Junk Food for Junk People, and the Joy of Watching Them Rot

Though Sebastian thinks he has saved me from another excuse for gloating, the newspapers are full of handwringing again. A study shows that a few weeks of ultra-processed food corrupt the body. Most “studies,” of course are lies put out in return for grants from special interests that look to make money from them. But I know this one is true. I have always known it. The evidence is all about me. Now I am back at school, I see the relation of cause and effect. I smell the relationship. The nation is a walking experiment, and the conclusion is clear: poison works.

Junk food is poison. That much is true. But poison is not always a curse. For the intelligent, it is a danger to be avoided with vigilance. For the stupid and the ugly, it is justice. Their bodies collapse because they cannot resist. They die earlier than they otherwise would. That is not misfortune, but deliverance.

It helps that I am from excellent stock, but my body is lean and hard, my skin clear, my teeth white and regular. I am this because I add care to genetic good fortune. I swim. I lift. I run. I read every label. I measure protein. I avoid sugars. I reject seed oils. I plan every meal. Some call this obsession. I call it survival. The result is beauty earned by discipline. I look in the mirror and I see symmetry, which is the only true source of beauty. I look at the rest of my year and I see surrender. Their failure feeds my superiority, and I enjoy it.

At the back of one of my course folders, I keep a record: names of boys, their estimated weights, their probable life expectancies. It gives me comfort to write them down. The boy who gorges on Mars Bars will lose his teeth before he loses his virginity. The lump who sweats through his shirt at the bus stop will not reach thirty. One boy collapsed last term after half a lap of the field. His face purpled. His gut heaved under his shirt. He retched into the grass. The teachers panicked. I watched to see if he recovered or died, then updated my list. Another name with little time left.

Doctors speak of public health. Politicians demand taxes, bans, advertising controls. They are fools. I need no State to protect me from chips fried in sunflower oil, and I do not want it saving the herd either. If people insist on poisoning themselves, they should be free to do so. Their choice is the only worthwhile contribution they will ever make. Every frozen pizza, every pint of syrupy cola, every fried chicken bucket, shortens their lives. This is not misfortune. It is progress.

The old checks have gone. Disease and hunger and the hangman’s rope once cleared away the unfit. Now they survive. Now they multiply. Now they drag down the rest of us with them. Junk food restores balance. It is voluntary eugenics. A family that feeds its children on sugar and processed fat signs its own extinction. A nation that allows this to continue will eventually be fitter and more beautiful. Britain will not recover until the fat are gone. The herd must eat itself out of existence before the intelligent can rebuild.

I said this already in Fatboys, Needles, and the NHS. I said it again in The Needle that Never Lets Go. There is no cure for stupidity. Slimming clubs fail. Miracle diets fail. Needles fail. Semaglutide is a maintenance scheme, priced at £73 a week, with side effects as amusing as they are fatal. Even if it worked, the herd would never follow the rules that make it work. They jab, then binge, then return for more. Junk food requires no maintenance. It delivers the end directly, and it delivers it cheaply.

When I sit in assembly, watching rows of ugly, stinking, wheezing, contorting bodies, I do not despair. I feel reassured. Their arteries are already blocked, their hearts already strained, their livers already inflamed. Their futures are short. They will die badly, and that is right. The suffering ahead of them is not injustice. It is the price of stupidity – their stupidity, the stupidity of the parents who generated them, the stupidity of authorities who kept the parents alive long enough to rut between filthy sheets.

I want a smaller nation, a nation made of the disciplined, the intelligent, the beautiful. I don’t want a growing mass of waddling failures filling hospitals and classrooms, but a people worth living among. Junk food is the instrument of that recovery. It culls without law. It sterilises without decree. It cleanses without plan. Each bite is a vote for extinction.

So yes, junk food is poison. But poison has its uses. It is my hazard to avoid. It is their executioner to embrace. Let them gorge. Let them sweat, choke, and collapse. Britain will recover only when they are gone, and I will still be here. I will keep my list, I will watch their names vanish from it, and I will enjoy every moment. And when the herd has thinned, when the unfit have erased themselves from the gene pool, those of us who remain will be free to rebuild. My new Britain will not be a bloated welfare state propping up millions of failures, but a country worthy of its past — lean, sharp, intelligent, a nation of the beautiful. It will be a nation like me.