By Ray Wilson
Saturday, May 6, dawns, and the skies are battleship grey. My brother and I are busy learning the art of motorcycle maintenance, and it is beginning to rain. I turned up early to get as much done as possible while my missus was at the farmers’ market.
“Let’s have a coffee,” Rich suggests.
My dad is in the kitchen, and we are talking about the old days, the glorious hours spent in the long summer days of our youth on target practise.
“A friend of mine owns an Artemis rifle,” I say.
“That’s interesting,” Dad chimes in. “I used to own a Diana rifle back in the 1930s”.
“The rifles are named after the goddess of the hunt,” my dad explains. “Artemis, in Greek religion, was the goddess of wild animals and the hunt; she was identified by the Romans as Diana. Artemis was born on the 6th day of May, which made it sacred for her as her birthday.”
“It’s a significant day, then, for a coronation,” Rich points out.
“They must know it—a special day and a special connection—Diana?” “They love their numbers,” I add.
“I seem to remember it raining on and off in 1953 for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth,” dad says. “It was said to be good luck; I think we watched on a neighbour’s telly that they got especially to watch the ceremony.”
“We won’t get another goodun like Queen Liz; God bless her,” dad says softly.
“Charley Boy will need all the luck he can get,” Rich says.
Later, I head home and walk our dog in the less rainy intermission. Road closure signs are springing up all over the place, which is very annoying in a vehicle, especially when no work is actually going on, but not a problem on foot. Nutmeg Cottage has a short piece of red, white, and blue bunting around the door; further down at Cherry Hinton, there is another short length flapping in the breeze. Beyond is a massive white marquee, the rain sodden material straddling the road, and beside it, two strategically placed porta loos. That explains the road closure signs.
I am surprised to bump into a friend; we first met her and her husband about the time of the early London protests and were amazed to discover that we lived in the same area.
“Martin is boycotting the event,” she says. “I’m going; my friend is organising it, but Martin says the Royals are all a bunch of paedophiles, and the proof of the pudding lies precisely in how the taker of the oath lives their life; the ceremony is a distraction, with its pomp and pageantry, and up until now—well, I won’t go on to say what he said.”
“The Royals have plummeted in our estimation,” I say. “250 million of taxpayer money is spent on the coronation while people are making choices between food and fuel.”
I feel dismayed that most of the “events” (bread and circuses) are intended to divert our attention, cause fiction and upset, cause arguments, and split friends and families. Divide and conquer, or divide and rule. A strategy by the powers that be to make sure that the people under their control quarrel among themselves and so cannot unite to achieve their aims and overthrow oppression.
Why do we fall for it every time? What is this solemn oath that is taking place? It feels like yet another deceit. At the very least, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, we had the illusion of constitutional monarchy, which now, in the light of recent history, means little or nothing. We are slaves taught and indoctrinated to believe in the illusion of freedom; having the vote every few years is not democracy in any meaningful sense.
“My friend is a royalist, but she does not mind what people say about them and just wants us to go and have a great time; have a good laugh; you don’t have to swear allegiance to Charley Boy and turn up wrapped in a union flag,” she laughs as she heads away.
“For Martin, it is a point of principle from which he won’t budge,” she ends.
“You can’t trust any of them. The international acronym gangs, the gangs that our King is in cahoots with, are unequally sovereign, unaccountable bodies all seeking a hand and ruling over this country and all other countries under the terms of an amended pandemic preparedness treaty.” I pause.
“Who is funding the WHO now?” I wonder.
It turns out that the WHO is now 86% funded by external sources, similar to the Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency and the Joint Committee on Vaccination and Immunisation.
We are all sovereign human beings; the common law is to govern ourselves with minimal interference from the state, and we, the people, are sovereign. Our monarch is the first sovereign among equals, and he is our servant. King Charles III’s coronation oath promised to maintain the integrity of Britain and protect its sovereignty from the interference of outsiders great and small. He also promised to defend Britain’s sovereignty from the interference of the UN and other unelected bodies. So now what can we expect? Will we be locked up and forced against our will to take the state sanctioned injectable if the cartel decides a pandemic or variant thereof warrants it? Oh, governments will protest, pleading that it’s not our fault; we have to do it because the WHO told us to; we are so sorry, but we signed a legally binding pandemic treaty.
“How was your morning?” I ask the missus.
“Not too bad; the stalls weren’t really busy, and the quiche lady looked exhausted; she had made 144 quiches, not all coronation quiches, though,” she said, smiling.
“I listened to a woman complaining about the increased costs to a stall holder. I wish that I had said something in the stall holder’s defence: all our costs are going up; the cost of ingredients and fuel is all designed to force us into submission. We must now, more than ever, support our local farmers, our farm shops, and markets, and boycott the big supermarkets; the big supermarkets are not our friends; they wanted to ban the unvaccinated and insisted on mask wearing, social distancing, and all of that.”
It’s Sunday, and myself, my missus, and our dog are heading off on the motorcycle combination.
“Hey, you know what?” My missus says, “All this Brexit stuff, I am convinced it was all orchestrated.”
“Who really knows if the Brexit vote was really accurate?” “I don’t trust anything, do you, with the controlled collapse of the food supply in Europe?”
“No, not really, but long before Magna Carta or any other written document, people understood that individual freedoms made us a nation of sovereign individuals, and all the time over centuries, the powers that be have spent our taxpayer money to pay for propaganda to brainwash us, so we have enslaved ourselves.” I suppose.
“Charles is fully on board with net zero, right? Are we the carbon they want to get rid of along with every other farting, burping animal? And now it’s okay for gene-edited food to be developed commercially in England, so where’s Charles?” She pauses. “I thought he was all about organic food, wasn’t he?”
“Well, I won’t be buying his Duchy food ever again.” My missus is getting riled up now.
“As Earl Spencer once said about Diana, “the hunter has become the hunted.” I say.
“I once thought Diana was a dippy, hysterical woman, but they gaslit her; she knew everything about the AIDS pandemic, didn’t she? She knew too much.” My wife looks troubled.
Our dog looks at us impatiently from the sidecar. We don our helmets and head out to find solitude, communing with God and nature in the deep forests and open spaces, but we will be back to meet up with friends and family.
Every one of us, together, will win this battle; it’s only when they divide us that we fall.
“It is a point to remember that of all the ironies about Diana, perhaps the greatest was this: a girl given the name of the ancient goddess of hunting was, in the end, the most hunted person of the modern age.” Earl Spencer.