The Monkeys in the Tower of London

London, at least, is indeed a Clockwork Orange.  Burgess apparently got his title from a phrase he was hearing from old Londoners, to whom it meant “queer” (strange).  He wrote that it referred to a person who “has the appearance of an organism lovely with color and juice but is in fact only a clockwork toy to be wound up by God or the Devil…”

Don’t get me wrong; I loved London, on this, my first visit.  When Wotan or the Blue Man or whoever it was dictated to me the itinerary of my second European quest, just completed, he decreed that I should fly into London at the beginning of my trip, the rest of which was to be done in Germany.  The directive came in the form of a strange diversion of my interests which had taken place from late last year, and culminated in an intense interest in the Victorians, the significance of which has become partly known to me since.  The London phase of the journey was to occur at its beginning, when my energy was at its height.

I enjoyed London.  It has its own distinctive character, unlike any other city I have visited, although admittedly my travels in Europe are still limited to Britain and Germany (unless you count a bit of French and Belgian countryside and the northern Austrian Alps).  I said to myself two weeks ago, that had you dropped me anywhere in London, I would know that I was in London; however, walking its streets, I would not know that I was in a British city otherwise.

Because London, two thousand years old, is no longer run by the British.  Oh, there are British people there, and I came to seek them out more and more in my four days there.  I found them in the young people I met roaming the garden of St. James or Hyde Park, and in my visit to the George, the ancient pub.   My first driver was British.  But walking those streets, in this now majority non-White city, it seemed I encountered a random sampling of languages which may or may not have had any organic connection to the faces from which they emanated.  Muslims of course were everywhere, and I encountered a huge number of French of all shades, and Russians and Eastern Europeans and thousands of Japanese and other Asians.  When beginning to speak to anyone, you never knew with what language or accent you might be greeted.

Which is all fine, in and of itself.  Unlike some others I have no problem with the international, cosmopolitan city, and I certainly expected that before my trip.   And I don’t speak of what happens at the top of society; I have no illusion that Britain is ruled by the Queen or even by Parliament, and the shadowy figure of government is no more visible there than it is in America, or anywhere else.  What disturbed me most about the London I saw was that on the operative level of the streets, of the hotels and restaurants and the transportation services, the English were nowhere to be seen.  The machine which is London is run by Arabs and Turks and Asians and Africans and Indians.

You know how it feels when you call for tech support and your call is routed to India.  You ask your technical question, usually after spending quite some time, dreading the call, trying to solve the problem on your own, and you’ve waited until you’ve exhausted your own expertise or lack thereof.  What you need is to talk to someone with an older, deeper, more experienced perspective on the problem.  Someone who understands your problem better than you do and can intuit the solution.  And instead you get someone reading from a script.  And if you go one beat off-script they are helpless.  They know less about the technology than you do.  It is foreign to their everyday lives.

On my second day in London, I think, or maybe the first (I was remarkably free of jet lag and after a two-hour nap was able to go out and have a delightful Sunday afternoon in the parks), I decided to connect my laptop, this very one, in the room, and realized that although I had brought my European adapter I had not thought to bring a British one.  I was also perplexed by the variety of plugs in the room, some of which may have been vestigial.  There was a European-style plug in the bathroom which seemed to be capable of recharging my devices, but would quit after an interval (the staff later informed me that this worked for shavers only.  Exactly how the plug knew the nature of the device was not revealed to me.).   There was also a mysterious jack in the wall labeled “Laptop”, but which had a plug (an input, not an electrical socket) that certainly did not fit my MacBook’s USB-C cord but which was otherwise inscrutable.

The solution of the above was that I went to the concierge and was given, gratis, a British plug adapter which solved my problems.  But when I asked what type of plug the “Laptop” jack took or was (and who would jack their laptop into an unknown data connector anyway?), I realized that the two fellows had no idea what a USB cable was.   Off the menu, I guess.

I certainly cannot undertake to analyze British society on the basis of four days in London. For one thing, I’m sure that these days taught me no more about everyday life for the average Brit than four days in New York would teach an Englishman or a Scot about life in my small town in Tennessee or in Montana.  International cities, especially capital ones (like Berlin) are certainly entities in and of themselves.  And my best experiences of London came outside the tourist experience and will be written of elsewhere; the old magic still shines there.  I had the help and guidance via internet of two excellent British friends throughout my journey.

I merely want to register my deep intuitive perception that a city which has been stolen from its true citizens, seemingly to some extent under their noses, cannot and will not endure the crisis and crises which it is bound to endure as this modern world approaches endgame.  The positive note of my entire journey by the way, is that we are not as close to endgame as I was led to believe, chronologically, although I have no doubt that, schematically, this next Ragnarok is impending and unavoidable.

What massive hypnosis is this, that these British citizens, who are far more like we Americans, we remaining citizens of American, than the Germans whom I love but whose current generations have been so transfigured, suppressed and oppressed – that these citizens have been shoved to the side, their complaints squelched or ignored, while their tyrannical masters, who began to dominate Britain and thus the West at least by the time of Cromwell – have replaced them?

London is operated not by British citizens but by anthropomorphic automata, who in their unsuitability and inherently different nature are not capable of the flexibility required for true governance.  It is not their fault; the are what they are, but they are misused.  The particular nature of the anti-Magic afflicting Britain might best be seen, it seems to me, as the merging of A Clockwork Orange and The Island of Dr. Moreau.   There are shades of Jorge Lanz (von Liebenfels) and Theozology.  Someone has performed arcane transformations upon animals and taught them to run hotel desks and shops and drive cabs and buses.  They have not made them fully human.

I don’t know what those monkeys are doing in the Tower of London.  I felt that it was necessary to see the Tower for historical purposes, but it was the first and last of my paid-tourist excursions.   I can do without the idiot tourist crowds, thank you; but if there was an explanation of the monkeys, I missed it.  I did love the ravens, but hated that their wings were clipped.

So much for the surface analysis.  We’ll talk soon about the magic. But meanwhile, see what London’s new Muslim mayor has erected in Trafalgar Square, in view of Lord Nelson – who, thankfully, faces the other way.



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