By Ray Wilson
People Farm
Some will attribute the maxim to Saint Ignatius Loyola himself. Yet the Jesuits believed even back then that it was an old idea: “Give us a child until he’s seven, and we’ll have him for life.”
We lived on Brigstock Road in Thornton Heath until I was six, going on seven. We didn’t get a television until we moved to the leafier suburbs. My mum walked to my grandma’s house in Norbury once a week in the afternoon.
“I expect the “professor” would like to see “Watch with Mother,” my grandma suggested.
“He’s reading Just William, so maybe not,” was mum’s rebuttal.
Originally a radio programme, “Listen with Mother” provided a mix of nursery rhymes, storytelling, and music for children under the age of five and their mothers, but it grew in popularity over time and, after a few years, was broadcast on BBC television in the late afternoon.
The centre of the programme was the story, preceded by the calming phrase, “Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin”.
I was captivated as the presenter told the story of Blossom, a wobbly calf born in a cold winter. As the weather improved, she and her baby calf ventured into a green meadow. Blossom was curious about everything but scared of the noise of trains and black birds. Blossom’s mother explained everything to her repeatedly, and she became used to the different sounds. The farmer would visit the meadow after work and pat Blossom, and she started sniffing at the farmer’s hand. She nibbles on his coat sleeve and licks it with her tongue. Blossom’s mother allows her to play with the farmer’s daughter, and she grows up proudly, losing her timidity and achieving a smooth coat. She believes Blossom will be happy on the farm.
I knew instinctively that this was not real life, but even so, the soothing balm washed over me, dulling my senses and calcifying my critical thinking skills. I had heard my parents talking about an animated film called “Animal Farm” and how two young pigs, Snowball and Napoleon, organise a mutiny, forcing the alcoholic farmer Mr. Jones from the estate and renaming it “Animal Farm.” They follow the Seven Animal Commandments. Eventually, the Seven Commandments were abridged to just one phrase: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”
I was dubbed “the professor” not because I was brainy but because of my unkempt hair. This infuriated my mum because she was a hairdresser and fought comb and scissors to keep it under control.
I realise now the powerful indoctrination of the Tel-lie-vision. The BBC captured many generations, and I have to admit, for me, it took many years for me to even become aware of the brainwashing I was subjected to, probably about the time that Radio 4’s Tom Archer was in court after thrashing a crop of experimental GM rape and the script writers were steering a fine storyline between balance, bias, and ultimately the nod from the shadowy figures who really control the narrative. Tom succumbs to the lure of the supermarket shilling and their inducements, I seem to remember, but I may be wrong on that. The agenda was based on a long term project, and by 2012, that was becoming clear. The ‘NHS’ spelled out by hospital beds at the opening ceremony was another clue that the government-run universal health-care system described as a ‘wonderful thing to celebrate’ wasn’t quite that.
Thousands of NHS employees, volunteers, and children performed a jive dance to honour Great Ormond Street Hospital and the National Health Service. Various scenarios played out, culminating in the eerily unnerving dark creatures appearing next to the children’s beds, followed by the child catcher on roller skates, the significance of which would become apparent a few short years later. In March 2020, the sky clappers and saucepan dingers were out in force on doorsteps all over the country once again in support of the NHS.
My son asks me, “Dad, did you want to watch it?” The toddlers had been glued to their favourite programme,The Teletubbies. Our little granddaughter proudly lines up all the furry stuffed characters.
“Just the bit where they get vaccinated,” my son suggests.
“I can’t; it makes me angry just thinking about it,” I say.
So it transpires that the beloved children’s television show announced that Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po have been vaccinated against COVID-19.
My son informs me that the “news” was announced via a social media post, triggering an outpouring of humorous responses from admirers.
“We’re all vaxxed!” said the official Teletubbies Twitter account. Apparently, the announcement was accompanied by photographs of the characters holding up four vaccination cards.
“Hopefully, dad, they all got the saline shot.” My son smiles thinly.
I am further informed that, “Bing on Ceebies gets the vaccine, and stateside, Big Bird ruffles feathers by declaring that he had been immunised against COVID-19.”
““ho is the brave stuffed furry character, the little rebel who is saying it’s safer to wait?””I ask, but the question hangs unanswered.
This is and always has been a spiritual war; the global parasites are in no hurry; it is and always has been a long game. It’s always been about the children.
In another decade or so, maybe two, when the children are grown and the X pandemic is deployed—right on cue—the government’s predictive programming, drip fed by organisations like the BBC in true MK Ultra style, is activated in the brains of these young adults. Children’s memories of the mask wearing, the social distancing, the rules, the curfews, the social bubbles, and the acceptance of authority are all there in their little compartments, waiting in readiness to be activated. The subliminal, long forgotten cartoon characters and their ““brave”exploits are memories waiting to be triggered. The lies of climate change say that they, our children, are to blame for the warming of the planet. That they are the problem. They are told of wars, who the terrorists are, who the enemy is, and who must be killed to ensure that the world is safe. Are we really going to be fooled again?
We are not going to let this happen; if there was ever a reason to live, a reason to be here now, this is that reason. It’s not enough to simply change the boss, as in Animal Farm, when Napoleon abolishes the practise of revolutionary traditions and returns the name ““he Manor Farm””to its original form. The men and pigs begin to play cards, charming and praising one another while cheating at the game. Both Napoleon and one of the farmers, Mr. Pilkington, play the Ace of Spades at the same moment, and both sides begin arguing loudly about who cheated first. When the animals outside gaze at the pigs and mankind, they can no longer tell them apart.
““eet the new boss, same as the old boss, yeah, and we are all getting fooled again.””The Who.
““e humans are all disgusting monsters; I’ve done terrible things, and I expect that you have,””a gentleman pointed out as we discussed the proxy war in Ukraine on the High Street.
He believed that Putin was a monster and Volodymyr Zelensky was deserving of every iota of help, whatever it took to win the war. I suggested that the Ukraine was a laundromat operator for the West.
“Like I said,” he looked at me squarely, “we are all humans and capable of committing heinous crimes.”
From the back of my mind, a thought came unbidden: my friend from Dorset is a soldier who recently deployed overseas. He had been forced to take the vaccine. He had trekked across the Sahara Desert and explored the polar regions. After he was subjected to the mandated volley of injectables, he could not manage a 3 mile jog with his dogs. Prior to the jabs, he would run with his dogs and a 20-kilogramme backpack to the next village and back without breaking into a sweat. Our governments do this to us. In the army, you follow orders; not following a direct order results in a court-martial. “Get the shot or get shot—that’s the choice.”
I said that the soldiers on both sides did not ask for or want this fight; most would wish to be at home with their families, and that programming and propaganda convinced them on whichever side that it was a necessary and just war. It is not. It is necessary for the arms manufacturers and the military industrial complex; it is necessary for the global parasites who manipulate and control, who have no care for human misery, death, or suffering but only for profit and maintaining their elevated position.
My mum told me. “Don’t believe everything you hear and only half of what you see.”
She ruffled my head. “Jesus, that hair will have to go.”
“Well, mum it’s gone now!”
