By Ray Wilson
Golden Apples
London, September 9 (Reuters) Britain recorded its hottest day of 2023 so far on Saturday, with provisional data showing a high of 33.2 degrees Celsius (91.8 degrees Fahrenheit) at London’s Kew Gardens. This year’s previous high was 32.6 C, reached on Thursday.
“Happy Birthday, dad,” I say as I breeze in; it’s early but set to be a scorcher.
It’s a pity that we can’t bottle it and open it up in the bleak midwinter and let the warmth and sunlight flood out,” my dad says.
“That’s a fantastic plan, dad. Save on the electricity bills.”
“Remember that book, The Golden Apples of the Sun?”
“Ray Bradbury, yeah, you gave it to me to read when we arrived from New Zealand”” I chuckle as the memories come back.
“There’s a story about a captain going to the sun to bring back a jar of sunlight, but I can’t remember it all now—a long time ago.” His voice trails off.
The 1918 flu epidemic claimed two family members for Ray Bradbury. The main themes of his debut novel, Dark Carnival (1947), which was released when he was just 27 years old, were mortality, loneliness, and letting go. Themes that reflected his personal experiences with loss and grief, as well as his fascination with the fragility of life. In Dark Carnival, Bradbury explores the human condition and the inevitability of death, creating a haunting and introspective atmosphere throughout the novel. He cautions that the disastrous years, which included a collapsing economy, social isolation, hospital overcrowding, and quarantines, must never be forgotten. There was more disease among the vaccinated soldiers than among the unvaccinated population. Paralysis was a common effect of the 1918 vaccine campaign. Some might assert that the 1918 flu wasn’t a flu at all; it was a pandemic among the vaccinated.
My brother makes us all hot drinks of tea to apparently keep us cool, and we reminisce and talk about science fiction. It doesn’t exactly seem like science fiction now that we are all starring in an adventure movie that we really didn’t want to be in. As we sip our tea, the conversation shifts to the irony of our current situation. We discuss how life has a way of turning ordinary moments into extraordinary experiences, just like the stories we used to read.
“Well, we can all relax,” Rich tells me.
“It says here,” Rich clears his throat, squints his eye, and makes his best attempt at a Patrick Moore impression: “No large asteroids are expected to strike Earth in the next 100 years. The 1,100-foot (340-metre)-diameter asteroid 99942 Apophis, which was expected to come perilously close to Earth in 2068, had the highest chance of crashing into the planet. April 6, 2023”
“Phew, that was close,” I say, mopping my brow.
We had been talking about the Vogons, a hypothetical extraterrestrial race from the planet Vogsphere, who destroyed Earth in order to assist in the building of an intergalactic highway for a hyperspace express route who are characterised as “one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy—not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious, and callous.”
“They sound preferable to the global government we have at the moment,””I said.
“How is old Aunt Sally doing?” Rich asks. Okay, I popped in to see her. All the residents have been given a letter advising her that the autumn COVID vaccinations will be distributed soon with the offer of a flu vaccine to boot,” I say exasperated.
“At least there is a consent form attached this time, I suppose, but no details of ingredients or efficacy.”
“I might be 82, but I still have my marbles, and I’m not signing,” she told me.
“She was so ill after the last one, as you know,” I say.
“Ah, pushing the fear of the BA2.86 Pirola—not the Pirola asteroid but the so-called virus,” Rich says.
“Pores from outer space, and suddenly there are identical-looking impostors everywhere?” I suggest.
Rich laughs, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers—we are living it, aren’t we?”
Fear porn and extreme propaganda are deployed to try to maintain the narrative—so what will they try next? Probably just look at their playbook, which is even more unpalatable than Vogan poetry.
Governments have tried paying social media influencers and out-of-work actors to promote the jabs, hiring tired old hacks to vilify medical experts not onboard with the narrative, wheeling out smiling celebrities to pose for jab shots, and collaborating with social media companies to shut down alternative viewpoints. The quarantine camps were built in Australia and New Zealand. People were imprisoned in their own homes and forced into confinement. Puppet governments around the world did their master’s bidding by using tyrannical force against those who refused to comply with the mandates, using the COVID rationale as an excuse to control and manipulate the population.
“We never said that you had to be vaccinated; it was always your choice”, are among the lies spouted by the governments in unison. It is important that we remember exactly what happened—there is a rewriting of history happening now.
What now?
The next day is cooler, and I am mulling things over perched on the chalk cliffs, looking out towards the railway land in the far distance. I am meeting my missus by the bridge in town, and time waits for no man.
“Come on, Pup,” I say to my hound, “we had better get going.”
She is not convinced and stretches herself out languidly, nosing the grassy plateau.
We wind our way down through the narrow, shady paths.
I notice the young man that I see walking in town from time to time. I have mixed emotions: anger, despair, and sadness. Anger—no, not at him but at the diabolical abuse of power coercion, gas-lighting, and sophisticated mind control weapons to target the unsuspecting. Despair and sadness because there is nothing that I can say or do to help him. I walk with the hound through the cool twittens, and as I approach him, he cowers and turns away from me in agitation and distress, his features obscured by a Hannibal-Lecter black “protective” muzzle and he is wearing black nitrile gloves.
As I try to make eye contact and say, “Hello there,” he twitches, averting his gaze as I walk by.
My hound’s excitement is palpable as she eagerly pulls on the lead, signalling the presence of my missus before I even notice her.
“They are talking about it in their huddled cliques,” my missus tells me. “Some at least can’t wait to get cake, conversation, and the COVID jab—or is it Mmm? The Pirola jab: Someone told me that Pirola means penis in another language.”
“That would be about right—I knew it was bollocks, so I was in the right area,” I say.
Numerous asteroids are projected to reside in the solar system’s inner area, several of which might represent a substantial hazard to our planet over millions of years, but there’s a one in 300 million chance of hitting the jackpot in the lottery, so that’s something else not to worry about.
On October 28, 1927, German astronomer Karl Reinmuth found 1082 Pirola at the Heidelberg-Königstuhl State Observatory in Germany.
