting testosterone is a good decision. First, if you have abnormally-low levels naturally which is messing up your moods and prevents natty training from adding muscle. Second, if you’re suffering reduced levels through ageing (i.e. you’re mid-40s onward) and don’t mind staying on it for- quite literally- the rest of your life. That makes you awfully vulnerable, but I can see the rationale.

What isn’t smart is doing it for the reason nearly everyone actually does it: as a short-cut to looking superhuman for a few years, before the consequences catch up with you and you look shit for the rest of your life.

C. Most people don’t train hard
I’ve spent enough time in gyms now to spot who comes in to talk, and who comes in to train. If you’re running your mouth [4] or taking phone calls, or texting between sets, then you really aren’t trying. Proper training requires focus, and that means no distractions. I’m even suspicious of people who listen to music on the treadmill now.

If you’re training hard, you should really feel it. You should sound like a women’s tennis match on half of the machines, and should frequently stumble away at the end of your set with a lost look on your face. You should be red faced, huffing and puffing, and dripping with sweat. Otherwise, you’re half-assing it.

Don’t feel bad. Nearly everyone else is half-assing it. Including more than half the lads on steroids. I’ve watched the juiced guys carefully and it’s amazing how many do their entire routines while keeping up conversations, and never sweating. Ridiculous. If you are going to hurt your health with androgens, you might as well train 100% so you get the maximum gains on the minimum dosages.

D. Smart training is incredibly beneficial
My coach tells me what to lift, and I lift it. That’s the limit of my thinking in the gym. Every other atom of brain power is channeled into focus and willpower. It is commonly said that intensity plus consistency equals results. I agree. Don’t fall off the diet wagon, don’t skip gym sessions, and always give your all. If you do that, you can make massive progress.

I’ve really felt the loss from my lockdown-induced setbacks. It takes time to get back up to pre-lockdown strength and conditioning levels. If you’re half-assing it with inconsistent discipline, you are like that all year. No wonder most people make no progress.

Those are some of my thoughts. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I certainly know way more than I did two years ago and my own transformation is good enough to prove I’m doing it at least mostly correctly. It’s been absolutely worth it.

Girls say “nothing tastes as good as slim feels”. There’s the male equivalent. I only spend 2-2.5 hours in the gym, 4 times a week. That’s really not a big time investment. And yet the benefit is that I feel great 24/7 for 365 days a year [5]. The years have dropped off me. I go through each and every day with vim and vigour.

What, you want another comedy fat bastard picture?

If you’d rather learn how to daygame, pick up Daygame Overkill here.

[1] Except, presumably, for the obvious
[2] To do otherwise would be to invite suspicions of homosexuality
[3] I call this my Special Situations Six Pack, visible only in the locker room mirror at my gym, and only then when I’m pulling up my trousers and thus optimally flexing all my abs. My SSSP hasn’t been documented outside of this very contrived situation but I’m hopeful of the future.
[4] Except on arms day, which doesn’t take much out of you aside the arm muscles themselves
[5] Except that time I had a can of spoiled tuna and shat myself

Long-suffering readers are well aware that I never release my books on schedule. Some would argue it’s because I’m a lazy cunt and they’d be right but my attitude to writing is “it’ll be done when it’s done.” I am not a workaday writer who can sit at his keyboard from 9am and tap away like it’s an office job. I admire those who can, but that’s not me. I’m dependent upon inspiration. I feel my creative tanks fill up until the pressure reaches bursting point, then I sit at the keyboard and words pour out. After a few days, the tank is empty. I’ve tried forcing myself to stay at the keyboard but it’s like dry-retching after a hefty chunder [1].

So, I write in spurts.

You’ll be please to hear, then, that the sixth and final volume in my epic pick-up memoir- Uberkrauser [2]– has now officially hit the half-way point of 75,000 words. That breaks the back of it. If you’ve tried writing yourself, you’ll know how intimidating blank pages can be. Even more so if you’ve committed to the project so the book must be written.

That’s how I felt early this year, after having procrastinated all through late 2019 and failed to begin the final volume. It would be embarrassing to have volumes 1-5 and 7 published and then never get 6 out the door. “Nick’s lost it,” people would whisper, “he went all George RR Martin and couldn’t finish what he started.” Equally intimidating was the quality issue: could I write another 150k words of blather about the same old shit without it reading like one of Tom’s being boring? [3].

So, all through the first 75k words I was wondering if I’d do justice to the stories or whether Uberkrauser would be forever known as the “last season of Game Of Thrones” version of a pick-up memoir. I’m pleased to report that I’m happy with the quality and my sole test reader says it’s the best yet. For the first time, I’m confident the book will be finished eventually.

Phew!

The tone is set, the book is moving, and now I just need to keep plugging away. It’s parked for now so as to let the creative tank refill. I’ll probably get back on it in a couple of months.

If you’d like to crack on with my memoir then start at the beginning with Balls Deep here and slowly work your way through the pack.

[1] I’m aware that comparing my prose to vomit is not ideal.
[2] Working title
[3] If you’ve read the other six volumes, it evidently worked out okay so far.

Coincidence is a funny thing isn’t it? Just the other day I was saying to my pal, “it’s ages since I’ve heard about Andrew Tate. Has he not topped himself yet?” and then, just minutes later, a reader sends me a message about him.

Well, technically, the message was not about Tate himself but rather about one of his many online sock puppet accounts he uses to create the illusion of credibility. But before we get to that, let’s look at the man’s official accounts and do some simple online due diligence on one of his oft-repeated claims.

That’s a damn impressive bio isn’t it? K-1 World Champion. The world’s premier kickboxing event, held in Japanese stadiums such as Saitama Super Arena and Tokyo Dome, with crowds of 30,000+ and then televised on Saturday night TV at peak viewing times. Those champs were stars: Ernesto Hoost, Peter Aerts, Semmy Schilt, Remy Bonjasky. True champions. Fantastic professional fighters.

So, I was curious which K-1 World GP Tate had won. I hadn’t personally attended a K-1 live event since the Bob Sapp era. I think the last GP finals I went to was when Kaoklai knocked Might Mo spark out with a flying kick (Hoost won the tournament). Well, I’m sure Tate’s kickboxing record will enlighten me…..

 

Ah!

He fought one fight on a K-1 card, in China, against somebody called Wing Ding [1]. As his only K-1 fight, that must be his championship. It seems the old adage of “I’ve never met a wrestler who wasn’t champion of something” would also apply to certain kickboxing circuits. Still, Tate won. Good on him. Beating another trained fighter in man-to-man combat is not an easily-done thing. So, I was curious just what his “4x Kickboxing World Champion” claim was based on. Clearly, it wasn’t the K-1 I knew and loved. So, I perused his record further as you can also at the above Wikipedia link.

I’ll be fair, it’s a statistically impressive one of 44-9 (34). Better than my own shitty 3-2 (0) on the Tokyo amateur circuit, by quite a margin. But as Teddy Atlas says, “boxing isn’t about your record and how many knockouts you have. It’s about who you beat.”

So, who did Tate beat?

Scanning his record you can see he came up on the UK regional circuit (semi-pro/amateur) and, as the wins piled up, he ventured to France, Belgium and a little further afield to Macedonia and Slovakia. Conspicuously absent are the professional kickboxing strongholds of Japan, Thailand, and Netherlands. The one time he tried Netherlands, he got sparked out inside a round. Now, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing to be ashamed of in this. Everyone loses. It takes balls to get into the ring and dedication to get yourself to a level where Dutch promoters even invite you onto a card. Tate’s record does not suggest he’s a soft lad. Quite the contrary. But I was still looking for some evidence that would support his much-ballyhooed [2] claim to be a professional world champion. The centre forward of Stalybridge Celtic is ten times the football player I am, but he doesn’t write “Ballon D’or winner” on his Twitter profile and pass himself off as Cristiano Ronaldo, does he?

 

 

So, I found Tate’s first title-winning fight- the first X of his 4X claim- on YouTube against Jean-Luc Benoit. This is for the ISKA World Full-Contact 81.5kg title. It was a rematch from three months earlier, where the Frenchman took a twelve-round decision. Wikipedia has Tate winning inside eight rounds, though this is the only footage I could find of it [3]

Note the venue is a little smaller than Saitama Super Arena. You could be mistaken for thinking this is a small-hall semi-pro event.

There’s a lot more footage online of their first bout in France. Watch it below to see what “world class” kickboxing looks like on the semi-pro circuit. Tough guys, no doubt, but we aren’t looking at Floyd Mayweather Junior silky skills, or conditioning, are we?

So, I think the evidence is pretty clear. Tate’s world titles are closer to the FA Vase than the Champions League. It’s still an impressive achievement, so why try to spin it into something it’s not? On the subject of spinning a fantasy on social media to pretend you’re something you’re not, if people are interested I may do a follow-up post on his pick-up credentials.

Now, I’m going off to watch Saenchai and Buakaw fight for real world titles. Maybe I’ll email some of those manosphere podcasters and ask why they don’t do any due diligence before inviting that bullshitter onto their shows to big himself up as a K-1 World Champion.

If you’d like to purchase my products before the inevitable shitstorm hits, you’re probably best off starting with Daygame Overkill here. No third-world webcam whores were hired to pose as notches in the making of this video, nor hire cars passed off as my own.

[1] Liang Ling, actually.
[2] By himself, and apparently believed by all of the usual gullible manosphere podcasters

[3] I’m not for a moment suggesting he didn’t win inside eight. There’s another short camera-phone clip on YouTube of Benoit raising Tate’s hand, post-fight.

Right then dickheads. I’m sitting on a public bench in London, waiting hours for a train. Everywhere is shut, except two poxy takeaway coffee joints [1]. Naturally, I’m not allowed to sit inside and wait, like a normal person. Oh no! My arse will not be treated to a cushioned seat today. What a bag of shite. Having been in Belgrade the past four months the whole let’s-be-faggots-in-England Covid restrictions passed me by [2] and it takes some getting used to being suddenly reminded of them.

But it’s not all bad, is it? I just scoffed a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich, and the latte served by the aforementioned poxy cafe was actually pretty good. I’m gonna be playing Metro Exodus on a 48″ flat-screen TV the moment I get back to Krauser Headquarters North [3]. In fact, my mood has improved considerably in the space of just two paragraphs.

That’s emotional control for you, lads.

Things are all a little coincidental of late. Roy Walker was booked to come over to Belgrade for a long weekend [4] and then Jimmy Jambone was roped in too. By the wildest of coincidences they booked a flight that would land approximately fifteen minutes after my flight out of Belgrade took off.

Those crazy lads! What a coincidence! [5]

As if that’s not enough Mr White and Xants were due to meet me for a coffee as I passed through London but then by the wildest coincidence, they suddenly got a load of work on and can’t quite make it.

So I’m sitting in the train station in the ghost town of London, having only been in the country for two hours, and some lad comes up and asks, “are you Nick Krauser?”

Frankly, I’m not even sure any more.

Anyway, that’s all just a pointless digression to fill a bit of space before I link the final video I appear in from last summer’s The 21 Convention in Warsaw. Here I am with the Red Man Group pontificating on all kinds of things.

If you’d like to donate to #Krauser’sLifeMatters so that I can get myself a new TV and pair of Nike Jordans, please contribute $199 to Daygame Overkill here.

[1] Whose free Wi-Fi I’m using, so I’m every so slightly grateful.
[2] And, fucking hell, the disgusting multiculturalism really hits hard after four months around nothing but proper people.
[3] Mum and dad’s house.
[4] However much you are missing daygame, you are not missing it as much as him. I can assure you.
[5] It was, right?