By Ray Wilson
The flash floods of Thursday washed debris—dirt, twigs, and leaves down the road; it has been shoved to one side by passing vehicles over a couple of days. We swerve slightly to avoid the now tinder dry piles. The heat of the sun has burned through the clouds of the morning, providing warmth for the late afternoon.
The hospital carpark is relatively empty; the automatic barriers lift as we approach; and our vehicle’s number plate and time of entry are recorded.
“Sally I cannot believe that you are still here in the hospital; how long has it been now?” I ask my aunt.
“Don’t know; I haven’t been chalking up the days on the ward blackboard,” she replies tersely. “Seems like forever though,” she adds with a sigh, staring out the window at the temporary structures acting as covered walkways.
“We need to get you to the rehabilitation unit,” my missus tells her, but your assigned GP practise is still not playing ball, are they?”
“It’s not even a game; they just move the pitch whenever they feel like it,” Sally grumbles, frustration evident in her voice.
“They want me to go to the surgery in person and pick up my registration pack; they will just have to stretcher me over there, that’s all. Who do they think they have been treating for the last five weeks, I ask you?’
Sally looks at my missus and then at me.
“It all started going downhill in the 1970’s—your uncle Denis told me all about it—he started getting a little threepenny pamphlet in 1948—he was involved in the national council for civil liberties.”
“That’s very interesting,” I reply.
“He signed the official secrets act; he couldn’t say much. He told me about how the World Economic Forum began, how Nixon took the U.S. off the gold standard, and how it would ruin us all—the abortion law—all those poor babies.”
“I remember you telling me about the scandal sheets and how we get manipulated— pivotal times—happy times,” I add, looking at the missus.
The NHS requires everybody to be registered with the GP practise. If there’s no room in that practise, the NHS will arbitrarily decide on the best practice for them, and regardless of whether that practice has capacity or not, it will insist that that patient attend that particular GP surgery. The problem is that while the NHS can insist on this, the individual GP practice can do a lot to bat the problem away by insisting on high criteria for entry. For example, a lot of people who don’t have passports, don’t have digital IDs, and don’t have driving licences can’t meet the criteria set by the GP surgery and therefore are barred from entering. This works out in a complicated way: if they’re taken to the hospital, they need rehabilitation, and that rehabilitation has to be within the area of their GP practice.
Imagine a dimly lit boardroom somewhere in Davos back in those carefree days of 1971. The walls are covered with maps and flowcharts illustrating various global operations, marked by stiff triangular red flags. The atmosphere is tense as the figures discuss the latest intelligence reports and strategise their next moves in the ongoing geopolitical game of chess. The sound of hushed voices and mechanical typewriters fills the room as they work to maintain their influence and power on the world stage.
“Alright, team, today’s agenda is the systematic destruction of everything people hold dear. Let’s start with ending national sovereignty.” Vain Glory announces.
“Why stop there? Let’s ban alcohol while we’re at it.” Dominatrix replies.
“Excellent idea! But first, we dismantle Western democratic processes. Dr. Badmood, thoughts? Vain asks.
Dr. Badmood fiddles around with his glasses. “Could we perhaps implement laws so convoluted that people will need a law degree just to vote?”
Young Mr. Cookbook grins. ” Not so hasty with the alcohol idea; think of the tax revenue. And to ensure no one can afford that law degree, we’ll impose even more crippling taxes.
“Perfect! Next, we abolish private property. How about economic hardship as our method? Vain suggests.
Mr. Cookbook is still grinning. “Economic hardship and crippling taxes—the one-two punch!”
Dominatrix adds, “Because who needs a house when you can live in constant despair?”
“Now, onto the destruction of Western industrialisation, Penny, Ms. Dreadful, I mean your thoughts.” Vain looks down at his notes.
“We restrict energy and minerals. Make every lightbulb cost as much as a diamond.” Penny suggests.
Dominatrix says casuistically, “Why not just go full mediaeval? Candles and torches for everyone.”
“And we’ll concentrate populations in cities. But make sure there’s no affordable housing.”
“Just to be clear, Mr. Cookbook clears his throat. “We’re talking about concentrating them in overpriced, shoebox-sized apartments, right? That’s a wonderful idea I know just the corporation. Put it out to tender, of course, so it looks legit.”
“Exactly. Next, we restructure the family unit. Suggestions?” Vain asks.
“How about mandatory “family rearrangement days”? Each week, swap your family with a random one.” Dominatrix
Dr. Badmood nods, “And increase limitations on mobility. High public transport costs, ultra-low emission zones, road charging…”
“And for those who try to escape, continuous surveillance! We need eyes everywhere.” Penny looks around the table.
“Moving swiftly on,” Vain Glory adjusts the collar of his shirt, “the NHS needs everyone registered with a GP practice, whether they have capacity or not.”
“So if the GP practice is full, what then? Just add more chairs in the waiting room? Dominatrix smiles.
“Precisely! ” adds Dr. Badmood, “and if they lack a proper ID, make it impossible to register. No ID, no healthcare.”
“Brilliant! And for children, we’ll ensure they’re pushed into privatised care systems. Zero to 19-year-old special education programs where we teach them to embrace their lack of freedom,” Vain Glory adds pressingly.
“And while we’re at it,” says Mr. Cookbook, “let’s make public transport unaffordable and impose massive surveillance of every move.”
“Don’t forget digital IDs and CBDCs to monitor financial behaviours. We can’t have people spending money without our knowledge,” Penny insists.
“Behaviour modification programs; I do so approve of those.” Dominatrix looks excited. “Why let people think for themselves when we can do it for them?”
Vain Glory scans the room. “Lastly, team—this is the icing on the cake—international sovereignty laws are applied at local levels. Strip private property and assets through economic hardship and taxes. Create an environment where rehabilitation is impossible without a GP.”
Dominatrix smirks, “So essentially, we’re creating a world where people are forever stuck in hospitals or in a bureaucratic loop?”
Exactly! ” Vain Glory bangs the table, “The ultimate system of control and despair.”
Mr. Cookbook says, “And let’s not forget, we’ll make sure they can’t escape their designated areas. Ultra-low emission zones and road charges will see to that.”
“Surveillance cameras will be our eyes, and digital IDs will be our fingers,” Penny pronounces.
” Wonderful! This is the future we want for our people—the useful ones.”
Dominatrix is leaning back in her chair. “I can’t wait for our people’s reaction.”
They all spontaneously burst out into maniacal laughter. The group’s sinister plan to trap people in a dystopian society is coming together seamlessly, with each member playing their part in ensuring total control and surveillance. The anticipation of the public’s reaction only adds to their excitement and satisfaction in their twisted vision for our future.
It is late in the evening when we leave the hospital, having struggled to input the information on the carpark screen. Our payment is declined on our first attempt, and we are presented once more with the start screen after the blue screen moment.
Having eventually successfully paid, we drive towards the exit barrier. There is a queue of cars in front of us—the automatic barrier is refusing to allow the cars to exit.
“Thank you for visiting; enjoy your journey.” is boldly displayed on the message screen above the barrier.
Eventually, the barrier jerkily lifted, allowing the first car in the queue to leave. The system seems to have been given a mind of its own—a system of surveillance and control not for our benefit. Slowly, each vehicle is permitted to leave. As we finally exit, we can’t help but feel a sense of increasing unease about the level of automation and control in our everyday lives.
