I found this story on a Philippines website, from a publication that is now defunct. The name of the author is not known. It gives insight into the gay pageant scene in the country and across south-east Asia, and also reinforces the observation that the ‘gay’ and transgender scenes are closely intertwined.
A pageant can be a small local affair with a stage set up on the back of a truck, or as grandiose as the Miss Tiffany contests, held in Thailand, or Super Syrena, in the Philippines.
All male-to-feminine (MtF) trans are EITHER homosexual (exclusively attracted to men from childhood) or non-homosexual (not exclusively attracted to men from childhood.) The latter are commonly known as autogynephilic. This distinction is obvious and has been observed since the 19th century. It is recognised as fundamental by all serious scientists working in the field.
Homosexual Transsexuals (HSTS) exhibit a cluster of trait characteristics in addition to their sexual desire for men. They tend to be small, delicately built, light for their height, naturally feminine and neotenous. They have intense difficulty learning to be masculine, if they ever do. Non-homosexual trans exhibit no such clustering; in fact they conform to the averages for men of their ethnicity and are attracted to women.
The explanation for HSTS is easy and has never been disputed: they desire men and are feminine, so to attract men, whom they know to be attracted to femininity, they make themselves more feminine. Again none of this is true of non-homosexuals; so why on earth might it be that a man, who is not attracted to or seeking to attract men, would want to appear to be feminine?
A good many incomers to France have no idea where to go to get the materials for their DIY restoration of an old French house. I have even heard of British second-homers filling the car boot with bags of cement and bringing it with them, which is laughable. This article is intended to help.
Parler, a free speech social medium that had its hosting withdrawn last month, is back. It has new hosting, SkySilk, which is in the USA but is committed to freedom of expression. It said ‘(SkySilk) advocates the right to private judgement and rejects the role of being judge, jury and executioner…(we) will support Parler in their efforts to be a nonpartisan public square. ‘ Anyone familiar with the way Twitter in particular censors all comment except the extreme Left’s will surely applaud this.
The company has a new CEO, whose appointment is expected to be temporary. The ousting of founder John Matze appears to have come because of a fall-out with the site’s major host and shareholder, Rebekah Mercer.
Mark Meckler, one-time co-founder of the Tea-Party Patriots, has been appointed as interim CEO. He said ‘We are committed to…our role as the premier platform for free speech, data sovereignty and civil discourse.’
Parler can be accessed online at https://parler.com/ However, at time of writing, this site was not working properly, at least from my location.
Just about the first thing that everyone notices when they get their dream house in France, and I base this on an admittedly unscientific but extensive post-prandially-conducted survey, is the damp. Unless they have bought in the Midi, of course. For those further north or west, it is a big issue.
Ask anyone yourself. You’ll soon see that this is the case. You might be forgiven for thinking that parts of France were perpetually under water, from the stories you hear. They’re not; it just can seem that way.
In order to get some sense of perspective on this, let’s examine a few facts. Large areas of France are indeed very wet. A quick glance at the map will show that weather systems coming in from the Atlantic under the prevailing westerly wind have a choice; they can either swing up north and east and drench Wales, Ireland, the north west of England and of course Scotland, or they can slip in over the Bay of Biscay and take up residence in France, where they will be nicely bottled up due to the fact that from the Med to the Rhine Basin there is a rampart of mountains which prevents any further progress.
I understand that this is to do with the exact position of the jetstream, a system of ferocious winds at very high altitude.
Normally, summers in Central France are reasonably dry and very warm. Just what the holidaymaker likes, apparently, and perfect for ripening all that lovely plonk.
The New Gay Man is the name I give to the ‘hypermasculine’ type of male homosexual which has become dominant in the West, though not elsewhere. This type pursues ‘masc4masc’ relationships and is intensely hostile to any sign of femininity. Crucially, however, it only became dominant in the last half-century. Today, it is being challenged by a resurgent and older form of male-male love and is reacting against this, stamping down on opposition. We should ask why and how has all this come about?
So you’re planning to meet some ladyboys in Pattaya? Read this.
Pattaya is home to some of the yummiest trannies in the region and its reputation as a ladyboy-friendly tourist resort brings huge numbers of young transsexuals to the city, as well as legions of men anxious to taste this most prized and precious of tropical fruit.
The whole of south-east Asia is remarkable for its highly visible populations of transsexual women, known locally as ladyboys. These are not at all the same as you may be used to, if you are a Westerner. They’re not like Bruce ‘Caitlyn’ Jenner. (See my discussions on Ray Blanchard for more details.)
Ladyboys in Thailand and across Asia are not like that at all. They are beautiful and very sexy. They are extremely feminine in appearance and manners. From their early teens they use female hormones, often birth control pills which are freely available without prescription. These can turn them into staggeringly beautiful women. And the fact is that men are powerfully attracted to them.
A fell cauld wind wis sauchin ower the muir as the bonny wumman gart her wey tae tryst her jo. For the necht wis Februar the fowerteen, an aabody kens at’s the necht for luve.
She wis winsome eneuch, tho the first blush o youth, it maun be said, was left ahent her a lang while syne. A body mecht hae speirit at himsel how comes a lass o sic natral attractions hidnae been wad this mony a lang year.
At last she reached the spot ablow an auld aik whaur she an her jo hiv met this necht mony mair years nor either of them wad care tae hink on. Her jo wis aaready there, a puckle fashit, ye mecht hink, wi the wye he wis stridin up an doon, his een flashin faniver he luikit up.
“Ah, here you are, at last,” he intoned, as the lass presented hersel.
Featured Image: Restenneth Priory, Forfar, Angus, Scotland. Pic by Rod Fleming
I have one fiddle that is over two hundred years old, which I found in bits, with all her varnish stripped. She would surely be worth more financially if I had had a restorer fix her, but I did it myself, she sounds and plays wonderfully, and I get a real kick out of the fact that I saved her myself. Because, believe me, she was kindling-wood before.
That brings me to an important point. There is one rule which you should bear in mind whenever you touch an instrument with a mind to fixin’ her.
The name of King Jan III Sobieski of Poland is one that every European should know and speak with pride.
In September 1683, the city of Vienna was near to collapse. For months, it had been under siege by the Islamic hordes of the Islamic Ottoman army. Every day now, starvation and surrender grew closer. The city had long since run out of horses and pets to eat and even rats were few and far between now.
Worse, the Viennese knew that other Europeans had been the instruments of their doom. Swiss Calvinists had begged the Turks to attack, so that they could sweep away Catholicism. It beggars belief that Christians could call down the hounds of Islamic hell on their fellow Europeans, but that they had, hoping, no doubt, to negotiate some deal, a reward for their treachery, that might spare them the scimitar or a lifetime of submission to the foul creed of Islam.
The city’s defenders, listening in its basements, could hear the scrape-scrap of pick and shovel as the enemy’s sappers undermined them. Soon they would plant another huge mine and blow up a section of the city’s curtain wall, breaching it and allowing the enemy in. Nobody in Vienna was under any illusion as to what would happen then: the men would be tortured and killed or enslaved, the women would be raped and killed or enslaved and the children slaughtered. The behaviour of triumphant Islamic armies was well known.
Today, the Twelfth of September, was the last. The government of the city knew it. The people knew it and worse, the enemy knew it. They were ready: their final attack was to come on the twelfth of the month. There was nothing left. Vienna would fall. Without a miracle, Vienna must fall, and with it, Europe.