They say everything is more fun when you do it with friends.

And because it’s so true, we’ve added a brand new member to the writing crew around here…

It’s Mansour Timur-Askar…aka The Kazakh!

A son of a White Tsarist Nobility, The Kazakh has the fire of the East in his blood, and a passionate yearning of an exiled prince…

All to revolt against the Modern World!

Raised in the English Aristocratic Tradition that has graced Old Albion for centuries, The Kazakh is currently hard at work (or hardly working) studying Persian and Middle East Studies at Christ Church, Oxford. 

And today, he is ready to arise from the earth like his Mithric Ancestors of old…

And make his voice heard throughout all the world! 

So without further adieu, I am proud to present to you…

Life in the Fast Lane: The Deadly Musings of A De-Throned Prince!

By Mansour Timur-Askar 

They are forever telling you to stay in your lane — preferably the slow one, hazard lights blinking politely like some provincial accountant driving back from a miserable second honeymoon in Blackpool. 

Honest people with healthy pagan instincts, decent bloodlines, appetites not yet flattened by sterilised modernity, are constantly lectured on the vulgarity of excess, especially now, when the world is supposedly collapsing beneath the weight of permanent political crisis.

Curious, isn’t it, that these sermons arrive from precisely the same class of lubricious reptiles who spend their days funding a certain “chosen tribe’s” genocidal little adventures abroad, dropping bombs on sleeping children in the name of democracy, and their evenings fornicating with children on private islands and Davos buffets searching for some immortality serum distilled from the marrow of their fellow man’s hopes and futures. 

These people wish to deprive you of beauty because beauty reminds you – and them – that they are spiritually grotesque.

Well, hear this from a kindred pagan spirit: excess is fucking marvellous.

Excess is divine when it is beautiful.

Beauty is the only thing that has ever justified civilisation and the only thing that can possibly save it now.

These yanks once gave the world Gary Cooper and Vivien Leigh; now they hand you vain, classless, surgically inflated waxworks tottering around the Met Gala draped in the skins of dead muses, looking like cursed Egyptian burial dolls purchased on Temu by Caligula during an opium trip. 

They do not want excellence to return, because anyone with an ounce of sincerity or taste would sweep them aside immediately. 

They do not want masculine grace, feminine splendour, courage, conquest, danger, wit, or style. 

They want your eyes trained on plastic, your desires trained downward, your soul trained to accept ugliness as modernity.

They want hygienic little consumers trained to applaud and swoon over their ugliness, blushing and popping with envy while coveting the entire tawdry little Vanity Fair.

Poor Tamara de Lempicka nearly vomited when Fontana won the top prize at the Venice Biennale in 1964 and declared, with Nietzschean finality, that art was dead. 

Yet after this supposed funeral came Hunter S. Thompson, the The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Viktor Tsoi – all summoning the thunder of rebellion in doomed but free souls – and Yukio Mishima completing The Sea of Fertility before marching toward his own exquisitely theatrical annihilation upon the altar of sacred martyrdom.

Art cannot die because human genius cannot die. Human courage cannot die.

Human beings remain incurably hungry for splendour. The creative spirit cannot die so long as there remain knights of honour willing to guard it with their whole being.

We are those knights, my children.

Let the accountants keep the slow lane.

Let the bureaucrats, consultants, philanthropists, and other bloodless little eunuchs of modernity queue obediently beneath fluorescent lighting for their biodegradable rewards points and corporate-approved pleasures.

Do not let art die. Lead the Ludus. Raise the Lupercalia. Lift the Golden Eagles of Triumph.

Stay in the fast lane, whatever they tell you. 

Sincerely,

Mansour Timur-Askar, “The Kazakh”

05-11-2026

Published at 11: 53 AM, somewhere in the USA…

Sources Cited 

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