Why Do Women Hate Game?

January 18, 2017
krauserpua

Jimmy Jambone recently put a post on his blog [1] about why women hate the very idea of Game. It’s an interesting post in his own rambling secretly-DHVing way and focuses mostly on the idea of control. Women don’t like the idea that men can reclaim some control over their dating lives by using Game.

As Heartiste once wrote, “the goal of feminism is to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality”. It’s much the same as Rollo [2] writing that for the feminine imperative to succeed, the masculine imperative must be frustrated. One wag – I forget who – suggested the Western world is what happens when the feminine imperative runs amok and the Arab world is the converse, of the male imperative running amok.

Not for the first time, I think Jimmy is wrong [3]

Jimmy's bird gets angry

Jimmy’s bird gets angry

The deep-seated visceral fear women have of Game is that it makes them unsure of their ability to discern value. And make no mistake their hatred of Game is borne of fear. Allow me to explain.

In biology, we learn that animals throw out signals of their mate value. Because all is fair in love and war, animals have evolved to exaggerate their mate value by throwing out fake signals. An arms race developed where animals compete to develop sneakier fake signals while learning to see through the fake signals of others. It’s a war of deception.

Women have been faking signals for centuries, such as rouge on their cheeks, corsets, push up bras and high heels. In modern times they’ve gotten fake tits. What all these signals have in common is they are not part of the DNA package being passed on through mating. They are not part of the core SMV proposition [4]. We all know that sinking feeling of meeting a pretty girl in a nightclub, taking her home, and then seeing what she really looks like in the morning [5]. The girl successfully faked signals of her SMV to get her victory.

Women know full well men will also fake signals, whether it’s puffing out their chest and sucking in their stomachs, or fronting about a lifestyle they don’t really lead. For most of the time in the male-female arms race there is detente. It’s the same old tricks and each side knows the other’s capability. Game changes it all. It’s a Trump-esque upending of the established order.

Higher value

Higher value

Game, at it’s heart, is about emulating the signalling of high SMV men. Sure, do it enough and you’ll eventually become higher value. Nonetheless, for as long as you’re doing game, you are throwing off fake signals [6]. Girls are hard-wired to sniff out the difference between real and fake signalling (PUAs call that “congruence”) and to probe for key information in reaching such a determination (PUAs call that “shit testing”).

The fact it’s hard-wired is the problem. It means they are great at doing it against untrained men. However, it’s like one side of the arms race standing still while the other speeds off with higher technology. Game is that technology.

Girls fear Game because it shakes their confidence in their ability to weed out low value men. They fear getting knocked up by fakers.

[1] Yes, he actually has a blog. It surprised me too.
[2] Now that I’m booted off Twitter I couldn’t thank you personally for that Deep Conversion post a month ago referencing me. Thanks!
[3] It’s more accurate to say he doesn’t give sufficient weight to another aspect of the case, but that way of writing is less likely to trigger him.
[4] Not that I dislike fake tits or heels, mind.
[5] I’ve never been to bed with an ugly woman, but I’ve woken up with quite a few
[6] Feel free to discuss the issue of to what degree the signals themselves constitute value to the woman, such as how there isn’t much difference between “signalling” charisma and “real” charisma itself

Potemkin Clubs

January 17, 2017
krauserpua

I was standing in Levels nightclub in Bangkok with Steve and Jason at around 1am. We’d just finished drinking at Oskars bar down the road, a rather nice place that seemed to attract lots of local women who seemed exceptionally pleased to see us. Having already run the gauntlet of semi-pro hordes in Patong we had their number immediately.

“Fuck this nonsense. Let’s try a club” Steve had declared. So here we were.

The initial signs were good. Nice decor, wide open area, and a quieter outside rooftop bar where the balmy night air blew in. Lots of girls, mostly Thai with a smattering of white girls. Some strong IOIs.

“This doesn’t feel right” I commented. “It feels more like a nightclub scene from a TV show than an actual nightclub”

Steve knows clubs considerably better than I and he agreed. “Probably hookers. Let’s see”. He turned to a trio of girls spilling out of their nice dresses. “Excuse me, are you a whore?” (or words to that effect).

Just imagine his rep points on RooshV Forum

Just imagine his rep points on RooshV Forum

Yes, she was. We noticed another pair of girls at the bar IOIing almost ever man, occasionally even reaching out to touch them as they walked past. Over by the DJ I saw a rather pretty Russian girl showing extreme interest in the conversation of a chubby Indian man who looked like he could star in Big Bang Theory.

“There’s two normal girls” said Jason, pointing out a mediocre blonde girl and her trashy tattooed brunette friend. A seven and a six respectively, if you’re drunk and in a dark club. Both white and not hot enough to be whores.

A big fat Turk came out of the elevator and past security. Middle-aged and sweaty, he looked like Kojak after a decade living rough. The kind of man who has never had free sex in his life. He stood in the middle of the room scanning then made a beeline to the trio of Thai whores Steve had interrogated. A minute later he was back.

Couldn't help making connection to this great book

Couldn’t help making connection to this great book

I turned my back for less than a minute and when I glanced over again he was talking to the two white girls. Literally three minutes later he led them both out of the club with the “gonna have a threesome” smirk. Needless to say, I did not attribute his success to tight game.

A Russian ex-girlfriend who’d lived in Thailand recently was chatting to me on Facebook. Asking how I was getting on in Bangkok she sent me a listicle of the Thirteen Girls You Date In Thailand. Standing in Levels nightclub I scan the list and when it covers the “sideline girl” (i.e. semi pro) it specifically identifies Levels nightclub.

“Let’s get out of this shit hole” I said. Did I mention there were hardly any Thai men in this club?

We’d been recommended Sugar nightclub down the road [1]. That was 300 baht entry including a free bottle of beer. Early signs where bad as hip hop blasted out of the speakers and I felt like I was living in a mud hut surrounded by African savages. The elevator dumped us in a dark room with strobe lighting. Several rows of small high tables ringed the dancefloor and a line of young white men with hunted eyes stood frozen still watching the Thai girls gyrate clumsily.

Got me looking so crazy right now. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no

Got me looking so crazy right now. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no

“Lots of two sets flashing their little eyes” said Steve, referring to a half dozen different pairs of girls standing at the tables slowly drinking beer. A large wrap-around sofa booth in the corner was hosting a fat white man, his bottle service, and four thai girls. They were dressed quite nice. Before long a drunk girl from the booth IOId me and I waved her over. She chatted a while but was fucked off her nut and playing the usual attention whore club games. She did tell me a few interesting things.

“I don’t work here” she proclaimed. “I do office job. It’s my friend birthday, she work here” and pointed to one of the girls indulging the fat white guy as he held court around his expensive vodka bottle. My new drunk friend flitted off and started chatting to two girls at a table who she clearly knew.

I began to look around the club with a new eye. Let’s assume every single thai girl here is on the club payroll, even the “patrons”. Within minutes my theory was confirmed. As the glass collector did his rounds these girls would hug him, or slap his arse, or talk freely in exactly the same manner you’d expect if they were there five nights a week because it’s their job.

“This is a Potemkin Club” I told Jason. “It’s all an illusion. The entire business is a carefully staged environment to give men like us the illusion that we are attractive and a grey area to pay for the privilege without feeling like we are just whoring.”

Suddenly half of what I’d seen in Phuket and Bangkok made sense. This wasn’t whoring in the Western model where you strike up a price then bang the pro. Thailand was offering the “girlfriend experience” on a wider level – it wasn’t just the girl bullshitting you that “you handsome man”. The entire nightclub was bullshitting you.

Not bullshit, Patong.

Not bullshit, Patong.

Steve left in disgust and Jason and I left a quarter hour later. Further down the squalid street that is Soi 11, I waited outside a 7/11 while Jason went inside to buy water. A twenty-something Eurochode walked up with his very pretty brown “girlfriend”. As he waited outside, she went inside and flashed me three massive IOIs. [2] The eurochode didn’t seem to notice, fumbling in his beige shorts for a cigarette.

I followed inside thirty seconds later and caught the girl perusing the tuna spread prepared sandwiches in the refrigerator. I waved a hand in front of her face to get attention.

“You speak English? Your boyfriend – boring!” I said, gesturing thumbs down. “Me, cool. Let’s get a drink.”

She gently pulled me further out of her sponsor’s line of site then we swapped Line ID contact info. Then I sidled up to Jason at the checkout and completed my exfiltration unnoticed. In Hitman it would be a S-ranked Silent Assassin score.

I banged the girl the next night. For free.

[1] If I ever remember who recommended it, I’ll murder them.
[2] I call these UpgradeOIs because it’s semi-pros trying to upgrade the quality of their sugar daddy.

If you liked this anecdote, just wait till you read me when I actually take time and effort to make it good. A Deplorable Cad coming soon!

The Upa Drill – Bedroom Edition

December 31, 2016
krauserpua

Sitting over a morning coffee in Thailand with a couple of friends our conversation turned towards the previous evening’s events in the UFC. Before long we discussed the application of MMA techniques to the bedroom. Let me show you a very easy trick to employ with a lucky lady. It has a 100% satisfaction rate.

Pure porn

Pure porn

Do you know the “upa drill” in Brazilian Ju Jitsu? It’s a warm-up / conditioning drill in which you lay on your back and then buck your hips up and to one side, then reach an arm over your head to touch the mat on the other side. Here’s a video.

You can practice that on your living room floor until it’s burned into your muscle memory. It’s application is to bridge an opponent out of mount position. There are several YouTube videos demonstrating it, so let’s pick one what has two slim women making only a token effort to pretend it’s not a wank-stash vid:

The key is to conceive of the top girl’s balance as like a table with four legs. If you remove the legs on two sides it will tip over. Watch the video again and note how the bottom bitch girl traps her opponent’s ankle with her own foot, and the same-side arm with her arm, bringing it tight into her body. This removes the two “table legs” and makes her tip over in that direction with only the lightest upa movement.

If you haven’t figured out why this move works great in the bedroom, I’m afraid there’s no hope for you. And on another note, here’s some art from my almost-ready next book:

screen-cap-chapter-flash

If you liked that, you’re gonna like my book. It’s just not on sale yet.

Early Thoughts On South East Asia

December 16, 2016
krauserpua

Regular readers will be aware that I like my hibernations. I consider my style of daygame to be seasonal in that my moods, appetite for skirt, and the weather in Europe means that going full-on all year around is just….. not much fun. So I divide up the year into the following chunks:

  • December to February – Hibernation. Forget daygame, focus on non-game interests, get work done, try not to get fat [1]
  • March – Excited to start daygame again and willing to tolerate iffy weather in one of the cities that has reliable flow of girls despite such weather.
  • April to June – Living the dream in Europe with visits back home between trips.
  • July and August – Some difficult decision making due to extreme heat and girl’s summer holidays halving the number of cities with good daygame.
  • September and October – Living the dream again but starting to get tired [2]
  • November – A last chance to try squeezing a bit more mileage out of the Euro-season in a race against time with the cold, rain and snow coming on.

This pattern suited me but over the past few years an idea has grown until it’s begun gnawing at me. A little voice has been whispering in my ear, like a mischievous squirrel trying to bullshit a bear out of his favourite cave, do you really need to spend Winter in Newcastle? There may be a better place to hibernate.

A siren song, yesterday

A siren song, yesterday

I could be escaping the zero degree Newcastle weather, the fat horrible women, the stodgy food, and the depressing multiculturalism of my city centre. Why not spend that time on a beach?

Well, I tried that. I went to Cancun and Chiang Mai in early 2011. I had fun but don’t care to repeat the experience. Crappy girls, third world boring shit. I tried Sao Paulo and Rio De Janiero in early 2012 but came away decided that I hate Brazilians and Brazil [3]. My key learning point from two winters in the third world is that Europe is much much better.

But there’s another reason, whispers Mid-Life Crisis Future Regret Avoidance Planner Squirrel [4], You need to take a closer look at the End Game.
“What End Game?” I reply
You are 41 years old, quite literally middle-aged says MLCFRAPS. Even though you’ll always be able to get young girls, it’ll get harder. Maybe your knees will go after all that walking. Your testosterone will drop and you just won’t have the same enthusiasm to keep chasing skirt. You need to look to the future, at Old Man Game.

Regular readers are no doubt aware of all the various Ex Pat and “Galt Game” forums on teh interwebs. There’s the likes of Naughty Nomad and Roosh V forums. Now, I don’t want to say bad things about these places because there are plenty of good straight-shooting men on there trying to share information and help each other out. Just because I personally dislike forums doesn’t make them a bad thing [5]. I’ve noticed there’s lots of talk on there from men camped out in South East Asia who are using a variety of ways to plunder the local women (allegedly).

As a general rule I don’t believe anything I read on the internet [6]. Nonetheless, it sets me thinking about if there’s anything in that lifestyle. Can a fifty-year old man go out and live in SEA and clack a bunch of hot girls? Can I add another ten years onto my player lifespan this way?

So I headed out to Asia. Bali and then Phuket. Here are my initial thoughts.

I think these are banned from South East Asia

I think these are banned from South East Asia

BALI
A waste of time. I was in the Seminyak resort and also spent time in nearby Kuta. In the ten days I was there I didn’t see a single eight. Not one. The western girls were either (i) gross chubby Aussies with bad tattoos and guts, (ii) pretty Europeans with their long term boyfriends. I only saw five or six of the latter. I got a ton of matches on Tinder [7] but after filtering out the hookers and ladyboys there were just grumpy 5s and 6s. I got one of them on a date and in my bed but after molesting her for a while she said she was constipated, hadn’t had a poo in five days, and her body hurt too much to have sex.

That’s just gross. Can you imagine a Moscow girl saying that?

Bali itself is a shithole. Nature is beautiful but everything is broken and dirty, the humidity is oppressive, and there’s nothing to do.

PHUKET
I binned Bali and took a flight to Thailand. After dropping my stuff off at the hotel and showering I went out to a nightclub with Jabba. Well, it’s more like a bar/club and really it’s just a brothel for semi-pros. I grabbed a girl, chatted five minutes and took her down the street to my hotel. On my bed she asked for 1,000 baht so I threw her out. I went back to the club and pulled another girl out. She asked for 1,000 baht on the way, so I went back to club. Then Steve was smooching on with a girl and I noticed her friend was one I’d been chatting to earlier. We all went down to the beach for twenty minutes then they made excuses about having to go home because of work the next day. I took a number. Back to the club and then a fourth girl pretty much jumped me. Five minutes later I took her home. She never asked for money so I fucked her.

Next day we were dead. Hungover.

Day three I had a first date with the girl I’d taken to the beach. Halfway through the first drink I took her to the hotel and fucked her. She never asked for money. Day four an Aussie guy I know SDLd a local from Starbucks. We agreed to go to the cinema to watch the new Underworld movie. The girl invited her friend to join, who showed up midway through the movie and sat down next to me. We had a quick drink in a bar afterwards, the friend was gagging for it, so I took her home and fucked her. She didn’t ask for money.

Four days, three notches. No money paid. Barely even did any game.  UPDATE: Make that 5 days, 4 notches.

So my initial impression is that Phuket is a bit better than Bali. I see plenty of hot Euro girls, especially Russians, walking around but they are always – without exception – with their boyfriends. I’m surprised how pretty some of the Thai girls are, especially the best go-go girls, but the Russians put them absolutely to shame.

I still can’t conclude on whether Phuket is a good place for the End Game. It’s a bit Disneyland and doesn’t feel like a real place. Having girls gyrating and shouting at you constantly is rather unnerving. I think it’s just not healthy to know that for 1,000 baht you can fuck almost any girl you see even if they are sitting reading a book in a cafe [8]

My guess is I’ll be sick of this place within a couple of weeks and rather glad that I put all that time into figuring out how to pull Euro girls. In the meantime, I’m having quite a lot of fun.

Difficult to stay interested in this kind of thing

Difficult to stay interested in this kind of thing

[1] Or more correctly since 2015, fatter.
[2] This is when my blog flips schizophrenically between high enthusiasm and Daygame Mediocrity.
[3] Except for my very good friend and fellow daygame blogger Suave who is as Brazilian as Romario.
[4] I wonder who that phrase sounds like….
[5] Although RVF is pure comedy in an unintentional way
[6] In fact, now that I think about it, how do I know that this blog post wasn’t just made up by someone on the internet?
[7] In itself quite a strange feeling because I never get matches in Europe.
[8] Aussie dude didn’t pay, but girl later revealed she actually has a sponsor.

If you enjoyed reading about my no-game successes in Thailand, you probably won’t want to bother with my book. That’s all game. And game is difficult.

Book Update – A Deplorable Cad

December 11, 2016
krauserpua

“Nick doesn’t seem to update his blog anymore. He only did three podcasts this year. I think he’s done with the Game” says a regular reader.

It certainly looks that way but let me reassure you all I’m most definitely not done with the Game. I have, however, had amended priorities in 2016 over and above regular blogging or doing in-field recordings.

I have a tendency to bite off more than I can chew. Fortunately, I also have the tenacity to push forwards and the completionist’s obsession with finishing everything he starts. Two years ago I started writing my daygame memoir Balls Deep. It quickly became obvious that I couldn’t tell the stories I wanted in the way I wanted to tell them and still keep it down to one volume.

By the time Balls Deep was finished in late 2014 it had only covered the first quarter of my Player’s Journey. “I’d best do this across four volumes” I mused. So I added three more volumes to my To Do list and got cracking writing all three simultaneously, as if I was filming Lord Of The Rings.

What a silly idea!

Two years later and I’m still at it. Back in November 2015 when my winter hibernation began I resolved that I must get these bloody memoirs out! I spent the whole winter writing  volume four, Adventure Sex, which was released this summer (to good reviews too, check here and here). While writing these books I came to a realisation that game was no longer my obsession – writing had replaced it. Here was a highly technical, wonderfully expressive art form in which you can keep improving for literally decades! I’d sit down at the local Costa Coffee with a grande americano and just disappear into the book. Love it!

So let me update you on the status of the quadrilogy.

Volume One: Balls Deep is on sale in both paperback and PDF here
Volume Two: A Deplorable Cad has just been finished. It’s now with the layout designer.
Volume Three: Younger Hotter Tighter is currently a 75k-word draft. It needs a lot of rewriting.
Volume Four: Adventure Sex is on sale in paperback here.

Mock cover. Will change a lot.

Mock cover. Will change a lot.

So the big news is A Deplorable Cad. I’ve literally just finished the seventh and final re-write this morning, polishing its mammoth 161k words to a fine sparkle. I’ve already received most of the commissioned artwork and now I need to go through instructing my layout designer and then reviewing test prints. My best guess is it’ll be on sale in January, just in time to motivate you fellow daygamers to follow through on your New Year Resolutions to do more sets.

A Deplorable Cad is my best writing. I’ve lavished extreme care on it because writing is my big obsession now. It picks up right where Balls Deep ends. And that is why I haven’t been blogging so regularly in 2016, especially lately. All my creative energies have been poured into this albatross. I’ve written 320,000 words of my memoir this year. Unbelievable, really.

If you like hearing me witter on, come find me on Gab – the only social media company that has yet to lock my account. Find me at https://gab.ai/NickKrauser

The Hemingway Suite

December 6, 2016
krauserpua

I’m hibernating in Bali, Indonesia for the next month or so in an attempt to slow my brain down and get away from the terribly distracting impact of hot women [1]. A key goal while here is to complete my next book, volume two of the memoir. It was already good to go last month but I decided I’d like to do another rewrite to get it into the best possible state. So now I’m incorporating feedback from two editors and my test readers. Here’s a section from chapter sixteen:

Shitsville for women

Shitsville for women

We were nothing if not grandiose. If Rock Solid Game had a larger budget we’d have carved our faces into Mount Rushmore or bought ourselves an island and declared independence. We’d then take great joy in attending United Nations assemblies and trolling the shit out of them.

“Could the ambassador for Trollistan please leave the chamber,” would become a common refrain in such a future.

We were determined to build ourselves up both in reality and within our own imaginations. This was something Jimmy had become world-class at. When you met him he had a rock-star vibe and would regal you with some tales that seemed eminently plausible to hear but preposterous should you ever write a bullet-point list of the information they conveyed. He had some established favourites but was quite capable of spinning such yarns on the fly.

“I’ve only been to Malta once. It’s the last of the Mediterranean islands I needed to tick off the list,” Jimmy would drop in to a conversation with a girl. “I’ve heard it’s great for scuba diving – crystal clear water and underwater wrecks from World War Two – but unfortunately I never really got a chance to try it. I’d taken my band there as a celebration for finishing our demo, so we could all hang out, try the local foods, and try scuba.”

“You can scuba?” asks the girl.

“No, that’s why I took us there. To learn. It must be fantastic to glide through the water, totally weightless, hearing shoals of colourful fish swim by while you’re investigating sunken warships. I’m sure that’s how freedom feels.”

The girl grips her drink, and her eyes go wide at the imagery.

“But my nephew had a motorbike accident on his holiday in Cyprus the same evening I arrived in Malta. His friends had rung me up, frantic. Jimmy! Jimmy! Dave is in hospital with a broken leg, and the police are sniffing around because he had no motorbike insurance.”

“Oh my god!” the girl gasps.

“I know. We were all sitting in a Maltese restaurant built into the fort walls of Valletta harbour, drinking wine and looking out over the water. A bunch of local girls we’d just met were going to take us nightclubbing, and then my phone is ringing.”

“What did you do?” asks the girl, leaning forwards, hanging on his every word.

“I had no choice – he’s my nephew. So I booked a flight that night and rushed over to Cyprus. Once the doctors assured me his cast was solid and he could be moved, I took him back to Manchester. I must admit, once we got back, he was safe, and his mum stopped crying, I lost my temper a bit and bawled him out for being so careless and putting us all through so much worry.”

Just stop and think of the impression that kind of story makes on you. It’s basically a story about a group of mates who went on a cheap holiday to Malta, got drunk, and had to abort on the first night. A cluster-fuck and yet somehow Jimmy emerges looking like an international traveller, rock star, and adventure sport enthusiast who is king of his gang yet loves and protects his family.

That’s the power of DHVs, and I learned it from him. When we first met, he was a low-level project manager living in a squalid flat by Elephant & Castle. That’s all. And yet sitting, listening to him in a bar you’d think George Clooney felt lucky at the chance to buy him a drink.

Château Hampstead was itself an exercise in grandiosity, taking a battered Jewish care home and rebranding it as a hotbed of rebellious adventure. No stone was left unturned, and when we finally got done redecorating the ground floor common rooms our attention turned to a small office room on the top floor.

“We could create our own member’s lodge, like Milk & Honey,” I suggested to Mick as we lay in hammocks in the garden on a warm spring day earlier in the year. We convened a house meeting and made the proposal.

We asked the house to chip in money and labour towards the project, but they all declined. So Jimmy, Mick, and I pooled £500 and set to work. Or rather, Mick and I set to work. Jimmy bumbled around making a great show of interest but did almost nothing until we’d already finished repainting the entire room.

The walls were split horizontally at hip-height by a runner, so we painted the upper section and the ceiling dark brown and the lower walls dark green. Heavy velvet blackout curtains covered the windows and both inner door and fire exit to give a permanent late-evening mood. I found two deep green leather Chesterfield sofas on Gumtree and had them delivered. The room was finished off with 1940s style furniture – a low table with a world map underneath the glass surface, a chest of drawers with an art deco lamp perched on top, and then Jimmy finally made himself useful discovering a portable drinks cabinet disguised as a globe. We filled that with bottles of rum, vodka, and whiskey. Discreet lighting tucked behind the sofas completed the classy, speak-easy vibe.

The next day Mick came knocking on my bedroom door.

“Nick, put your shoes on! Someone has left a cabinet on the road outside. It’s perfect for the room.”

So Mick and I ran across Finchley Road, each took one end of the abandoned cabinet, and hefted it two hundred metres and up the fire escape stairs into the room. We’d claimed it literally one minute before another pair of locals who’d also meant to nab the free furniture and instead stood on the pavement bemused, scratching their heads.

Despite us feeling like a pair of gypsies, Mick had found a gem. The hip-height thick oak cabinet was fronted by two glass doors and perfectly suited the room.

We’d created a time capsule of the 1940s, our very own Red Room from Milk & Honey.

“What are we going to call it?” we mused, the three of us standing in the middle of the room absolutely amazed at how much better than expected it had turned out to be. Various names were mooted, each trying to capture something of our philosophical or aesthetic spirit.

“The Roark Room,” suggested Jimmy, who’d just finished reading The Fountainhead and was very much enamoured with Ayn Rand.

“The Atlas Library,” I thought, blending the twin influences of Atlas Shrugged and the Bioshock video game we all played.

“But there’s no books,” said Mick. We fixed that by putting up a small bookshelf in the corner and filling it with the Penguin Classics series of Tolstoy, Dumas, and Dickens that none of us read.

Finally one of us – I forget which – uttered “The Hemingway Suite,” and we immediately seized on it. It captured the time period, the manliness of Hemingway’s writing, and the upgrading of our mere “room” to the grander “suite”. I had a brass nameplate engraved and superglued to the outside of the door to the corridor.

“We’ll need some rules. Member’s Clubs always have rules.”

We quickly settled on a list that made us laugh and also feel so very important and sophisticated.

  • Non members are only allowed in when invited by a member.
  • No music recorded later than 1959.
  • No television or YouTube.
  • Women may be invited in, but they must never express an opinion on any topic whatsoever.
  • No member may raise his voice or use profanities.

The rule that created the most fun was this: All insults must be delivered from a seated position. It was intended to minimise the chance of fisticuffs and ensure gentlemanly discourse. What actually happened is we’d wait until someone stood up to mix some drinks at the bar, then we’d brutalise him with insults. To respond, they’d have to run back over to a seat, sit down, hit back, then return to the drinks.

We had a grand old time. We’d suit up and hang out there every evening for weeks on end, drinking whisky and smoking Cuban cigars while listening to jazz greats like Django Reinhardt in the dank atmospheric surroundings. We’d tell stories or debate issues, the end result of which always seemed to demonstrate that we were cooler than everyone else in the world. We each felt like the Most Interesting Man In The World from the Dos Equis beer commercials.

We also consumed great quantities of liquor.

It was during our Hemingway Suite reveries that we’d develop various theories about women, lifestyle, and how to achieve the financial and geographical freedom we aspired to. We felt completely unplugged. We weren’t even in the same decade as all the traffic whizzing by outside on Finchley Road.

We were James Bond. All three of us.

Predictably, the Suite was a tremendous aid in seducing girls. We’d be sitting in the bright, airy, tumultuous environment of the common rooms downstairs and then whisper confidentially, “Let’s go up to the Hemingway Suite.”

“What’s that?” the girl would ask.

“It’s our own special members room. Like a whiskey and jazz room. Come on, let’s walk up.”

The girl would be led through the maze of corridors up to a thick wooden door with the brass nameplate on it. The door opens, and she’s led into a time-warp. We’d already arranged a deal in advance where the player could text one of the other members to set the room up in advance once he was about to pull the trigger. More than once, Mick would have a girl in the lounge and message me so I’d run upstairs, turn on the lamps, set the music playing, then squeeze out the fire exit a moment before Mick rolled in with his girl.

Once inside, it was game over. They’d fall in with the rules, accept a drink, and ease into the languid atmosphere. It was the Lust Bubble expressed in architecture, an escape from reality for just two people.

It was also a thirty second’s walk from our bedrooms.

The finished suite

The finished suite

If this section of masterful writing caught your attention, you’ll probably want to buy Volume One of the memoir to bring yourself up to date. Just a tenner for the PDF or £20 for a reassuringly heavy paperback

 

[1] Bali is absolute shit for women. I’m more likely to see a hot girl in Newcastle. I’ll keep my eyes open but my current opinion is that no-one is banging hotties in Bali no matter how many rep points they have on RooshV forum. I haven’t even seen a girl above a high six here.

Make Daygame Great Again

November 10, 2016
krauserpua

Let’s start by saying I don’t mind if you’re a fag and voted for TheCunt. I don’t mind because you lost. You are still welcome at Chateau Krauser, which stands firm despite a recent shellacking from the snakes of Twitter. Whatever your political creed, all are welcome in the daygame journey [1]. I don’t engage in political dialogue on my blog anymore [2] but let’s consider the question on every right-thinking Euro Jaunter’s mind.

What does the Trumpslide mean for daygame?

Earned me £3k at the bookies

Earned me £3k at the bookies

1. No nuclear war with Russia
Russia is hated by the globalists because Putin has deftly maneuvered it into a position of relative independence. Therefore Hillary was itching for war, throwing all kinds of baseless accusations about Russian hacking and threatening retaliation. She also insisted on a No Fly Zone over Syria that would require shooting down Russian aircraft with American weapons and thus likely trigger WWIII. In contrast, Trump has expressed a desire to get along with Putin and support them in Syria against ISIS

VERDICT – The fine daygame city of Moscow will not be vaporised in nuclear war, Putin will not withdraw visas, and the world’s greatest pool of hot women continue to stride arrogantly down the street in high heels and short skirts.

2. Ukraine does not join NATO
The God Emperor Trump has expressed numerous doubts about the viability of NATO and has generally presented a fairly isolationist / non-interventionist foreign policy. In contrast, Hillary is fully behind the EU-Globalist eastern expansion into Russia and it was her boss George Soros who funded the coup in Kiev. The EU has expanded eastward and held more territory than either Napoleon or Hitler in their attacks upon Russia. Bringing Ukraine into NATO (and eventually EU) would quickly lead to US military bases on the Russian border, the currently-forming EU Army in bases there and…… well, this won’t happen because Russia cannot under any circumstance allow Ukraine to join NATO. Putin would likely quickly invade Ukraine again and many military strategists predict Russia could take Kiev in a fortnight.

VERDICT – The fine daygame city of Kiev will not be occupied by Russian troops nor the battleground in a war with NATO. Another of the world’s greatest pools of hot women will continue to stride arrogantly down the streets in even higher heels and shorter skirts [3]

3. Reversed Muslim Migration to Europe
With Hillary in the Oval Office the US would continue to meddle in European affairs on the side of the EU-Globalist nexus. Our Western flank would be continually under threat by a hostile power. Hillary has frequently declared she wishes to emulate arch-Cunt traitor Angela Merkel and would thus give her support in importing millions more in-bred subhuman Muslim invaders [4] While hordes of Muslim rapists is likely a boon for Deepak Wayne’s business it’s rather a problem for us fully-human daygamers. The streets would very quickly devolve into marauding gangs of rapist immigrants in all the Old Town squares and train stations [5] that are the rightful property of marauding gangs of plowing daygamers. A Trump victory means our Western flank is secured and with Putin having already secured the Eastern flank, the globalists are encircled and less likely to repel the various nationalist uprisings in Europe.

VERDICT – The fine daygame cities of Central Europe will have considerably improved vibe and girls more open to street stops.

4. No support for future Balkan wars
The first Clinton White House saw Bill bomb Christian Serbia in order to protect the Muslim terrorists of the Kosovo Liberation Army. Since then Serbia has been on the EU’s diplomatic shit list and they are now forcing that beautiful country to heel with crazy demands on homo/tranny participation in government and Gay Pride parades. Trump has no history of violence against Serbia and seems rather pro-Christian.

VERDICT – No likely flashpoints with Serbia and thus the fine daygame city of Belgrade will remain a popular destination for daygamers who want to piss me off by burning it down.

The election was the right kind of near miss

The election was the right kind of near miss

I am not sufficiently au-fair with Philippines and SEA politics so I can’t tell whether fellow shitlord Duterte will respect Trump [6] and re-kindle the hundred-year-old US-Philippines alliance or if Obama losing it to China is permanent. If it’s the former, fat losers who can’t get laid in Europe with white girls will still have an escape vector from which to write pathetic e-books on getting laid abroad.

[1] Yes, even the total faggots on the Left.
[2] Though with Twitter gone, I am looking for a new platform for the next 8 years of Trump-inspired triumphalism.
[3] Likely pestered by less dirty Turkish sex tourists than currently
[4] How many millions before Germans lynch her is something I’m not qualified to estimate.
[5] I haven’t asked girls if this feels any different to an RSD daygame bootcamp
[6] As opposed to quite literally telling fag-traitor Obama to “fuck off” earlier this year

If you thought this post shoved political opinions in your face without you asking, you should see my Twitter. Actually, you can’t because the spaghetti-armed low-T fags banned me for Nuclear-grade Shitlordism. Given that I absolutely had to celebrate the Trump victory, it’s basically them forcing me to do so on the blog and therefore they are to blame. You fag.