Event 202 – The White Rose UK

By Ray Wilson

My hound is getting animated as we eventually leave the riverside path; she tugs excitedly on her lead as we near the town centre. I am meeting up with my missus at her friend’s shop.

“Hello, lovely girl,” Debbie says as my hound propels herself at warp speed across the wooden shop floor, skidding to a stop in front of Debbie and sitting expectantly. Debbie chuckles and reaches down to give my hound a pat on the head, commenting on how energetic she is.

“Here’s a picnic jumble—you like your back rubbed, don’t you?”

“Your missus will be back in a minute; she’s gone to get something or other in town—she told me all about your exploits with the motorbike on the way in.”

“I have had a few customers this morning—my American lady was on about the avian flu; apparently there’s a buzz around it—a big summit in Washington in October.”
She told me their government has already funnelled nearly $200 million into Moderna’s mRNA avian flu shot. H5N1 has only infected three people with mild cases so far.”

“They are getting ready to do it again, aren’t they?” I reply, “It’s Event 202, the new Plandemic due to begin early next year.”

“I do hope not,” Debbie says with a worried expression. “It seems like we’re always on the brink of another crisis,” she adds, shaking her head.

“My American lady was surprised there are so many young women with babies around town—she thought it was unusual.”

“You know what really frustrates the hell out of me?”

“What’s that, Debbie?”

“Those young women-pushing their buggies-babies in papoose slings—none of them have ever worked or have a job.”

“Well, they think they are exploiting the government system when the reverse is true,” I say.

” The thing is,” Debbie says, looking exasperated and feeling the heat. The oscillating floor fan blows cooling air, and the door of the shop is open, letting a hot breeze blow in off of the pavement. “The thing is, they are ecstatic if their child gets diagnosed as autistic,” she continues, her frustration evident in her voice. “They get extra money from the government if their child is on the spectrum.”

“Would they be as happy if they were born with seal flippers instead of arms and legs?”
The thalidomide scandal back in the late 1950s and early 1960s is all but forgotten. More than 10,000 children across 46 different countries were born with deformities, including the malformation of limbs; thalidomide damages the eyes, ears, and brains of children. The nefarious and duplicitous actions of Pharmakeia have escalated stratospherically since then—the pharmaceutical industrial complex has extended its tentacles—and they have slivered into every aspect of human existence. As there is profit in endless war, the same methodology applies to endless sickness.
A few hours earlier, we—me, the missus, and our hound—had rolled into town on the motorcycle combination.
“What was that?” The missus shouted as we approached the traffic lights.
“It’s the clutch; the cable has broken.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Let’s roll down the hill.” I hop off and run with the machine to overcome the inertia.
There is a steep incline on the approach to the carpark-I am pushing the combination and steering; the missus is pushing the back of the sidecar; the hound is simply flummoxed.
“Excuse me, sir, could you give us a push?”
The smartly attired gentleman joins my missus, and, with a massive collective effort, we push the motorcycle combination up the steep incline and park up.

“Thank you,” I begin to say, but the gentleman is walking back down the hill.
It’s a strange case of déjà vu. The clutch cable broke three years ago in this town in fact, in virtually the same place—but later in the year. I remember that it was a bright, cold day in early December. I recall it in graphic detail for many reasons, not least that it was our oldest son’s birthday.

That time I had tried to fix it; during 2020, many shops were shut, but you could knock and collect from the independent shops; some shop owners were in situ with lights on, but the shop was officially shut, but if you knocked and pointed, you could hand over some cash and collect.
Bo Jo had, at that time, been demonstrating the correct procedure of hand washing to the Happy Birthday tune—was it repeated twice or thrice? The toilet facilities, however, were closed in most of the towns we visited and garlanded with colourful black and yellow tape.

In the end, we had to call the “fourth” emergency service—an obligatory 5-minute recorded message that explained all the procedures during COVID. Only one person was in the cab of the recovery vehicle; other passengers would have to travel separately; the explanation was sketchy on details. Later, I penned a letter to the managing director, pointing out the ridiculous deficiencies of their telephone response during the COVID fiasco— should they not have gotten the details of the incident first.? What if my phone died? What if it was a lone woman and child on a dangerous, hard shoulder? What if their failure to respond appropriately resulted in injury or death?

We got hold of our oldest son; we were intending to call in to see him anyway that evening, and he picked up my missus and our hound.

The street lights had come on, and the temperature was dropping when the recovery vehicle manoeuvred slowly into the car park.

“They always call on me; I specialise in motorcycle recoveries. Let’s get this loaded.”

“You have a passenger and a dog with you,” he inquires, looking around.

“Our son picked them up an hour ago; he lives a few miles away; it’s his birthday; he didn’t really want to come out,” I tell him.

“O, oh mate,” he says, “there’s room in my cab for your wife and dog. I would have taken you all. I don’t believe in the Con vid nonsense.”

And so it goes. My son and his wife are fully signed up members of the cult of Covidians. That day changed the dynamics of our lives—no longer was there easy repartee. The joy was sucked out of our relationship; thick, impenetrable fear and suspicion replaced it. The divide between those who take government propaganda and those who do not has created tension in many relationships, including ours. It’s a challenging time to navigate differing beliefs and priorities.
Ideas from the past colour our future—the government sees us as pliable imbeciles, and that’s exactly how they want it to remain. The gift of the COVID era is the ability to live fearlessly.

“You know,” I muse, “the struggle with the motorcycle —it’s a lot like life.”
Debbie looks puzzled. “How so?”

“Well, it’s about being present in the moment and dealing with what’s in front of you. The broken clutch cable, the incline, asking for help—it all brings you into the now .”

“Ting Tong mediation ” Debbie says in an exaggerated, inscrutable oriental accent.

“Not just meditation,” I reply, ” although motorcycle riding is a therapy. It’s a way of seeing the world and finding peace in the mechanical and the mundane. Like fixing the bike or pushing it up the hill. Greasy hands and fitting the temporary clutch cable nipple. It’s about learning from the past and being prepared for the future, especially when it comes to government deceptions like Event 201. It’s about the journey, not just the destination.”
Debbie nods slowly. “I guess those women with the buggies have their own journeys too, even if we don’t understand them.”

“Everyone’s got their own ride to maintain, I suppose.”

“We cannot choose external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them—I for one will not be doing masks, lockdowns, and jabs ever again,” Debbie concludes.

“Here she is,” Debbie announces in a loud voice as my missus appears in the shop doorway.

“Don’t say that I never get you anything,” she says, smiling broadly and handing me a set of King Dick spanners.

“I got them at the flea market. You never know when you will need them.”