The Things We Love Are the Things They Claim

Nothing tells you the reality of power like a Superbowl does

It was once said that there was a medieval custom called Droit de seigneur (the ‘right of the lord’) that was an actual legal right. Essentially, it allowed a local lord to claim any woman he wanted, especially before her wedding night. The Lord could turn up, notice that the prospective peasant bride was a bit of alright, and have his wicked way with her. All perfectly legal and respectable, and something which neither the bride nor the groom, who legally owed this first taste of the goods to his Lordship just as they owed a certain portion of their crops or a few weeks of unpaid labor, could complain about.

Think young actress and Harvey Weinstein, only in doublet and hose.

Whether Droit de seigneur really existed as a legal code, whether it happened on a regular basis or not, is disputed. Certainly powerful nobles often had a horde of bastards fathered on the peasantry and the lesser nobility alike, and the extent to which consent exists under feudalism is a pertinent point. But the general truth being made clear is that this was a system in which even the things that matter the most, even the things you love the most, could be casually taken away by those with more social status.

Now it might seem a bit of a leap to go from that to the Superbowl, but bear with me.

We have just had the US Superbowl. As a Brit, even one long interested in the US, its never been of much interest to me. But this year British mainstream TV has acted as if every single Brit cares. It’s been plastered over our TV screens and reported in our news in a way that previous Superbowls never were. And like in America its been filtered through the bizarre psy-op now demanding that everyone should love Taylor Swift with all their hearts and care deeply about her locking tongues and loins with a walking advertisement for Pfizer.

When I look at how all this is being obsessed over and reported I can’t help but recall the ‘right of the Lord’. Let me explain why.

As much as Brits like me never gave a shit about it, American football and the Superbowl in particular has been part of the American experience in a way that is a bit like a loving marriage. Millions of Americans for generation after generation have deeply cared about the sport, loved the teams, and found the whole thing bound up too in their family memories and their sense of nationhood. Watching the Superbowl is a thing that fathers shared with sons, or that friends and relatives gathered to do together. I’m sure many Americans can picture their dad watching the game, or their mum, just as many more will have thrown a ball in the yard or the park.

The Superbowl was quintessentially American. It was unique. It didn’t happen in other countries. And it had all that American pizzazz. It was brash, bold and big. It was confident, and it didn’t care whether anyone outside America was watching. It was unashamedly patriotic, and it represented everything that was good about American competition, capitalism, excellence and achievement. It was FUN.

It was an interest men could share with other men. It was their social space. It was their distraction from the daily grind. It was their chance to be part of something bigger than themselves. It had some of the unifying qualities of war, and none of the devastating horrors. It was masculine and proudly so. It made men feel good about themselves, and connected to glory.

It was sport. That is what sport does. It makes a tribe, and that’s a powerful thing, an emotional thing. Even more so when it becomes part of the story of what makes your country bigger, better and bolder than other countries.

And that is why people love their game and love their teams. We all want a tribe.

Now look at what has been done to this great American sport, this sporting monomyth that makes ordinary men, just by watching, something like heroes, at least in their own hearts. Look what has been done to what was once a shared and unifying piece of fundamental Americana. Look at what they did to the thing you loved.

They, meaning progressive-globalists, took it away from ordinary Americans. They purchased it and they soiled it. They made the national sport into a place where national self-hatred was raised up and worshiped. They ditched the National Anthem for the Black Anthem. They asked white working class sports fans to take a giant fucking dose of anti American, anti white, anti male propaganda with their favorite leisure activity, with what had been their most American and most male and most patriotic cultural experience.

They looked at this space where it was OK to be a man and they said “let’s make this about Taylor Swift”. Let’s make this into a column in a teen girl’s magazine rather than a column in the sports pages. Let’s make this about a bullshit celebrity ‘romance’ that looks like it was cooked up anyway by a PR firm hired by the CIA to make every American as simple-mindedly distracted as a 14 year old girl getting belly flutters over her very first crush.

Now this stuff should be trivial, because I never ever want to talk about Taylor fucking Swift again. But I have to, because she’s one of the things being used to replace and destroy the stuff we used to care about. God help us, 5% of Americans are going to vote wherever she tells them to.

Loving your sports team and loving your country and even being OK with men being men are not things that should be political. Patriotism should be the default position, not a controversial stance. And it was. It was, before these utter bastards got their claws into every fucking thing we love. Watching the Superbowl with your dad or your son or your brother or your friend should be the escape from politics and feminism and belittling sermons on why you are a piece of shit for being male, or being white, or voting for Trump, or liking to watch sports with a beer in your hand.

A beer that isn’t telling you that a man is a woman.

And it’s precisely because this was a place for men, that this was something millions of white Americans cared about, that this was the escape, that the bastards claimed it, possessed it, and raped the hell out of it.

It was because you had shared it with your Dad and wanted to share it with your son that they took it away from you. If its patriotic, they go after it. If its innocent, they corrupt it. If its non-political, it is now hyper-political. But they know that you love it, and that’s the thing they go after the most. Your eyes were there, so they had to blind you with their propaganda. You aren’t allowed to escape that stuff, you know.

That’s why they turned it into a weird Teen Girl Love Story and that’s why they turned it into an equally weird Black Power Rally. Because you loved it and because it was your escape from their destruction of everything else.

Now I hope people realize why I started off by talking about Droit de seigneur. This a new feudalism, and we are the peasants. The powers that be take the things you love and fuck them right before your eyes, and expect you to keep on cheering.

They did it to us Brits too. Our football copied yours with the black power crap. Our national ‘soccer’ team became a bunch of programmed simps and cucks for BLM and for the Mighty Pfizer, kneeling like robots for a vile thug, and wearing their little plastic masks during COVID. Our national team manager then and now spends more time talking about ‘racism’ and ‘social justice’ than about football.

This is what you love. This is your escape. Watch us use it however we please.

You still care? Here’s another lecture telling you that you are worthless because you are white. Or hey look, here’s ‘your team’ in the Pride parade waving rainbow unicorn flags. There’s no escape for you, buddy.

One of my happiest social memories is being abroad in 1998 during the World Cup. England played one of their traditional rivals Argentina in a last 16 match. I was in my early twenties with friends, two of whom didn’t even follow football. I saw the greatest England performance of my lifetime, an immense and battling display against one of the top teams in the world where (as is often the case with England) all the luck went against us. Michael Owen scored an incredible solo goal at the age of just 18, cutting through the Argentine defense as if they were plaintive ghosts clutching feebly at him with immaterial fingers. But what made it incredible was the atmosphere in the packed bar where we watched it.

There was barely room to move, and people spilled out the doors. Every shout was a roar from a hundred throats. When we scored everyone jumped as one, and punched the air as one, and smiled as one. My friends who didn’t care about football were roaring and jumping and screaming too. Total strangers looked at each other like brothers who had shared a trench while being shot at. I remember meeting the gaze of random blokes I did not know as if this was a guy who had saved my life, and grinning like a fucking idiot. And the random guys did the same.

At one point I sort of paused. It’s a ridiculous cliche I would never write, except it was true-the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck. I’ve taken drugs and been in love and felt those chemical surges and been quite mad with them. This was equal to both, if only for a moment. I remember looking at the crowd and looking at the screen and feeling this surge of pride and connection. I thought ‘we are the English’ and I loved everyone.

And that’s what they take away from us, on purpose. The simple trivial things. The safe and honest things. The sporting moments, and the patriotic ones. The things that make dads and sons jump around with joy.

The things that we love, that ordinary people love. The escapes.

That’s what they want to take away most of all.

After the kneeling, I pay no attention to the England team anymore. I don’t care if they win or lose. But I still remember when I did.