Why Anyone Can Be Daniel A. Bell

My Profile Photo
This is my story.

Who is Daniel A. Bell? The answer may seem simple at first: Daniel A. Bell is Daniel A. Bell.

But you would be wrong. Imagine a young man born and brought up in the UK, a man who later moved to China and who also happens to have many of Daniel A. Bell’s physical and emotional traits: a skinny build, a fondness for black rimmed glasses, and lurid fantasies that somehow involve the Chinese Communist Party being a meritocracy worth emulating. My real name might not be Daniel A. Bell, but I sure as hell like to tell people it is. I even wear traditional Chinese clothes when I’m with Chinese people dressed in suits.

Why can’t I be Daniel A. Bell?

Let’s reconsider my case. Like Daniel A. Bell I have Caucasian physical features, I have lived and worked in China for more than two decades, I speak the Chinese language, I identify with Chinese culture and I also have written complete and utter nonsense online. But almost no one considers me to be the real Daniel A. Bell. When I tried to enter Daniel A. Bell’s office in Tsinghua University I was rudely grabbed by the collar and thrown out onto the street.

Instances like these point to the difficulty with a view that is deeply ingrained in media outlets like The Financial Times, The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times and at least implicitly endorsed elsewhere: That only Daniel A. Bell can be Daniel A. Bell.

I have tried to feel welcomed and loved since I based my whole identity around Daniel A. Bell fifteen years ago. His wife is Chinese, and I’ve done my best to stalk her since the Bells arrived in China in 2004. One night, when Daniel A. Bell was out on the international lecture circuit talking about “Chinese Exceptionalism”, I broke into their house, put on Daniel A. Bell’s pyjamas, and crawled into bed next to Mrs. Bell. But before I could even warm her up by stroking her hair and telling her about the limits of democracy, she had called the police and once again I was rudely grabbed by the collar and thrown out onto the street.

Some people try to help. My British friends sometimes tell me that I am being a “Bell-end”. It’s meant as a compliment, but the implication is that I’m only a “bell-end”. I don’t want to be a bell-end. I want to be Daniel A. Bell.

My sexy glasses
Me. Yesterday.

The obstacles are not insurmountable. I moved to Montreal so that I could claim the same Canadian citizenship as Daniel A. Bell then later devoted my life to writing fawning articles about the Chinese Communist Party. It has been said that Daniel A. Bell brown-noses the Party leadership so much that “When Xi Jinping farts, Daniel A. Bell sneezes.” I am determined to do the same – and more. When Xi Jinping farts, I want to be covered in shit.

My failure so far to be recognised as the real Daniel A. Bell certainly isn’t due to any lack of commitment on my part to imitate Daniel A. Bell. I’ve been working on slagging off freedom and democracy for many years, and it inspires the way I lead my life. Every time my wife asks if she can leave the house I slap her round the face and tell her that freedom of movement is unnecessary within my meritocratic household. I’m told over and over that my commitment to being Daniel A. Bell is more “Bellish” than Daniel A. Bell himself. At conferences in China, I often find myself the only person who is willing to share a stage with Eric X. Li.

I understand Daniel A. Bell’s fear of other people claiming to be Daniel A. Bell. During my research on Daniel A. Bell I discovered that he was relentlessly bullied at school by bigger kids who would steal his glasses, put them on, and chant “I’m Daniel A. Bell! I’m Daniel A. Bell! I like Confucianism and I smell like hell!” Such bullying must have left deep mental scars for life.

But I also learnt that there have been times when Daniel A. Bell was more welcoming to others claiming his name. A close relative of his – who I now have tied up in my basement – related to me the tale of when one of Daniel A. Bell’s cousins bought him a beautiful golden bell for Christmas. Daniel A. Bell christened the bell “Daniel”, and when I once parked my car outside Daniel A. Bell’s house at three o’clock in the morning I saw through his window that he still possesses his treasured bell and has engraved upon its surface – “Daniel: A Bell.”

Despite these ups and downs, Daniel A. Bell has come through it all and stands today as the respected author of such great political books like the catchily-titled Confucian Perfectionism: A Political Philosophy for Modern Times. It is time he put the past behind him and accepted that other people also wish to be Daniel A. Bell… like me. Slicing off his skin and wearing it as a macabre “skin-suit” should not be punishable by the law, as I explained to the Shandong police just last week. It is unacceptable that in 2017 when so many victories have been won for people of colour, our LGBTQ allies and those that identify as gender-fluid, that nobody will recognise me as “Trans-Bell”.

Daniel A. Bell describes his view of the perfect government to be “meritocratic”. Perhaps it is time for Daniel A. Bell to heed his own advice. If other people are better at being Daniel A. Bell than Daniel A. Bell, then why shouldn’t they be Daniel A. Bell? That is my modest dream: to be viewed as Daniel A. Bell not just in my own mind but by the people responsible for payroll and salaries at the Wall Street Journal.

— Dr. Daniel A. Bell is dean of the school of political science and public administration at Shandong University and a professor at Tsinghua University. His most recent book is Party Members.

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This ABOMINATION was once published in a certain blog post called “Panda Hugger Top Trumps”. Disgusting.

Note: If you are confused as to what the hell this post may be talking about, perhaps this might help.

The Even Further Erotic Adventures of Xi Jinping!

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Previously, on http://www.arthurmeursault.com…

Parts 1 and 2

Part 3

Xi Jinping meets popular /r/China character James

Xi Jinping sat in his Audi A6 while trapped in the mother of all traffic jams somewhere near Beijing’s 4th ring road. To pass the time he was strumming his finger over Tantan profiles as quickly as a Baltimore crack whore flicking herself off on a “Black Girlz Gone Wild” video.

Xi was pretty depressed. He had given instructions to his personal chef to prepare him a delicious steak and strawberry jam sandwich for the journey. Looking at the sorry item in his tupperware container he could see that the chef had completely screwed up and added ketchup rather than jam. The bread didn’t even have any sugar in it. It was disgusting.

To cheer himself up, Xi reminded himself that he was head of the Communist Party and that, technically, he owned every piece of property in the entire country. He decided to drive off the ring road and go and collect rent from one of the 1,400,000,000,000 properties in his portfolio. There was one school in particular that he had in mind.

Wiping the ketchup off his special “rent collecting” windbreaker jacket, Xi knocked on the door of the Happy Giraffe English School. The cunts in these private English schools were raking it in, but Xi hadn’t seen a single People’s Money from them in years. As leader of the world’s oldest and most harmonious civilisation, Xi loved collecting money and pushing people around, so even now his jaundiced one-eyed python was twitching like a Cambodian orphan on a landmine. Hopefully the school would have a sexy receptionist that looked like Angelababy. Sadly, when the door opened his mounting erection shrank from the size of an autonomous province to the size of a mere special administrative region.

Standing before him was an awkward looking man-child with thick glasses hiding a pair of shifty looking eyes that resembled day old tea eggs in two small dishes of spunk. He looked like an idiot.

“Hello,” said the man. “My name is James.”

“Where’s the money?” demanded Xi. “I want my fucking rent.”

“We have no money, Mr Jinping Sir,” stammered James. “We just spent our last remaining petty cash on installing a new school bell. Would you like to hear it?”

“Go on then,” said Xi.

James looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, you can’t. It’s broken. Would you like to look at a photo of my blue Geely hatchback instead? I’d show you the real thing but the security guards towed it away for parking it by the trucks. They’re stupid.”

Xi pushed aside the idiotic Director of Administration and barged his way into the school. In a fit of rage, he tore the school bell from the wall and crushed it beneath his extremely well polished shoe. Next, he tore off his windbreaker jacket and clothes and allowed the stale air of the crumbling property to encircle his glistening skin like flies around shit. He looked across at the cowering man in the corner – his eyes showed more fear than an average foreigner confronted with the characters 南海路 – and he felt his cock grow to epic proportions.

“If I can’t have my money, I’ll have you instead!”

James needed no encouragement. He had earlier finished half a bottle of Tsingtao and was as pissed as Uncle Ganbei on New Year’s Eve. James quickly whipped off his trousers to reveal a groinal area that was covered in pubic hair so black and so dense that Xi Jinping thought he was looking at Harambe as a child.

“Chairman Xi,” said the newly eroticised James. “I must insist that if you are to take me that we do it in a harmonious and patriotic fashion. Perhaps we can roleplay? I can pretend to be Taiwan, and you can be the Motherland rightfully reclaiming me?”

“Let’s do it,” roared the author of the Art of Governance.

Before James knew what had hit him, Xi Jinping reached out to him like the Port of Dandong reaches out to the world. Xi bent James over and was banging his arsehole like Ringo Starr on the drums during the final section of Ticket to Ride.

“Do you accept the One China policy?” growled the former head of the Communist Youth League.

“Yes! There is only one China and I’m an inalienable part of it!” cried James.

“Do you acknowledge the sovereignty of the Communist Party?”

“Yes! Drive your PLA tank through my streets of Taipei, beloved Chairman!”

Mere seconds later, Xi Jinping pulled out of James’ arsehole which now resembled the flag of Japan. And not the current flag of Japan either – the old one with all the rays coming out of it. Aiming at James’ head, the Chairman spunked a nine-dash line all over his face. As he stood over James, his cock now an empty shell and his balls hanging like punctured leather footballs, he felt he had made significant steps in bridging political divides. And getting his dick covered in shit.

“Thanks for the reunification debate, but I still want my money next week.” Xi pulled on his windbreaker jacket. He bent over the spunk-covered wreck that was James and was all ready to whisper “Harmony” in his ear and pat him on the fanny, when he noticed a young foreign man in the corner of the room holding a Coolpad.

“Who is that?” asked Xi.

James looked up. “Oh, that’s /u/Chinahandy – he’s this guy that follows me around and writes made-up stories about me online.”

“Oh yeah,” replied Xi. “I’ve got one of those guys too.”

The End

***

If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

An Open Letter to the Woman Who Asked Me If I Could Eat Spicy Food

crying
Me. Yesterday.

Dear Madam:

Maybe I should have let it go. Turned my big laowai nose elsewhere. I had just gotten out of a 24-hour spa and massage centre, and I was with some friends on the Upper East Side of Shijiazhuang’s hip and happening Museum of Hebei district. Yes, I was surprised to learn that there is a Museum of Hebei too. Whatever. That isn’t the point. We were going to lunch, trying to see if there was room in the Chongqing-style hot pot restaurant down the street. You were in a rush. It was raining. Or perhaps it was sunny. It’s hard to tell because either type of weather means you’d have your umbrella and your privilege up. This gaggle of laowai was in your way.

But I was, honestly, stunned when you saw us make towards the hot pot restaurant and tapped me on the shoulder to ask, “老外,你能吃辣吗?”

I am not a bigot, so I will not assume that some people cannot read the Chinese characters I just typed. Perhaps they can. Perhaps they cannot. Let’s just not base our assumptions on the colour of their skin or their accent. However, for the benefit of those who cannot read Chinese characters, I will help here by saying that the woman asked “Foreigner, can you eat spicy food?” Not knowing that doesn’t make you a worse person. Knowing that doesn’t make you a better person. Can’t we all just get along? Jesus…

Anyway.

I hesitated for a second and then turned to confront you. That must have startled you. You probably weren’t even expecting that I could understand you. I have become accustomed to that.

But you didn’t stop there.

You then pointed to me and asked “Can you use chopsticks?”

It was comical, in retrospect. In a civilised country you would have been rightly arrested and had your life and career destroyed for such disrespectful bigotry. However, here nobody challenges or stops to check their privilege. Instead you just continued your hate crimes, pointing at the hot pot pictures and doubting whether I could eat the chilli peppers or not.

“I can eat lots of spicy food!” I yelled back. “Even the McSpicy burger at McDonalds!”

It felt silly. But how else to prove I belonged?

This was not my first encounter, of course, with racist food insults in China. Ask any Caucasian-Chinese, and they’ll readily summon memories of waiters bringing them knives and forks, or disturbing encounters at the grocery store when the shop assistant suggests we try the cheese. When I posted on Twitter about what happened, an avalanche of people replied back to me with their own experiences. But I couldn’t see their responses because this is China and I don’t have a VPN.

Walking home later, a pang of sadness welled up inside me. And it wasn’t the inevitable diarrhoea following three hours of all-you-can-eat spicy hot pot.

You had on a nice winter coat – even though it was 28 degrees and you were sweating profusely. But I accept your tradition of believing that winter clothes must be worn after a certain date regardless of the actual temperature. I don’t make an issue out of it. I accept. Your iPhone was a 6 Plus. iPhones are designed in the West so technically you had appropriated my culture by using one, but again – I accepted. I tolerated. You could have been a fellow customer in other restaurants that I regularly dine at. Like KFC. Or Pizza Hut. You seemed, well, normal. You probably even write in extremely short sentences. Just like I do. It just feels better that way. But you also had these other feelings in you, and, the reality is, so do a lot of people in this country right now.

Maybe you don’t know this, but the insults you hurled at my ability to eat spicy food got to the heart of the Caucasian-Chinese experience. It’s this persistent sense of otherness that a lot of us struggle with every day. That no matter what we eat, how much mapo tofu we can handle, how much diarrhoea we get, our stomachs don’t belong. We’re foreign. We’re not Chinese. It’s one of the reasons that everybody thinks I only eat hamburgers and hot dogs for breakfast. That and the fact that I’m morbidly obese and have type-two diabetes. “Why are you so fat?” Chinese people always ask me. Now we can add fat-shaming to your list of sins.

Wow.

I fled the United Kingdom for China because I was tired of bland food. I struggled to overcome a diet of fish and chips so that I could eat the types of spicy food that I truly identified with. I’m trans-spiced. I came to this land for the hot pot. For the Kung Pao Chicken. For the McSpicy. I even came here for the diarrhoea. Model minority, indeed.

Yet somehow I still often feel like an outsider.

And I wonder if that feeling will ever go away. Not the feeling of diarrhoea (that never goes away), but the feeling of otherness. My stomach is not your exotic curio. Don’t “other” my tastebuds. Work with me for the day when we can all have a hot pot… together.

But, afterward, my 7-year-old daughter, who witnessed the whole thing, kept asking my wife, “Why did she ask, ‘Can you eat spicy food?’ We’re not even eating spicy food anyway.”

No, we’re not, my wife said, and she tried to explain that the reason we decided not to go to the hot pot restaurant after all and instead go to McDonalds was because she found a voucher in her purse for 50% off all Big Macs that expires next week.

Your father spends most of his money on alcohol, she told my daughter. We choose where we eat based on price, not spiciness. But sometimes people don’t understand that.

I hope you do now.

Sincerely,

Arthur Meursault

(If you’re lucky enough to not know what the hell I am talking about you can head to the New York Times and read this drivel)

***

If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

The Further Erotic Adventures of Xi Jinping

If you enjoyed our previous instalment of erotic mishaps featuring the lovable Xi Jinping, then I have a treat for you: here’s another one. This one is entitled “The Chairman and The Tailor”.

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Reporters without borders… and country leaders without SEXUAL borders! Phwoar!

 

Xi Jinping, leader of the world’s largest (and some say – best) Communist Party had a little known secret: he always felt uncomfortable unless he was wearing a windbreaker jacket or just stark bollock naked. Hence, it was with some trepidation when he walked into the Wangfujing branch of Uniqlo. He needed a new jacket for a global meeting on carbon emissions he was speaking at and he wanted to make sure that he looked the fucking shit. Last time, the Prime Minister of Japan had upstaged him with a strapless manbag and Lacoste belt. It would not happen again.

“If you could slip out of your jacket, Mr Xiaoping” entoned the fay shop assistant. “We’ll let you try some of the new stock on” “It’s Jinping” said Xi Jinping as his laugh filled the cluttered shop like an arsehole on creampie.com.

Xi Jinping threw aside the windbreaker and unbuckled his $$$888RICHBOSS888$$$ brand belt letting his trousers fall. The fabric rushed past his polished four-incher leaving him standing naked. The rarefied air of the clothes shop brushed against his black and curlies like a fart in a spacesuit and for a moment he felt like a yellow Messiah.

“Miss Rainy will measure you up” said the shop assistant as he disappeared out back to masturbate and cry.

Rainy strolled into the room and immediately Xi Jinping felt a twinge in his government organ. She was wearing a little black dress which he knew concealed a fantastic pair of tits and almost certainly a cunt so tight it ate at Dicos.

“Just relax, Sir, while I measure your inside leg” she said with a Hunanese accent richer than a Guinness fuelled laduzi session. As Xi Jinping felt the cold metal of the tape measure climb up his leg, he could feel his Party Member fill with blood quicker than a tampon on the first day.

Before he knew it, Miss Rainy was rubbing his growing concern like a FOB Tim swiping his CoolPad and wondering why he can’t find any Pokemon Go in Hohhot. She pulled apart her dress to expose her smooth white skin, epic boobs and a fanny more hairy than the floor of a busy barber shop at closing time. She had a 5/8 manjaw. “What a shame she isn’t flatter,” sighed Xi.

He ploughed into her like a K Train and plunged his now diamond hard cock into her like he was staking Dracula. Within hours it was over, Miss Rainy a useless pile of tit, minge and spunk and Xi Jinping panting and sweating like a multiple rapist.

Xi Jinping rolled up his massive cock and pulled on his windbreaker. “What about the new jacket, Mr President?” breathed Rainy.

“Fuck it. I’ll wear me old windbreaker. Do you know the President of the US is a black man?” roared Xi as he bent down over her bloodless torso, whispered “Harmony” in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End

***

If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

Xi Jinping Sex Stories

I was jerking about on Reddit recently and wrote these dirty little stories featuring everybody’s favourite Communist dictator Xi Jinping. Thought they were entertaining enough to feature here as well. Enjoy.

1: XI JINPING GOES TO A MASSAGE PARLOUR

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I AM YOUR CHINA DREAM!!!

Xi Jinping sat in his Audi A6 as it passed through the car wash humming the theme tune of “Without the Communist Party, there is no new China”. All the windows were soaped up and no one could see in so, for the briefest moments, he thought about having a wank. But his daughter was in the back so he decided against it.

After dropping her off at school, Xi Jinping was at a loss as to how to fill his day. He was delivering a motivational speech to a bunch of spastics tonight at the Global Times so he didn’t want to overdo it. He felt a twinge in his back. It had been aching since him and Bo Xilai had wrestled naked in front of a roaring fire at Bo’s 12 million RMB mansion in Chongqing. Xi had smashed a porcelain bust of Bo Guagua and he had had to leave.

Before he knew it he was at a massage parlour and had paid his 100 RMB entry. Before he could get to the changing rooms he slipped out of his navy windbreaker and could feel the fragrant steam of the sauna tickle his massive balls like a poacher under a trout.

He applied a towel to his lower torso, barely able to conceal his pulsating fleshy fire hydrant. He stepped into the room and lay down on the pleather massage table pushing his face through the hole and letting his cock hang over the side.

Behind him the door opened and Xi’s pussy senses were raised to Severe. The aroma of chicken and sweetcorn soup and whelks hit him like a steam train and he knew right then that he would sire another child.

Small hands covered in oil began to explore his muscular, egg coloured bodywork. As the girl’s hands reached his proud buttocks he tried everything in his power to hold back a huge fart he had been brewing since he’d parked in the multistorey car park.

When the girl slipped a greasy little finger up his brown eye he let out a yelp and nearly roared “Harmony!” but he stopped himself. The hands of the girl motioned him to turn over, which he duly did.

His eyes found a young Chinese girl wearing a little white tunic which he knew concealed a pair of juicy little boobs and almost certainly a clunge as ripe as a week-old banana. As he lay on his back, blood rushed into his veiny Tower of Pisa quicker than an old woman into a FamilyMart on Free Rice Day. He lay there looking like a drawing pin as the girl starting applying more and more oil. He was so hard and tall that he worried slightly that the price of oil may be affected by his erection.

Her tiny hands kneeded his giant oak and at one point Xi half thought she was an Ewok trying to climb a Giant Red on Endor. He leapt up and ripped open her tunic revealing, as he had suspected, a gorgeous set of two tits, nipples as dark as Dove Chocolate and a pussy so wet and hairy he was reminded of Mario during one of the water levels.

He dived into her like a released rapist and set about plunging into every orifice that was available and some that were not. Within hours he was on his final strokes and let rip with such a gush of spunk that the poor girl tried in vain to make a call to the Japanese coastguard.

Spent, sweating and panting Xi untangled his yawning cock and slipped on his windjacket. The girl, who later from police reports he found was called Hi Tide Run, lay on the floor, a shredded mess of manfat, baby oil, matted hair and rice. Xi looked at his Casio watch/calculator and saw that the spastic thing started in 20 minutes. He bent down over the meal he had just demolished, whispered “Harmony” in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

2: XI JINPING MEETS ANGELABABY

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Erm… something about Xi Jinping and fisting…

Xi Jinping scaled the walls of the 13 million RMB Pudong condominium with all the stealth of a gekko on a Shenzhen shower wall. As luck would have it the window was open. He dropped in and slipped out of his windbreaker jacket and let the cool air caress his polished skin.

The house was quiet. He looked into one room and saw the sleeping Huang Xiaoming – handsome star of many famous Chinese TV shows and films that I cannot name right now. Without the wig and wax on his face he was rather beautiful. But Xi Jinping wasn’t into arses. Not today.

He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. He ran along the landing, his giant cock swinging in the air like Hilary Clinton’s neck after a Trump Presidential win. He looked into the bathroom and saw a tired wrinkled old woman cleaning the toilet floor with a cloth. Xi Jinping was disappointed. This wasn’t the Angelababy who he had masturbated over into an oven glove. The reality was some old crone who he suspected had breasts like a nong’s luggage at Chinese New Year and a cunt as wide and useless as the One Road One Belt project.

“Xi!” said a voice behind him. “Stop looking at my ayi with your cock out”.

Xi Jinping slowly turned around and saw Angelababy in front of him – wearing nothing but a Hello Kitty one-piece and the slightest glistening of her ample vagina. It was dripping like a burst xiaolongbao with a clit as thick as Xi’s own collection of quotes on the governance of China.

As ever Xi’s cock became harder than the gaokao exam and proceeded to bang Angelababy’s tits off as the ayi ate a bag of sunflower seeds from the floor that Xi had brought just in case.

Before Xi left he wiped his now dying cock on the hungry ayi, and bent down to the prone Angelababy, who had been covered in his man-gravy like pumpkin spice powdered over a fempat’s latte. Xi softly whispered “Harmony” in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

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Angelababy: Loves a fanny patting

***

If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

Trolling the Global Times

You can always rely on the Global Times to publish the biggest load of shit imaginable.

Recently we have had a whole saga featuring some clickbait “journalist” and her experiences with the Global Times. YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! NUMBER THREE WILL SHOCK YOU! However, that is a story for another day. Today we are focusing on the latest xenophobic drivel to be smeared across the pages of the Global Times like rat poison is smeared over the windows of a registered sex offender.

This week in the murky world of Communist mouthpieces, some brainless fucking moron has written a frothing anti-foreigner piece about – surprise, surprise – foreign men preying on defenceless Chinese women. Her name is Wang Han and if you really want to throw a click her way (she’s probably paid 50 cents for each one) you can read the original article here. However, I’d recommend not polluting your eyes by looking at the Global Times website and looking instead at the article which I have copied and pasted below. Looking at the Global Times is seriously bad for your health. It’s like looking at the sun, but instead of a giant ball of flame, it is a giant ball of dogshit. And we all know that playing with dogshit leads to blindness. You’d be safer drinking cold water.

Here we go:

 

An expat-made video audaciously titled “Are Chinese girls easy?” was recently unearthed and analyzed by Guancha.cn, reigniting the passe debate about predatory foreigners in China.

In the video, South African-born Winston Sterzel, 35, who claims to be “China’s original vlogger,” says that many Chinese women see Western males as wealthier than their Chinese counterparts, which makes it easy for foreigners to get these girls into bed.

“Are Chinese girls easy? Yes, they are,” the dapper Sterzel authoritatively states right at the start. “But it depends on the kind of foreigner you are. If you’re black, Indian, any kind of dark-skinned race, forget about it.”

The borderline-racist video’s reemergence follows a spate of seemingly anti-foreign-predator sentiment, including a “Dangerous Love” comic warning Chinese women about handsome foreign men being spies.

By comparison, beer-swilling Serpentza’s (Sterzel’s avatar as a Shenzhen-based expat) rant seems more like a bitter foreigner who just got dumped by his Chinese girlfriend. But the points which he ticks off throughout his 2011-filmed video – that most Chinese girls come from poor villages and that we start talking about marriage within the first month of dating – are severely outdated.

As a single, post-90s generation Chinese female, I laugh at Sterzel’s supercilious assumption that we are all just a bunch of peasants who arrive in urban cities like Shanghai en masse to seek out wealthy-husbands. On the contrary, China’s leftover women – older, career-minded females who don’t mind putting off marriage in order to pursue their profession – have become such a phenomenon that books have been written about it. I guess Sterzel doesn’t read much.

Sterzel really flatters himself by believing that we are all so desperate for money or overseas green cards to escape China that we’d hop in bed with the first Caucasian who crosses our paths. In fact, while I was studying for my Master’s of English Literature in the UK a couple of years ago, I had no desire to date local men. The fact that I was already studying abroad rendered moot any yearning for a green card.

Even though I was surrounded by obviously well-off Western students, never did I once deign to hook up with one. Our cultural differences were simply too vast for us to have any kind of deep relationship. The fact that I knew I’d be returning to China to pursue my journalism career meant that, even if I did go on dates, I wouldn’t have been optimistic about our future. Why, then, would I want to spend my weekends fending off the advances of white guys?

Most of my Chinese classmates in the UK – I’d say 90 percent of them – felt the same as I did. If we were in the mood for male companionship, we went out with a Chinese guy. Conversing in our mother tongue with someone from a similar cultural background made dating so much simpler.

One of my pretty Chinese gal pals in the UK, Crystal, dared to date a British. He relentlessly invited her to take afternoon tea, and they eventually started seeing each other exclusively, but not once in their four-month relationship did she sleep with him. She eventually returned to China with her virtue still intact.

Another of Sterzel’s ludicrous points is that Chinese men are incapable of being monogamous, which, he says, drives Chinese women into the arms of Westerners, but which also makes us all “clingy, jealous and mistrusting.” On the contrary, I’d say that Chinese girls generally prefer to date men from China because they take marriage more seriously. Comparing the divorce rates of China and the West, the proof is in the statistics that China has less instances of infidelity.

Part of the reason why expats in China such as Sterzel may perceive local girls to be easy is that most of them spend their free time in bars and nightclubs which, by nature, host singles seeking casual encounters. But If foreigners are truly seeking a chaste Chinese girl to date and possibly marry, then maybe they should try getting out and about in real China rather than hanging out in clubs or sitting in front of computers making silly videos.

I don’t know about you but such nonsense is actually painful for me to read. If I was to be given the choice between reading this article again or inserting a golf umbrella into my urethra – I wouldn’t even ask if the golf umbrella was opened or closed. I’d say “Stick that fucking umbrella down my fucking Jap’s eye right now.” That’s how bad this article is.

Where to even start with this turd of an article? I’m personally from the Islamic Republic of Great Britain and I can’t even imagine where this girl managed to find the last remaining Victorian gentleman in Britain. Oh! The horror of constant invites to an afternoon tea! The people in England I know wouldn’t have invited her out for tea: they’d have got her drunk on industrial-strength cider and fingered her behind the rubbish bins of a burnt-out McDonalds. If you wanted further proof that this article is ludicrous, just look at this sentence:

“On the contrary, I’d say that Chinese girls generally prefer to date men from China because they take marriage more seriously. Comparing the divorce rates of China and the West, the proof is in the statistics that China has less instances of infidelity.”

Men from China take marriage more seriously? Is that how Wang Han describes it when her boyfriend only gets a handjob and not full sex from a KTV xiaojie? I took my marriage to a six year old girl pretending to be the Virgin Mary more seriously when I was in my primary school Nativity play.

Anyway, just for shits and giggles I found out the email address of this typist journalist. Promptly I sent her the following email:

Subject: DO YOU DARE TO DATE A BRITISH?

Good day Rainy!
As an Englishman I was interested to read your recent article in the Global Times because it is an English language newspaper and English is the only language I understand.
I was happy to see that your journalism career has got off to a flying start writing articles in the well-respected and totally not-shit Global Times about why western men are bad. However, I was sad to hear that you won’t date one of The Descendants of The Bulldog as I’ve seen your photo on your Linkedin profile and you’re at least a 6 out of 10, maybe even a 7 if you have the latest version of Photoshop.
I can understand your reasons. Chinese men do take marriage more seriously: I was told just the same by my good friend Yang Wei while he was in KTV last night hanging out the back of a girl from Hunan. Yet despite our vast cultural differences, is there any chance I can persuade you to dare date a British? I promise that I won’t pester you to drink tea and I will make sure your virtue remains intact. Let’s just go to a coffee shop and hold hands.
Awaiting your reply,
A BRITISH MAN
Let’s see the Global Times defend its self-proclaimed reputation as being a beacon of investigative journalism. Hopefully our friend will get in touch. If she does, I’ll publish the updates here.

Please help a young middle-class Westerner in China

The Annual Meursault Charity Appeal

Please read below to find out how YOU can help a young middle-class Westerner in China.

This is Tim:

student
“Do you like my scarf? It’s made from Fair Trade Wool. Is yours?”

Tim is 26 years old and lives in Suzhou. He comes from a loving family and graduated with a second-class degree in East Asian Studies  from Loughborough University. Although he looks healthy, Tim is deeply troubled and in urgent need of help. For you see, Tim is a middle-class white man, and living in China is not easy for him.

All over China, young middle-class westerners like Tim are forced to work in the most humiliating and working-class conditions imaginable, and often have little comfort apart from a bi-monthly parcel from home containing packets of Yorkshire Tea, Custard Creams and old copies of The Guardian. Bored with their comfortable lifestyles back home, middle class expats like Tim often find a strange emptiness tugging at their hearts after graduation. Though they’ve been trained all their lives to go straight into investment banking after university, an overly liberal set of morals and too many nights spent smoking pot and watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon instills a sense of guilt so great that they simply must pack everything up and move to China.

However, on arrival in China, they sadly find less than middle-class conditions awaiting them:

  • Some middle-class westerners are forced to teach for upwards of TWO hours without a break for a nice sit down and a cup of tea.
  • Middle-class youths are sometimes placed in provinces which contain hardly any stores selling cheese, and often have to make do with inferior Chinese red wine as their only solace.
  • Even developed cities like Shanghai and Beijing are lacking in shops selling wind chimes, guitar picks, and pictures of Jim Morrison. One unfortunate middle-class student in Beijing People’s University had to resort to decorating his room with photos of India, when he knew for a fact that somebody in the corridor opposite had the exact same photographs.
  • Traditional British middle-class games like hockey, rugby, and cricket are virtually unheard of in China, and middle-class males have no alternative but to watch more working-class games like football and racism.
  • Chinese apartments are generally small and under-heated, creating an atmosphere unsuitable for holding candlelit dinner parties where the host can offer guests his homemade paté.
  • China ranks only 154th out of all the countries in the world in its number of horse-faced young women talking about shoes in pretentious coffee shops whilst sipping imported Pumpkin Spice Lattes- a disgusting figure in this day and age.
winestudent
“Oh, the things we endure for this internship opportunity!”

The statistics speak for themselves: 87% of middle-class westerners eventually leave China and return to jobs in accountancy firms; perhaps only mentioning China again in an effort to pull that new girl in Human Resources at the Christmas Party. The other 13% often remain bitter and discontented in China: reduced to talking about left-wing political ideals when drunk and establishing expat cycling clubs. Some even start writing blogs.

Though this blog is first and foremost a working man’s blog, we extend the hand of friendship out to our middle-class brethren and appeal for your help. Over seven people have read this blog, and if each one of them could contribute even one yuan, we would have at least seven yuan. Take a look at what your money could bring:

  • Just 55 RMB would be enough for a male middle-class westerner to drink a pint of Boddingtons in some bars, or a good cappuccino for a middle-class female. This would enable them to sigh contentedly, make an exaggerated gesture of satisfaction, and proclaim it’s better than the Chinese crap they’ve been drinking for the last two months.
  • Just 100 RMB would be enough to buy a Christmas Card which declares on the reverse that all of the company’s proceeds go to charity, which can maintain a correct and healthy level of pretentiousness in a middle-class expat for a full year.
  • 200 RMB can provide a middle-class westerner with a two-day old copy of The Guardian on Sunday which they can then read in full and quote as their own opinions.
  • For only 8500 RMB we can send at least one middle-class westerner on a return trip to Surrey, where they can walk around green fields with the family dog and frequent wine bars for a whole week. One lucky middle-class male on his last trip home even managed to quote enough bullshit about China in an Irish theme pub that a neighbouring executive offered him a low-level consultancy position at PriceWaterhouseCoopers!
  • A mere 20,000 RMB a month can house a family of middle-class westerners in a community where they can meet like-minded middle-class families. Not only does this satisfy accommodation needs, but it also leads to bored housewives setting up charity cake bakes and Christmas Carol Choirs which revitalise expat communities.
HHH
“What do you MEAN expat bubble? I’m wearing a fucking 2008 Beijing Olympics shirt!”

So come on, readers! Dig deep into your pockets and do your best to help a middle-class expat near you! Proceeds can be sent to my offshore bank account registered in the Cayman Islands. Tim really needs your help.

Thank you and take care. And I do mean take care.

Meursault.

(This blog post is based on an original blog post I wrote back in 2007. The bastard was called Charlie in those days.)

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If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.