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Saturday, 30 September 2017

Something To Fight For

Something To Fight For


Alexander Gordon Jahans

I lost. Everything. I failed on so many fronts in so short a time and those scars are going to take a long time to heal.

It is so tempting to remain in my war time mentality. To keep seeing shadows at my door. To focus on the rage and the betrayal. To be the man caught between radical trans feminists and nazi trolls. As if a man so broken and so low is anything but a trivial distraction. Even at my worst, when my bile boils over and I write a take that, the queens of the safe space can take one look at my name on the top and cast it aside without a second’s consideration.

What I have to do is hard. I have to trust people, trust in my ability to read them and play to them. I have to lie. I have to plan. I have to wield the darkness of my soul like a weapon so I might survive, so I might live, so I might be of use to those radical trans feminists.

Because no matter how much I hurt, no matter how much my hatred burns I would never not stand in defence of those people. They may not need me, they may not need me, they may despise me as much as the darkest parts of my soul now despise them but I will always be the man fighting for the genuinely persecuted, even if they then decide to stab me in the back afterwards.

Except that sentence right there is part of what’s plaguing me. My mind is a rational construct. I am as clockwork as the capitalism I dream of restoring. I know people who aren’t. Who believe in True Love and are driven by their emotions. My emotions are powerful. My hatred, my rage, my lust, these are fierce-some things but I keep them separate for that reason. I will not allow myself to be self destructive if I do not rationally believe I should die but if I can tell myself a story of why this self destructive behaviour is allowed then it can be done.

It’s like I used to think as a kid that if you are going to commit suicide there are worse things to do than death by smoking because it gives you plenty of time to change your mind. Now I find reasons to justify gorging myself on food, missing universal credit meetings and drive the people close to me away. I never believe I am being self destructive and maybe sometimes I’m not. Sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich and not a loaded gun being desperately fired but I can see the patterns and some things are not subtle.

I must record a video on autims and nazis and get blind drunk doing so. I must have the Farsh-nuke torture then forcibly change the gender of a trans person. I must rewrite the wretched fanfic despite the fact I’ve now incorporated the events of the original into the wider lore. I must  There’s always a logical explanation but even I cannot ignore so many red flags I am sending out.

I am so scared because I failed so much and while I have many many friends there are none I trust to call me on my bullshit. The people I might have were so busy getting involved in forum politics that we had to part ways. I don’t have anybody to stop me. Not before it got too far.

Yes I’m scared of failing again, of upsetting people with broken dreams and shattered hopes, scared of going back to square one but at this point I am far more scared of the possibility that I might succeed, that I might win and I might turn out to be a villain. I mean when someone you regard as a friend leaves your life crying that you aren’t safe to be around then yeah that gives one pause for thought but it has been three years now and I don’t want to die anymore.

I have bad days and I will have bad days for a long time to come because I live with someone who is an anxiety machine and another who is a rage beast. There will be bad days and they will suck but they will pass.

The brain is a muscle and muscles heal. I will get better, I am a lot better. I am starting to get back up off the matt and I am starting to plan again. I have a goal to lurch towards beyond survival, beyond capitalistic dreams.

The pain in my feet does not bother me so much anymore. I am getting used to it. I am getting fitter. The terror of Neoliberals is being fought against in Britain. Jeremy Corbyn is changing the Labour party and restoring democracy to Britain. I am shaving every day now and I am starting to shower more regularly again. I just completed the Thieves Guild quest line  of Skyrim including No Stone Unturned. I’m still writing. The Farsh-nuke is back but I have other characters to tell more socially progressive stories as well.

You know when I first discovered Doctor Who I was drawn to the seventh Doctor, to the angsty manipulator, a chess master on a thousand boards. I am not that. I am a lurcher stumbling in the dark but now I know what I want to lurch towards and as I’m learning I am dodging bullets and spinning plates. The truth is that I have already achieved my victory over the nazis plaguing my life. I played the long game and while some of them still think they are relevant they are the level one draugr and bandits pestering you in daedric gear if you play Skyrim. I have defeated the bullies once again and now I am ready to turn my attrention toewards long term objectives.

I have something to fight for now. My best has always been typified by this. And yeah once I get what I want I am invariably dissappointed but that’s not important, not really. What is is that I now I have a macguffin to turn my attention towards. And I have been playing so many more games, watching so many more shows. I am so much wiser.

I am not as strong as I used to be. Not mentally, not yet. And I know that such an admission of weakness will have impotent foes slamming their hardest against what they percieve as my weakness but I don’t care. There are monsters in the world, it is true but I no longer walk in fear of them because I trust that when the shit hits the fan I will survive.

To the fight to come. To the victory. To the shattered and dissappointing dreams when I do.

The History of Autism

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

The Fall

The Fall

Alexander Gordon Jahans

I say I’m an anti-theist. I say I believe in science. I say all this and I mean it but when it comes to matters of identity I get rather more philosophical. I have climbed out of the pit, or at least the singularity, I am not free of its pull yet but I am not lost. I see what must be done, what can be done.

In The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy the super computer Deep Thought is asked with finding the ultimate answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything and succeeds but to understand the answer Deep Thought must lay the ground work for an even great and more complex computer. That’s what I feel like I’m doing, on a much smaller scale but with far more practical stakes.

I’m too tired and in too much pain, I’m too bored and too sick of company despite being a hermit. My biology has changed and I am not able to deal with my life the way I used to. And still the question of financial viability plagues me. I can stick my fingers in my ears all I like but someday I need an answer that is not to just shrug and die.

I don’t care anymore. Or to be precise, I aggressively, actively, do not want anything to do with the bullshit anyone wants me to care about. I am no use to anyone dead and right now I do not have the fucks to give. I hate the insanity of neoliberalism, I am disgusted and repulsed by the absurdity that I must jump through all these hoops for the priviolege of being exploited by an employer. I feel a sadistic anger and desire for “justice” towards certain definitions of shitehole. The kind that still so desperately tries to dig its claws into me. The kind that defends those.

More that that though I am scarred. I defined myself as a pacifist, as a good mean, a moral man. What the fuck am I now? How can I call myself a good man when I feel such bile, bitterness and hatred to peoples actively oppressed in law today? How can I call myself a good man when the gleeful submissiveness of women in my fantasies is all that keeps me going through god awful days? How can I possible feel such outrage and think myself a victim when my bitterness has curdled into a toxic anger and desire for sadistic revenge. There was a time when all I wanted was an explanation, now I feel a desire to hurt.

I can’t be Alexander Gordon Jahans anymore. I can’t let myself be tied to reminders of that toxic dump. So as of this moment I am officially ceasing all membership of those fandoms and groups that have defined me during this toxic period. It’s practically a relief that this period was in part defined by a cooling of the Doctor Who love, I won’t have to let that piece of me go. But I’m not a politics guy anymore and I think I will be cutting back on youtube as well.

The urge to travel pulls at me again and as much as I know I can’t afford it, as much as I know I will miss a proper computer and I am not giving up on the dream of a vr capable pc, I can’t stay here, I can’t stand this toxic reminder of the pain.

And I am different. I have walked so far, gotten used to tiredness and pain of my feet, I have started spending more and more time listening on a tablet instead of the computer and my diet clearly needs changing. Walking past all these shops, living such a sedentary lifestyle, it’s not good for me.

More than that though, it’s a plan, a drive, something I want more than greed, sexual, gratification, materialism or survival. I know that practically speaking it’s dull and expensive and uncomfortable, this is why I don’t want to discuss it with anyone. Separating reason from emotion has its downsides. Being able to logically tear apart the things you want to do as to why they are shit ideas is not helpful.

Yes, the holiday I had recently was maddening but it was maddening because of the company I had because my every coping mechanism was thwarted by neurotypicals who fail to understand and accept, only judge.

Travel is shit. It is painful and boring and expensive and uncomfortable and there are people and you are away from the safety of home. Except my hundred pound tablet has accompanied me on many a walk and left me feeling entertained and comfortably alone in a crowd. bottles of premixed squash and painkillers ensure that I can walk without  pain or much uncomfortableness. I can do this now. Maybe not financially but physically, psychologically I can do this. And yes, it’s underwhelming. Yes it’s a lot of faff for not much point but fuck it so is doing the quests in skyrim.

Okay leaving aside the fact I now half seriously think I might actually want to do some kind of walking holiday by myself, I have spent so long just surviving because I don’t want to upset people, behaving because I don’t want to upset people. It’s where this bitterness has come from, why it’s gotten toxic.

I don’t trust anyone, that’s why I keep no secrets, it’s why I don’t trust psychological aid through drugs. I don’t have anyone I trust to hold me in check. My nightmare scenario is not death. Dying is just like falling asleep only you never wake up. Sometimes the experience is incredibly painful but if you’re dead you can’t experience pain or remember having experienced it. So no I don’t really fear death beyond a primal desire to preserve my existence. What I fear is being in a position where I would want to be dead but continuing to live. The drugged up stupour of everything is fine while internally I’m screaming.

I know that drugs are genuinely very helpful for many people my own family included so I am absolutely not speaking for anyone but myself but I don’t have anyone I trust to understand how I think and remind me of how I would think. If something went wrong with the drugs and I couldn’t notice or explain what are the chances anyone would notice?

This is actually why I need to cut myself off from the people that I used to know, they are like distorted funhouse mirrors of who I used to be. “Oh yeah you’re the guy who always goes on about Doctor who aren’t you?” Yeah I’m also regularly speaking the words of Shakespeare, William of Normandy and Latin because it’s part of my language as an Englishman but no one would ever rage at me for being a latin buff. Doctor Who is an important part of who I am you either accept the reality of that or you fuck off and accept that you are dead to me because if my expressing myself makes you angry we can’t be friends. Where the fuck is my freedom to casually reference Doctor Who in every third sentence without it defining me?

So yeah, this is the fall. The autumn. The time where the old word dies the crops are harvested, the livestock bought in and we prepare of the darkness to come in the knowledge of the new beginnings next spring. I am cutting ties, closing bridges and retreating into my coccoon so I might become something and someone better able to cope with the madness of existence.

This process is not going to be easy and it is not going to be quick. This is the ship of theseus deciding to remodel itself into a different type of ship mid sail, not merely repair and replace. The flawed personality has to design a better one as it becomes that new personality and this is all while existence itself is hard enough.

But yeah I am changing and things are happenning and I have more answers than I did before, they may not be good ones but they are different.

Saturday, 23 September 2017

Sir Gavin And The Green Dragon

Sir Gavin And The Green Dragon

A post Alpha Warriors Story

Alexander Gordon Jahans

At a quiet backwater bar somewhere near Miami, Viola Hitchcock was sat at a table drinking lager with her colleagues. She was dressed in the same formal style of suit as the mostly white men round the table but her youth and long blonde hair marked her out from her colleagues.

A man in a three piece green suit entered the bar. “Diet coke and whiskey. Pepsi, not coca cola.”

Viola went to the bar to order her round.

The man at the bar sniffed the air then turned to her with a smile. “Peppermint and Fosters? I approve of your taste.

Viola snorted. “Are trying to chat me up by complementing my choice of lager?”

He looked to her and smiled. “It was not my intention but I would not be upset if it succeeded in such a manner.”

Viola looked him up and down. “Interesting choice of dress.”

“We all have uniforms detective.” said the strange man with a smile.

Viola smirked and bit her lip. “Am I that obvious?”

“You call me the Farsh-nuke.” said the strange man reaching out an open palm.

Viola laughed and shook his hand. “Viola Hitchcock, you know I’m going to run a full background check on you.”

“I would expect no less.” said the Farsh-nuke with a slight smile. “Shall we stick with the foreplay or jump straight to the handcuffs?”

Viola grinned. “You are impossible.”

“So I’m told.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Get me a diet coke, no alcohol.” said Viola. “You can join me and my colleagues. If they’re certain you’re not a serial killer then who knows.”

The Farsh-nuke laughed.


The next morning the Farsh-nuke was lying naked between silk sheets and Viola was approaching his bed and handed him a couple of slices of buttered toast and a strong mug of coffee.

“Hey...” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

“Hey...” said Viola, smiling back.

“You are a very lovely woman you know?” said the Farsh-nuke cheerfully, his brain still booting.

“So I’m told.” said Viola with a smile. “Curious thing I noticed when I went to check your records, you don’t have any.”

“So, handcuffs after all?” asked the Farsh-nuke with a put upon frown.

“No.” said Viola, backing off to stand by the doorway, looking shapely and feminine, even as her training kicked in. “I didn’t exactly expect to find anything for the name Farsh-nuke and obviously access to dna and fingerprints is somewhat limited without probable cause. I’d just like to know the truth if I may? I can understand if you don’t trust the FBI and I’m not in a hurry to turn you into the ICE if you are an illegal immigrant.”

The Farsh-nuke smiled then he said. “Get your gun, make sure it’s loaded and take whatever other precautions with me to ensure you are safe.”

“Do I need to?” asked Viola, the shrewd professional breaking through the veneer of casual intimacy.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled but controlled his movements carefully. “That’s not for me to say. I will tell you the truth, as much as matters to you. I’m not sure how much you’ll believe but that’s your problem. I do feel however that I do not want you to feel any more distressed than you absolutely have to be by my presence in your life.”

Viola nodded, kept watching the Farsh-nuke and walked over to a wall safe behind a painting and after a moment was armed with a pistol. “Okay then, talk.”

“Okay, I am going to tell you some things that may be distressing but it’s probably important that you listen to everything I have to say before you react. I don’t want you getting in trouble because you wouldn’t let me finish explaining.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Noted.” said Viola coldly.

“Point 1. Yes, I was a serial killer, a cannibal specifically, gets a bit messy on the details but yes I am arguably a threat.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“I’m taking the safety off now.” said Viola calmly.

“Understandable.” said the Farsh-nuke genially. “Point 2. I am an illegal immigrant but I am an illegal immigrant to your universe. You won’t believe me and that’s fine but you won’t find any record of me because I don’t exist within this universe.”

“Great, you’re mad.” said Viola flatly.

“Point 3. I care about you because I sort of have a thing for seducing blondes. I’m trying to quit but I still can’t help feeling affection for you and a desire to protect you.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“And a creep, marvellous.” said Viola with the same flat delivery.

“Point 4. I wouldn’t have advised you get armed if I didn’t know it would do almost nothing to me.” said the Farsh-nuke. “I like you and I want you to be calm and happy but I don’t actually have a death wish.”

“So what are you then?” asked Viola.

“You might want to put to gun down or at least put the safety back on, these are awful nice sheets and I wouldn’t want you to ruin them unduly.” said the Farsh-nuke. “But I can show you what I am.”

Viola stared. “Then show me.”

The Farsh-nuke grinned and as he smiled his skin colour changed, his bone structure altered and his teeth grew. His changed into a green dragon.

“What did you drug me with?” asked Viola.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled. “I gave that up. You’re looking at the truth.”

“I’ve read too much Thomas Harris.” said Viola.

“Bah, Hannibal’s an amateur.” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

Viola’s phone bleeped.

“That’s my alarm for work. I gotta go.” said Viola, still looking down her pistol at the Farsh-nuke.

“I could help?” suggested the Farsh-nuke.

“Yeah, because that’s going to happen.” said Viola.

“Well your options are 1. Shoot me. Which won’t work and might get you in trouble. 2. Arrest me which won’t work because I don’t exist in your universe and your evidence is a confession combined with things nobody will believe. 3. Release me when I have confessed.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Can you transform for my boss?” asked Viola.

“Of course.” said the Farsh-nuke with a genial smile. “I have nothing to fear from the FBI.”

“Can you turn back now then?” asked Viola.

“Just so.” said the Farsh-nuke, changing back to an impression of relative humanity.

“Well it’s certainly impressive, whatever you’re doing.” said Viola.

“Telling the truth.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Just telling the truth.”

“Then get dressed.” said Viola.


“What is he doing here?” asked Bert Ingram, a tall thick set latino man in a black suit.

“You wouldn’t believe me.” said Viola. “I’ll explain later but he says he might be able to help.”

The Farsh-nuke stood in his green suit looking at where an old white man had being strung up by a noose from a lamp post, his cock and balls cut off and rammed into his mouth. A confederate flag was tattooed into the man’s chest.

The Farsh-nuke was grinning like a kid in a candy store. “We’re dealing with a vigilante.”

“Oh, truly, what an amazing intellect you have bought to help here.” said Bert.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled and turned back to Bert. “Oh I’ll catch him for you but I’m not actually here for that. Is there somewhere we can talk.”

Bert looked to Viola.

Viola nodded.

“Alright...” said Bert and he led the Farsh-nuke over to a trailer where the forensics team changed into their clean suits.

Bert opened the door and glowered at the people inside and they hurried out. Bert looked to the Farsh-nuke.

The Farsh-nuke graciously entered followed by Viola then Bert.

“So what is it you need to tell me?” asked Bert.

“I’m a former serial killer from a different universe who has no records in this one, bullets can’t stop me and I mean you no harm. Also I’m a dragon. A green one.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Is this some kind of joke?” asked Bert.

Viola shrugged. “I thought he must have just been fucking with me but he did do do something that might be proof if you can see it too.”

“See what?” asked Bert.

So the Farsh-nuke transformed.

“Well fuck.” said Bert.

“At your service.” said the Farsh-nuke, bowing.

“Can you like fly?” asked Bert.

“I can do a lot more than just fly.” said the Farsh-nuke and he blew out a small puff of green fire.

“And you say you’re bullet proof.” said Bert.

“Well, strong healing ability.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“And you’re on our side?” asked Bert.

“I like Viola.” said the Farsh-nuke with a smile. “She’s cute and funny.”

Bert nodded then he looked to Viola. “Do you have a problem with this man?”

“Well he said he was a serial killer.” said Viola.

“I know.” said Bert with a shrug. “But aside from what he’s told me, how do you feel about him?”

Viola shrugged. “We spent the night together and he’s nice enough but I’m not going to argue for him if that’s what you’re thinking?”

“But he’s alright?” asked Bert. “You have no reason beyond what he’s said to suggest we treat him with contempt or care?”

“Not really no. He’s just a strange man who can seemingly become a dragon.” said Viola.

Bert looked to the Farsh-nuke. “Are you prepared to be interviewed and processed to see if we can find anything on you? If we can prove your story one way or another?”

“Sure.” said the Farsh-nuke with a genial grin.


3 hours later the Farsh-nuke sat in an interview room as Viola reentered the room.

“Well, they can’t find anything on you.” said Viola. “Looks like your story checks out. You are an alien to our records. Are prepared to be listed as an American citizen?”

“I prefer Britain but I have no great problem with being American.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Though my writer may struggle to keep up. Bit parochial that boy.”

Viola smirked. “Right, the keystream, you said. He finds me hot?”

“Probably, I mean I do. We’re similar but different.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“You are so bizarre.” said Viola with a smile then she looked at the Farsh-nuke with interest. “Why did you come here? Why did you tell us the truth? I mean you’ve done nothing wrong inside our universe, if your story is true, why go through all this?”

“Well why not?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “I’m on holiday, rest leave from my part in the great multiverse war. I went to bar, I saw a hot chick and old habits die hard.”

“And yet I remain collar free and fully aware of my sensibilities.” said Viola. “If all this was you falling off the wagon why aren’t I wrapped around your little finger?”

“Character development?” suggested the Farsh-nuke.

“Bullshit.” said Viola cheerfully. “You want me, I can see it in your eyes.”

The Farsh-nuke nodded then he sighed, looking away. “Things happened while I was away, bad things, complicated things. I want to begin again, I need to begin again but I’m not the same.”

“And these things are why I get to remain Miss Independent?” asked Viola.

“You say that as though you have no say in things?” said the Farsh-nuke compassionately.

Viola blushed and forced herself to look the Farsh-nuke in his emerald green eyes. “I really don’t think I do. I felt it last night too, this pull like gravity. I feel like I want to please you, like just looking at you I want to kneel before you and bow my head.”

“Then go.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Get away from me while you still can. I didn’t intend for this.”

“No, I like it.” said Viola smiling. “I’m not stupid, I would kill you if I had to but if I don’t then I think I like being with you.”

The Farsh-nuke chuckled and he shook his head. “You don’t want to be with me, you want the calm of defeat. The serenity of submitting before a powerful being. I’m not that.”

“But you want to be.” said Viola with a grin.

“I want a great many things.” said the Farsh-nuke. “I’m not playing this game.”

Viola sighed and leaned back. “So what do you want?”

The Farsh-nuke shrugged. “A world free from Elder Gods and Sylphs. A world where women are badass, men aren’t total dicks and politics is just a choice between two bland alternatives of Meh.”

Viola nodded. “I think Bert wants to weaponise you. Lots of uses for a man with no name.”

The Farsh-nuke smiled. “So long as he aims me well I have no problem with that. Serial killers are a quiet reprieve from multiversal politics.”

“Anything you need?” asked Viola. “Beyond Diet Coke, Whiskey and access the best and brightest young women Miami has to offer.”

“I did not ask for that last one.” said the Farsh-nuke irritably.

Viola smirked. “Tough.”

The Farsh-nuke sighed then he leaned back. “Well there is one thing?”

Viola nodded. “Anything?”

“I need the number of a good leftwing psychotherapist, preferably a white man. Feminists scare me.” said the Farsh-nuke.

Viola nodded. “Got some issues then?”

“A few...” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Well I’ll see what I can find out. I might be able to find someone who can suit your particular sensibilities.” said Viola.

The next day the Farsh-nuke was shaking hands with a tall skinny white man with a scruffy beard, a brown cardigan and jeans.

“Sir Gavin Burr, at your service.” said the young man.

The Farsh-nuke shook Gavin’s hand and smiled, looking into his sapphire blue eyes.


The racist ran through the concrete jungle. “Fucking cuck! Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Stop running and I will be merciful, Adam.” said Gavin as he bought the lasso up from his waist, striding calmly after the white man.

“You’re insane!” cried the racist, throwing back a look.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few and you are a nazi aren’t you Adam?” said Gavin, striding after his prey calmly.

“Yeah, I’m a member of the Alt-Right, what of it? Freedom of speech, man! Freedom of speech!” cried the racist.

“The Genocidal surrender all rights.” said Gavin as he readied his lasso. “You would pose an existential threat to the human race. You are a cancer and there is only one cure for for cancer.”

The racist came to the end of a cul de sac and looked back to Gavin in panic as the predator approached calmly.

“Hush now...” said Gavin as threw the lasso.

The lasso fell about the racist’s neck then it was pulled taught, suffocating the racist and pulling him to the ground.

“Now are you going to be a good little boy worthy of mercy or do I need to humiliate you as you die?” asked Gavin.

The racist spat in Gavin’s face.

“So be it.” said Gavin, pulling out a knife.


Gavin broke off the handshake and asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“That you may be of more help to me than I first realised.” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

“Shall we begin then?” asked Gavin.

“Well why not?” said the Farsh-nuke gleefully as he took a seat.

The Appeal Of The Chess Player

The Appeal Of The Chess Player

Alexander Gordon Jahans

So I have been through the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul and I think I have come to understand and make peace with the shadow inside myself and so I return that first love, geeking out about bullshit.

When I first discovered the chessplayer archetype I was finding what made sense and seem comforting to me. Emos and Goths were far too cool and fashionable for what I was. I was a pathetic small, fat ugly thing that everybody ignored as too weird or strange. I know now that this was Autism, Kallman’s Syndrome Growth Hormone Deficiency and familial background that would make anyone out of step with conventional society. At the time however I was just weird but I felt noble. I was the pacifist who survived hell. I aspired to a great morality. I had the kind of unwavering faith in goodness that only the very young and very ignorant have. At the same time I was filled with anger and bitterness. Why can’t they see the fire they play with? It was an arrogant assertion of my own intelligence that combined with the other factors to in retrospect make me quite the prick.

So when I read the Virgin New Adventures and saw Time’s Champion angsting about the morality of using his great power or watched Matt Smith’s Oncoming Storm struggle with whether he was a good man, I saw myself. I saw these broken pillars of hubris as powerful empowering mirrors. No wonder my closest friends say (in far nicer and more polite terms) that I was a prick back then.

I discovered Doctor Who, the chessplayer Archetype and started writing about the Farsh-nuke in 2009 when I was seventeen so I had long since discovered my fetish for shrunken women, which would broaden out into a general appeal for submissive women over time. 2013 was when the course I was on at university outright covered feminist interpretation of media and about the time I was first trying out tumblr and so recoiling in knee jerk horror at all these nasty people who werre calling themselves feminists.

Looking back this seems like the most dreadful foreshadowing. If the keystream exists I bet my author in another dimension is a real pretentious arsehole. I mean fuck I know the human brain likes to explain after the fact but the parallels are there. The alien with a secret genetics he doesn’t know about associating himself with humans and angsting about being a good guy while being a thundering cunt, and all the while casually misogynistic at variant times.

Except now I am older, wiser, considerably more aware of myself and my faults. I believe in greed, stupidity, selfishness and sadism. I believe that humans are predators by nature who work together out of survival and because it is objectively better and science is like the ultimate in trying to convince stupid selfish greedy apes to agree and accept things. I am also experienced more in the ways of creation, critique, feminism and politics. I doubt there are many who would not find some problem with my conclusions but at least I have a much greater awareness of when I might be fucking up.

So I’m now aware that the characters I identified with were meant to be problematic. It’s meant to be debatable, it’s meant to be difficult, to be nasty. You can argue that the Doctor did what he had to do, that there was no way, that he did it brilliantly but even the Doctor wishes there was another way.

Now I see the Chess Player not just in Doctor Who but in Tyrion Lannister, Hannibal Lecter, Kerr Avon, Scorpious, Malcolm Tucker, Josh Lyman (People might object to that one.), Sherlock, Francis Urquhart, Loki... The list goes on and on and includes Jon the letsplayer Many A True Nerd when he is playing the Total War Games or Stellaris and you get to see a much more literal version of the chessplayer archetype as a letsplayer plays a marvellous manipulation game against a game’s AI.

And holy fuckballs looking at that list do I have a type or what? Err yes can I get an older white male with an accent, a scary intensity and several degrees in badassery and manipulativeness, preferably with some good looking long haired intelligent female friends/pawns to manipulate. And you thought the repetitiveness of the skinny white blonde women in my fiction was obnoxious. I literally realized that the new show I’m watching is basically a less gory gender flipped Hannibal in terms of its older psychotherapist lead seducing younger person who shows interesting promise of matching the badass manipulativeness of the psychotherapist.

And that’s the thing my position has changed. I’m not the Doctor, I’m not the Farsh-nuke, I’m certainly not Hannibal Lecter, heck I watch Sorkin era West Wing and wince at how Bartlet is too rightwing, warhawk, corrupt and dishonest for me. I mean I know Theresa May looks good compared to America’s current President at the time of writing but that’s who I am.

There’s this arc in the watch books that is capped off amazingly in Thud! and Snuff with the character of Sam Vimes. Sam Vimes is an alcoholic in a dead end job in a city gone to hell. He is a man who routinely struggles with his anger and visualises it as a great beast pulling at its leash. I am reminded of how Neil Gaiman once said that Terry Pratchett wrote from anger because the portrayal of that struggle Vimes has with anger is well written and so true of what I’ve felt. It’s capped off by his genuinely violent butler pointing out that though Vimes fears his anger he would bring the sadistic murderer of his wife and child to justice before the courts even if it killed him emotionally because Vimes has his own inner watchman and he will never let the beast win.

I am not Sam Vimes, I am not worthy of it but I take solace in that declaration and assertion. These years have pushed me close, so close, I mean I was stripped of everything, doubting myself, facing familial and societal pressure and I had nazi stalkers. But I didn’t break and I don’t think I’ve ever really believed that I would. Heck I’ve been nearly catatonic at times over these three years at the fear and offense I caused to my father and strangers I don’t know who may just have been twats.

I keep telling myself I’m like the Doctor, that I could do terrible things for the greater good if the need arised. Perhaps it’s arguable that if I had enough proof that it would make a difference objectively, that the reason might overwhelm my natural revulsion but I doubt that. I have a feeling that I am far more likely to die myself before doing anything to anyone else.

Except that’s what I needed after school. I needed confidence, I needed reason to live without fear. I know have a strange confidence born of experience, an absense of fucks born of living with such great risks for so long. Being a 6 foot tall broad chested cisgendered bisexual white Englishman in the south of England also helps. I may fear feminists but privilege has its upsides and when I go walking at 4am I am far more concerned about not creeping people out than I am worried about bumping into someone who means illwill towards me.

My relationship with the chessmaster’s has changed then. I definitely aspire to that level of skill and intellect. I’ve told myself that my autism makes me powerful because my social skills are put on and so I could affect them to manipulate people if I wanted. Yeah, that is no longer true. I can barely be in the same room as a person without the anxiety being such a drain on my resources.

Equally, while this hormone rollercoaster has been fun, it is not now enough to me for women to be submissive to be exhilarating. The game has become important. In fantasies and fiction I take far more delight in a well rounded and strong character being bought to heel by another.

It’s kinda like how I have this autistic friend who only plays games where the odd are so highly stacked in his favour. Yeah, it’s fun to be god but it gets boring fast for me. I want to win and I want my victory to be near certain but I want it to be a challenge.

However I have found that I no longer just identify with the chessmaster having the power over their pawns, I also find in my fantasies and enjoyment of fiction that I take great pleasure in seeing myself as the pawn. In being the game to be dominated and bought to heel by a worthy mind.

Not sending a tiredness induced invite to any would be nazi stalkers by the way. You are not worthy so don’t bother. Not even actual eldritch Adam Godwinson would be worthy.

This is purely fantasy and fiction related.

For me the enjoyment of the Doctor, Avon, Hannibal, Tyrion or Francis Urquhart comes from this idea that I have a competency bias and humans are stupid.

Donald Trump boasted about committing sexual assault while representing a political party that was justifying the persecution of trans people with spurious fear mongering over the possibility of sexual assault. Then the fucker got elected president and we are all looking wistfully at a neoliberal warhawk because at least she was competent at being a neoliberal warhawk.

See at this point I am so jaded and so cynical and so aware that I can do so little that the idea of a manipulative bastard is deeply arousing. It’s competency porn. I mean fuck it the world is so fucking awful why wouldn’t you stick around someone that competent even if they were going to kill and eat you eventually. Hannibal Lecter the hot date is fascism personified. Sure he’s going to kill you but at least the trains will run on time while you’re getting there.

I mean I’m kind of torn on Hannibal because on the one hand he does kill and eat people just because they’re kind of a dick but on the other hand almost every other chessplayer has caused much more collateral damage in the aid of their nobler causes and obviously in a multiverse I can handwave that as safe sane and consensual under the right circumstances because healing factors exist. I mean Jack Harkness and Mads Mikkelson’s Hannibal anyone?

Although obviously for me it’s far more the Tyrions, the Doctors and the Avons of the world that have the appeal. They combine sadism, immorality and manipulativeness with the objective utilitarian greater good. Doesn’t hurt that they usually surround themselves with beautiful young women either.

I’m English so I celebrate status quo. Great men come and great men go. Empires rise and empires fall. Arthur and Merlin fall at Camlann, Robin Hood looses his final arrow, even the Doctor regenerates and James Bond gets recast. It’s why Hamilton struck such a chord with me I think. It is an American story of American Revolution and compromise but it follows a very British structure of rise and fall. Particularly in light of who the current President is. So the great manipulators should one day die.

The Doctor gets away with their death and rebirth every few years but on the whole most of the chessplayers do die. Urquhart meets his end. Avon finally catalyses his tension with Blake. Sherlock has the Reichenbach Fall then retiring to keep bees. The only manipulative bastard who has so far gotten away with it entirely is Hannibal Lecter and I think that’s only because Hannibal is the horror monster so his victory is a downer ending and everybody has been so physically repulsed by the ending that they daren’t see any more, even though it will inevitably entail unpicking that “happy ending” a bit. Heck even I, with a character who was once many moons ago, explicitly based on me, keep killing the Farsh-nuke off and bringing him back.

The manipulative bastard is the fantasy of competence, of the one smart guy who knows exactly how you think and feel, who wants you and will turn his immeasurable talents to your end because you matter so much to him. It is the fantasy of escape combined with the fantastical freeing from the consequences of escape. The idea that you had no choice to accept this incredibly good looking and charismatic stranger with impeccable taste and amazing abilities, he’s just that good so it’s not your fault. At the same time the illusion of control because you are so important.

Also from a creative standpoint such a team up allows for great stories because you have someone to do the smart explaining and perform the heroic violence or illegality while having someone else to connect emotionally to people and get in danger.

Also, I love it when a plan comes together, it’s like watching dominoes fall.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Lost Culture



Alexander Gordon Jahans

Hubris. It’s an odd word and one I confess I’ve never really understood. One of those big words that sounds cool to say and I sort of think I know from context but it could be latin for ‘he caught his dick in his zipper’ for all I really know. But I think that’s what did me over.

I had already broken. I had already failed. I had already lost so much but instead of stopping. Instead of grieving. Instead of confronting and coming to terms with what I saw in the mirror that so upset me, I ploughed on and I ploughed deep. I was so certain that I could champion people I knew nothing about, so certain that I could make money when I gave no fucks.

I did this. I did this and I hate it. I broke my own rules. I lashed out and I hurt people. Even in ignorance I hurt people. Alex Jahans does not hurt people. Alex Jahans is a pacifist in the face of unending violence. Alex Jahans is moral. Alexander Gordon Jahans failed at this most basic tenet to do no harm. Alexander Gordon Jahans was a beast born of necessity, a survivor whose sworn duty is to stagger ever onwards and do whatever it takes to facilitate this.

Well I’m not dead but I betrayed the core of who I am and I must make peace with that. I can’t survive if I still hate myself for what I did. Oh what a melodramatic narcissistic fool. Even the nazis probably have more evil plaguing them than the terrifying demon that has so haunted me. I wrote a thing and I upset people. Truly, this is a calamity worthy of months, years, spent tearing seven kinds of hell out of myself over. How pathetic. I was bad and I upset people. Truly, I am a martyr.

I must accept this. I must accept the demons within myself. I shall try not to make the same mistake again, I shall try to be a better man but I cannot run from this anymore. I cannot keep apologising for this as though it makes it better. I’m not a nice man, I’m not a good man, I must accept that and make peace with it.

I’ve been hiding from the world, retreating from even my closest friends because I do not trust myself not to be an insulting failure again. I have been blurting out my remonstrations in this public forum because even when I crave the oxygen of awareness and recognition, even when I see the value in sharing I fear the danger of intimacy and closeness, the responsibility of having people who matter to me and that I matter to.

I killed the Farsh-nuke off, condemned them all to eternal war then had the Great Farsh-nuke sent to hell while the one remaining Farsh-nuke suffered staggering defeat, torture and much much worse. Such hatred. Such disgusting malice. It was born of a condemnation that the Farsh-nuke was assumed to be me, that he was thought to have done this terrible thing that I had not intended but was none the less interpreted. How much has that character suffered because I fucked up and could not deal with it?

But I’ve been writing again. I’ve been playing games again. I’ve been pulling myself together, the mind that was broken is being reforged anew and now I am writing a story that might let the Farsh-nuke be forged a new. I am a white man who likes manipulative bastards and can’t stop writing submissive women for the life of me. That is not the Farsh-nuke’s fault and I think I know now that it will only stop with my death and I do not plan on dying any time soon.

I don’t know who or what the new me will be. I don’t know what that me will be like but I do know now that the time is coming. Alexander Gordon Jahans, the promise and this particular incarnation of the personality that resides within the flesh and blood of this person, it will no longer be needed and will be discarded. I may well continue writing under this name but the promise won’t be needed and the personality will change.

I have survived and I did a fucking good job of it all things considered but mere survival is not going to be enough. The house will be sold and I will need to start a new life elsewhere. The walks I know will change, the places I go, the things I do, even this sacred room that has kept me so safe. All shall pass and things I know will be but memories, relics of a man I used to be.

I am older now, more jaded, cynical, I am trained in the ways of politics, a weary anti-feminism has become bitterly self aware understanding of my own ignorance and privilege and the very real need for change to stop my demographic fucking over everyone. At the same time I have come to terms with the fact that there is darkness within me that shines like a fucking beacon in dark times.

I have faith in human stupidity and greed, I see that my lust is something that will keep me warm and happy no matter how cold alone and swallowed by the dark I am. Even my fears serve me now. There is a prat in the real world called Adam who sounded so annoying I wanted to punch him in the face but as I became the Great Farsh-nuke through fiction so that pathetic and mostly harmless prat has become the much more formidable and entertaining alpha god Adam Godwinson, a troll worthy of going seven shades to Sunday with me in my mind. A troll worthy of giving voice to those callous doubts and so letting me counter. I have come along way from the scared little boy who called the bluff of his nightmares by swimming willingly into the mouths of the beasts who stalked his nightmares.

So yes, I am sorry and I grant forgiveness. I am better and I shall be better.

Oh and and if the real prat is reading this. I am not the Great Farsh-nuke and you are not Adam Godwinson. You do not matter to me. He does.

Sunday, 17 September 2017



A Bloggage
Alexander Gordon Jahans

So my brain broke, well not my brain but my facade of normality, and things were shit, they really were, I clung to podcasts like a lifeline and my mind was unable to focus on ideas, to write. I’m not in that place anymore. I could pull explanations out of my arse but I really think it’s just that I never really allowed myself to acknowledge what had happened and to grieve.

I lost a lot and I do have to rebuild and rebuilding means my mind. Except I was so close to the edge and so scared about going over it that I clung to what I knew fiercely. I mean this is why I refused to take anti-depressants. When your sanity is so finely balanced on the edge of functionality why risk upsetting the balance. Only it’s like a computer going through an update, there’s only so much you can do while the operating system is booted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not fucking cured. I’m not dumbo, the answer was not inside me all along, dada!!! I’m still in pain, I’m still tired, I’m still at the mercy of bugs, viruses and the chaos gods in charge of when I sleep and wake. I’m still a moron and there are still nazis and people who hate me. I still might die from a lack of any other option if I can’t find a job and the DWP gets sick of me. I mean I know I am still so far from even realistically trying to get a job.

Except I’m happy. I’ve had two or three days of genuine happiness and when I close my eyes and I’m without distractions I’m okay. I’m flawed, I’m problematic, things are not great but I’m okay. I no longer fear the parts of me that are not great. I’m writing again, I’m walking again, I’m watching letsplays again, I’m cutting back on snacks again. The hunger is gone. Heck I’m drinking much less diet coke. And I have a plan.

I am not just a mad man clinging to hope to delay dying. I am an ill man with a plan of how to get better and clear steps along that. My mind has been through a lot and it needs to heal but I’m confident I have a chance now. I don’t know what or who I’ll be once I’m done but that’s okay. It’s okay.

I am going to finish the Golden Girl and then I’m going to finish Come Again. Other than that, until the house is sold, Fuck knows, but I trust I’ll find a way.

Or maybe this is just a good day and this will pass like wind but fiuck it I’m choosing optimism.

Gordon's Alive

Friday, 15 September 2017

What Victory Would Mean

What Victory Would Mean

Alexander Gordon Jahans

I have no idea what victory will look like. I have idea what my life, if I get one, will look like, because the person I am has been destroyed. And yes, the nazis were part of that only part. My destruction was complete and total.

I am a phantom, a lingering reminder of the things I used to like and love but now can no longer have. A personality without a bedrock of action to build upon. I lost everything that defined who I was. I lost my manhood, I lost the protection of privilege and the arrogant confidence that has stopped feminists and other social progressives from harming me. My attempts to rebuild only further isolated and hurt me.

I can’t rebuild who I am while I remain in the same situation, while I have people whose perceived connection to me keeps dragging me back in to the past. I can’t rebuilding when I have nothing to build upon and am still haunted by the sins of the past.

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am fairly sure of it, as much as I despise self diagnoses. At the same time my Autism and Kallman’s Syndrome means I doubt a counsellor will be able to help me because my mind is so radically different at the bes of times. If I’m going to get better I need to do this myself but if I am going to do this myself I need the time and energy to do it myself.

The problem with my situation right now is that everything about where I am puts pressure and pain on me. The loving mother who needs help because of her own problems. The loving sister who is fortunate enough to not understand the pain my father caused me. The house that protects and reminds me of pain, that brings my father back into my life time and time again. The risk, however small, that a nazi might turn up on my doorstep with a loaded gun.

I need to be without people who so fail to understand autism that they think people will help me. I need to be without people who so fail to understand the nature of my ‘sleeping pattern’ that they think the solution is more schedules to try and stick to.

The diet coke and the snacking are crutches, of course they’re crutches but they are crutches I will need until the other problems in my life are solved. Telling me to sort my life out while the nazis still know where I live, while my father still has a key to where I live, while the stress of the house move still hangs over me, stupid. I can’t do the other things until I leave this fucking house, until the people I care about are gone from it. I cannot mourn and move on while twisted stalkers might yet do something drastic to those I care about in an attempt to grab my attention. I can’t move on while I need to be mentally in a place where I have to be the alpha male ready to twat a prick.

I don’t know if I’m going to ever recover but I do know that I can’t move on until I have moved on. It’s not going to be easy, it’s not going to be quiet and I am not going to be a good man for some time but if I am to achieve victory I need to be in a place where the conditions allow me to become something new.

I can’t move on from the desire to die because right now the desire to die is an asset. I don’t have confidence. I don’t have intelligence, it’s too distracted. I am right now a weak, pathetic self loathing husk of a person. The only thing giving me the ability to stare down bureaucrats, nazis and my father is that I have no fucks to give. That I would be glad of excuse to throw my life away. I can’t stop being suicidal because my willingness to pull the trigger is one of the things giving me the space to avoid doing so.

At the same time however I have seen my mother freak out and mourn my sister when she is happy with the dream boyfriend and dream job in a far away and beautiful place. I see now that if I were to kill myself that would be a failure. A failure that would at least leave me free from the pain and torment of continuing to exist but a failure none the less. I am not a fan of failure.

So as of now the plan to achieve victory and get a life is officially begun. 

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

Escape Velocity

Escape Velocity

Alexander Gordon Jahans

So I’m stuck in a mental orbit, a mental orbit that is decaying slowly and held together by the relief of other long term problems being abated. My family tries to help but they fail to understand because their thought process is so far from mine at best. If I am going to get out of this I need to be the one to do it. Drugs may keep me living, keep the orbit maintained but they are not a solution for me. I am not biologically depressed, I’m logically fucked.

I don’t lie. I don’t like lying. I am different. I think differently and I have to try so hard to even approach what the majority consider normal. No wonder I had no fucking clue about what would be offensive to trans people, neurotypicals struggle with that.

I have spent three years now running from a question I already know the answer to. How do I get out of this shithole I am in? Answer: Either I bash my head against the brick wall of capitalism or I kill myself and I am not bashing my head against the brick wall of capitalism when that’s a whole lot of aggravation for a whole lot of failure. Death seems like the logical pragmatic answer and honestly this orbit has felt more like a goodbye tour. I’m not hanging on until the move is sorted because that’s the cure but because then this big fucking albatross about my family’s neck will be over and I can take the cure because I’ll have given them a shot, died at a less inconvenient time...

Yeah, that’s grim. You can’t talk about that. I mean I don’t want to die. I like living, under the right circumstances. It’s just capitalism’s a bitch and I don’t belong. A cold equation. Except I may now have a third way.

You see a lot has happened to me. Part of the reason I cocked things up so very badly with that fucking fanfic was that I was lost and reaching out to a community I thought would understand and be able to offer support. That’s why their words cut so deep. They made quite clear that I was a dangerous element not fit to interact with their community and I felt kind of instinctually, in a way I have never felt before as an autistic person, that since I tried to reach out to the trans community because this Kallman’s Syndrome had so knocked me then kind of implicitly that was the problem there as well.

It’s the same reason things with my father have been so much worse these last three years. I mean lets face it my dad is an angry shite hole of a person and he always will be because the fucker refuses to seek help but nothing he did was anything different. Oh he had a stupid rant about how I was pathetic and a selfish waste. Big woop. Git did worse things when I was a kid. Except I’m sitting here with this fucked up body and a drastically affected social life because that the man who calls himself my father fucked up his one cocking job.

Sorry, the anger is still there.

I had everything at the end of university and now I have nothing. I am a broken wreck surviving on meds and injections. This isn’t right. This isn’t good. I am tired and in pain and I’m still grieving for the life I could have fucking had had my parents cared less about phantom fears, the washing up and who was to blame and more about doing the fucking job of raising their kids. If they had listened to me earlier, if they had noticed earlier.

This isn’t as simple as a cold equation. This was event after event hammering home that death would be a mercy. That it would be a morally good thing if I died.

Except I didn’t want to die and so I entered this mental orbit and as I have fallen the circumstances justifying the myth of the cold equation have changed. Problems that affected me have begun to be solved, problems that affected the world have been recognised. Things are different now. There is hope. More importantly the very fact of my continued survival suggests that I can survive and if I can survive I can live. I went back to Nine World’s Geek Fest and I was home and my friends were there to meet me and not only was I not shunned for my sins, they saw progress towards, well being less of a sexist dick.

At the same time I have been finding the person I used to be. It isn’t perfect. Like trying on a suit that doesn’t quite fit anymore but it has been helpful. You see as an autistic person, as me at my place on the various spectrums, I adapt, I kind of mould myself to fit my environment and the people I’m with. Except there is kick back. An essential version of me will bolt like a horse, rejecting adaptations that don’t sit right.

I have reminded myself of the survivalism, the normality seekingness and morality of my past and I have felt myself tempted by a metaphorical darkside. That I could say fuck it. That I could give into the power. That I could lie, could let myself be so self interested, greedy and confident. That being this timid self loathing wreck is to a certain extent a choice. It is choosing to display my honest feelings and thoughts.

At the same time I have written and written and found myself trying to be better than I am. Failing certainly but still trying and making small progress. Cutting out problematic scenes, rewriting, editing and perhaps most importantly, no longer needing to write out of distraction but instead actively following plans. I could be so much more, be so much better. I can’t not be a cis white male with a cis white male’s perspective but I can consciously included other characters and give them interesting storylines. Ultimately so what if I can’t write a trans, black or female perspective accurately, when a robotic shark is angry with them what matters is their ability to deal with the danger.

So here’s the irony of ironies. The third way is so called in my writing because it is survival through being exploited as opposed to the domination of the first way and the second way, what normal people do. I have felt torn between survival through the darkside, of wearing the fancy suits, lying and playing the great game of capitalism, or the nobility and morality of accepting that the struggle is not something I want and that I don’t deserve to exist. My third way is my second way. To do what normal people do. To exist in shades of grey.

I mean if there is one thing I have learned for certain it is that nature and nurture both fucked me up so I shall play Frankenstein to my own monstrousness. I will create the new version of myself, not the whims of fate or the idiocy of neurotypicals. I will be socially progressive, confident and dominant. I’m done being the victim of fate and shiteholes.

Sunday, 10 September 2017



Alexander Gordon Jahans

A young man in, pyjamas and a dressing gown falls to his knees.

A younger man in a suit bounds past, explaining. “A wise man once said that the art of flying is failing to hit the ground being distracted the last moment.”

The pyjama clad man groans.

“That’s good.” says the younger man. “Because it’s the fall that’s going to kill you.”


On the command bridge of an advanced spaceship an older man with emerald green eyes watches the fall of the pyjama clad man. “Except Orbit is hard to maintain and requires constant effort, something which takes a physical toll on a body.”


A man in a floppy hat with an absurdly long scarf, pauses, two wires in his hands. “The question that has required this orbit is a problem with one obvious and easy answer but if you cross it there is no going back and one that he really does not want to answer. He may have the right and he may have no other rational option but the finality creates the need to stall.”


In a dark alley a young white man who has been to the gym too many times looks down at an army of angry white men. “So he stalls. Distracts himself with fears and phantoms.”


At a loud nightclub with thumping music and copious sweet alcoholic drinks an elder god with a corset and an adam’s apple turns from their friends to address through the keystream. “He tries to be better, tries so hard to be as socially progressive as those he ideologically supports.”


A young slender ginger Scottish woman watches a volleyball tournament on a sunny beach, sips a cocktail and plays with a leash fondly. “But in the darkness when reason becomes his enemy he caves to the allure of the flesh and all of a sudden the great sins of patriarchy seem like flirtatious foreplay. A guiding light of lustful comfort and reassurance.”


On the spaceship the man with the emerald Green Eyes stares and the new leader of a resurgent nazi movement and grits his teeth. “Except with great privilege comes great responsibility. These monsters stand against everything he has ever stood for. They are incompetent, existentially dangerous to humanity and the fuckers made it personal.”


The young white man and his army of angry white men in the darkened alleyway sieg heil as the pyjama clad man rounds the corner angrily. “And so we have our fun.”


An old white man in a lab coat watches readouts on a screen as the pyjama clad man lays in an mri machine. “It’s all in his head of course and he could stop. Could rationalise but this is not his only problem. White man is not quite so privileged in all regards all the time. The mentally ill, the physically deficient, they are still very much discriminated against and misunderstood. There are many maladies plaguing his existence for which a cure would be magnificent.”


In an office a man sits at a desk pressing the same button over and over as the narror explains. “And even if he could get the cure, if he could end the pain, the tiredness and sense of inferiority and shame there is still the unfortunate reality of a world where if he is very very lucky he might get to press a single button over and over again for hours.”


The man with the long scarf grimaces. “And what makes this all so terrible is the knowledge there is one dreadful final solution to all the tedium, tiredness and pain. There is the ultimate of cures that could be administered at any moment.”


“So we’ll fight.” says the pyjama clad man as he launches himself down the angry of angry white men. “And we will keep fighting, over and an over.”

“Neither one of us maintaining the upper hand.” says the leader of the angry white men.


“And if they do the temptation will pull him back into a restorative haze.” says the tall ginger woman on the beach.


“Because the orbit is safe and holding.” says the younger man in the suit as he watches the man in pyjamas fall.


“It can’t last forever.” says the man with the emerald green eyes. “But maybe it doesn’t have to.”


“He will keep learning and striving to be a better man.” says the Elder God in the nightclub.


The Doctor in the labcoat examines the screen. “His body will ride out some of the storm affecting him. There will be no cure but he will adapt and solutions can be found even if they aren’t easy.”


The younger man in the suit stares in the mirror and sees the pyjama clad man looking back. “And in time he might be able to retrace his steps back to a version of himself that had faith the system and is capable of fighting to succeed in it again.”


The pyjama clad man walks down a dark and lonely road. “And my brain is not stuck in stasis. I may have to keep the majority of my intellect distracted by a never ending cycle of self love and self hate but I’m still processing all that has happened to me and one day I’ll know who I am again. Well hopefully.”

Friday, 8 September 2017

Rule Beta 7

I have been and am in a very bad, no good, place at the moment. Three years of bullshit has finally drenched me and I am left panting for air as my mind is caught on a maelstrom of guilt, bitterness, rage and regret. It's okay though the Down And Safe Blakes 7 podcast is acting as a relaxing and very handy distraction. I am safe and surviving as I process this trauma.

One thing I am realizing though is that the core problem I face at the moment is that the fundamental duality of my nature as a writer has never stood alone before. Yes, I am a feminist and a misogynist. A social progressive and a problematic white male. That's fine. That friction and conflict gives my writing spice and tension.  The problem is that I currently have nothing in my life apart from my fiction.

I am a plate spinner and a bullet dodger. I juggle projects and people and my brain delights in the complexity and challenge. I have gotten weak, lazy. I have cut back and cutback and now all I have left is the overwhelming toxicity of a habit I cannot quit that makes me despise myself. I am a writer and writing gives me life and purpose but I am a shitty problematic writer and the worst part is I know it. I know exactly how much of an arsehole I am and I can't stop it. Not really.

So I'm going to start pecking away at that mountain again. I'm going to try and play the game of capitalism again. I will fail. I will fail over and over. time after time and I will hate and rage against it but because I'll have the system to rage against I hopefully won't tear the stuffing out of myself as much.

The Farsh-nuke is coming back and I am finishing my stories but I am getting back in the game. So yeah, sorry peeps, I am a misogynistic, transphobic,  xenophobic, anti-Semitic self loathing social progressive who knows exactly how much of a shite hole he is and tries hard to counter his darkness but you probably shouldn't consider my blog as safe space, especially if you are a misogynistic, transphobic, xenophobic anti-Semite because if the Farsh-nuke stands for anything, it's that sometimes monsters are useful weapons in the fight against other monsters. I am not the Farsh-nuke, I am not as impressive, powerful, or as useful as he is but while there is breath left in my body I pledge my life, mind and words in service of a leftwing feminist utopia, even if I would not be welcome in it.

And yeah, I'm not particularly well. Good memories aren't always so great. the stings stand out, the data is easily lost.

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Forgive Me

Forgive Me


Alexander Gordon Jahans

I just tried to write a blog. It went badly. I can't do stream of consciousness right now because my brain is not in a good place and has not been for some time. I am petty and vengeful and I remember everything with great clarity everytime I do a thing related to a thing. Everytime I play minecraft I remember everything I listened to when I played minecraft. Every time I watch a show I remember the last time I watched it as I watch it. Everytime I have a conversation about a subject I remember the last time I had a conversation about that subject. So everytime I write...


I wrote part one of a redo of the Queen of Mirth today. An entirely fictional account of how Lucy Danse walked the hundred million universes, inspiring revolution and discovering the sylph cure. All problematic aspects related to trans people will be excised. I am changing around the demographics of the fictional characters so as to be more inclusive and have less white male characters but the Queen of Mirth herself will remain a trans games journalist because it's no good striving to create a canon version that is less problematic if at the same time you cut out a key character of representation. Do it right and proper, don't just cut the attempts at representation out. 

As for why it remains a story of a games journalist, an interviewer and a rockstar? Well on one level I want to create a melody that is recognizably similar to the original. This is the canon version of the forsaken original, it should have a similar cast. And secondly the story requires a group of civilians rising up to be heroes. Internet reviewers have a lot of cult of personality. I have experienced how loyal and effective their followers can be and I remain forever amazed by the skill and work of games journalists to find the truth in a world of churnalism, unlabeled satire and propaganda. Also the Doctor has a sonic screwdriver and I like bards as a D&D class so I'm keeping a musician in the triumvirate. And triumvirates are just cool and historically effective at bringing people to power.

Also I am technically starting a thing when I am halfway through a thing that I started when I was nearly finished with a thing. If I had it be say, an artist, a voice over actor and a cosplayer becoming the leaders of the glorious revolution I'd have to think of some new plot. I don't really want to do that. 

Anyway I'm doing a thing and I'm still not dead, so yay. 

Sorry about everything. I'm a moron. 

Ah, that'll be the darkness coming again. Time to stop writing about myself. Go do stuff. Be happy. Be safe.