By Ray Wilson
The day dawned fair with a hint of warmth, but with the ominous presence of black clouds clustering on the horizon, I had not slept the sleep of the righteous. Work hard and sleep sweet. A nagging, lingering concern that I could not attribute to anything kept me awake.
I slowly recall a dream about the food at my granddaughter’s 18th birthday party. She is a care worker coerced into taking the government’s injectable. She complained of arm discomfort at the time and an unpleasant metallic taste in her mouth.
In truth, I was not looking forward to the garden party, an annual get together with neighbours and friends, an event that had not happened since the halcyon days of 2019. Jen was talking about her experience with a recent diagnosis of potential Alzheimer’s or certainly a degenerative brain disease caused by who knows what, but this was a fast onset condition, and she explained that for it to be classified with accuracy, certain tests that she would be subjected to included counting down from 100 in sevens, and she explained that she’d been practising this so that she could achieve it under the pressure of the exam.
The exam assesses your capacity to perform daily tasks, retain basic information, complete language tasks, and participate in problem-solving skills—all of which are frequently considerably affected in Alzheimer’s patients. Although a specific exam result is not always indicative of the presence of Alzheimer’s, it may signal that additional testing is required.
The marquee flapped in the breeze, and the red tablecloths had been weighted down to keep them in place.
“It looks like the weather may be kind to us after all,” I venture.
“You’ll jinx it,” Brian admonishes me.
“Jen, you only need to start worrying when you start putting the kettle away in the fridge,” I quip.
“Oh, please,” she says, no, I won’t tell you what I did the other day; in fact, I can’t remember, not even what we had for dinner.”
My missus had issued instructions for me to “keep a lid on it.” We had already achieved persona non grata status among certain groups and family gatherings for our unconventional opinions on COVID, human-caused climate change, and doubts on the justification for certain wars. I will do my best, I promise, but I will answer direct questions honestly.
The embers on the barbecue were becoming cool, and wine, beer, and spirits were being consumed in industrial quantities. I, as a recovering alcoholic of many years, gave it a wide berth and definitely stuck to apple juice.
We were at the loud table with the inevitable lockdown stories and experiences of COVID.
I regaled the table with tales of lockdown dog walks, donning different disguises for the early morning, lunchtime, and evening ones, which seemed to be favourably received by the table.
Foolishly, buoyed up with confidence, I went on to describe our lockdown motorcycle combination tour of Cornwall and some of the things we learned.
“That’s all very interesting,” a woman sitting across from me says and then asks, “but why would our government do these despicable things?”
By the time I got to my Sky News interview when we were back in Lewes, my references to politicians, Boris and Cummings, and the goings on at a certain University hospital where nothing was going on.
“At the so called height of COVID, doctors would enter their office building, be observed by the cameras, and sneak out an hour later around the back and go home. Why?” Because the hospital was empty, there were no COVID patients.”
“I don’t think it was broadcast—not really fitting the agenda.”
I feel a sensation that becomes more intense. My missus is kicking my feet, the whole garden party is subdued, and I realise too late that everyone’s attention is now focused on me.
“I’ve put a dollop of the strong stuff in it,” Brian whispers loudly in my ear, giving me a bit of a get out.
I do my best, in the Matt Hancock school of acting way, to look tipsy: I wobble, mutter something loud and nonsensical, and slope away.
I decide to clear my head by walking the dog. Not of alcohol, but better, I suppose it was to be excused as such, though I don’t care at this point.
My missus told me later. “It all got a bit raucous after you disappeared.”
“We had drinking competitions, and Mr. Magnetic Personality, honestly, looked ill and started asking for fridge magnets and teaspoons. He took his shirt off and positioned the cutlery on his biceps; it all just hung there—it all got very strange, and others tried to replicate the trick.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen pictures all over the Internet of people who have had these shots, and now they’re magnetised,” my missus said. “I can’t get the image of the idiot walking around with a key stuck to his forehead.”
I had seen reports that COVID-19 vaccinations make people magnetic— the fact checkers identified magnetic effects as just a report among other nonsensical anti-vaccine conspiracy theories—and many brave medical practitioners face limitations, suspension, or even permanent revocation of their medical licence for trying to establish the truth based on data and evidence.
By Tuesday, all was forgotten and normality returned; this one would be written in the annals of our garden party traditions. Our granddaughter called in to see us that evening.
“I am not feeling well, Pappy,” she said, scratching her legs.
You’ve got fleas or something, girl?” I ask.
She told us that she had to go back and forth to the doctors for prescriptions for steroids and antibiotics, and still it didn’t improve.
“She is tired all the time; it’s been six weeks; her legs ache; she can’t stop scratching; and the doctors have absolutely no idea what is causing it, really?” My missus sighs.
“Look at her arms and that on her leg; she can’t face going out.”
With increasing alarm, I look at my granddaughter. There are slightly raised areas on her skin, like elongated bruises, but they are a dull grey. I have never seen anything like this before.
I walk into the office and pick up a neodymium magnet.
“What’s that, Pappy?”
“It’s a powerful magnet,” I say as I try to get it to stick to my arm.
I put it against my granddaughter’s arm. and it slips off. I feel relieved, but I place it on the grey raised area of her skin, and it sticks like a limpet.
“Why is it doing that?” She looks worried.
“It can’t have anything to do with the vaccine, Pappy,” she states. “It was months ago when I had my last one.”
“Why is it sticking to me like that?”
The people who pumped this poison into my granddaughter should be forced to answer this question.
Was this mentioned in the list of side effects? Along with the aching legs, the lethargy, and the sudden onset of ADHD. For God’s sake, she is a beautiful 19 year old girl who just wanted to care for others and was threatened with dismissal from the job she loved if she didn’t take the shot. Told that she was a danger to those in her care if she didn’t take the shot.
“Well, my girl, you had better start taking the zeolite and activated charcoal; it’s a great therapy to absorb all that crap and help excretion via faeces and urine,” my missus suggests.
“Better take high dose liposomal vitamin C and zinc as well,” I suggest.
La Quinta Columna released the preliminary report of an analysis of a Pfizer vaccination vial that revealed the presence of graphene oxide nanoparticles. This is a toxic substance that would cause various post-vaccination side effects and interference with the radio frequencies emitted by the 4G, 4G Plus, and 5G antennas. It is one thing to read such reports; it is something else to see the devastation firsthand.
- Watch: Magnet Sticks to Spot On People’s Arm Where They’ve Been Vaccinated
- Scientists Discover Graphene and Nanotechnology in Covid Vaccines
- Stop the Death Jab