By Ray Wilson
The UK is expected to record its hottest day of the year this weekend, with temperatures peaking at 30 degrees. It’s hot even by the river, and I am at the appointed rendezvous spot. I have walked with the dog down the shady paths from the toad sanctuary and through the marshes into town to meet up with the missus. The fruit and vegetable stall hasn’t been on the bridge for a couple of weeks, and the woman who runs it makes a tasty wild garlic pesto.
I sit on the bench and gaze down the river. A brightly attired gentleman paddles his canoe downstream, disturbing a flock of ducks. The green, yellow, amber, and red stripes delineated along the bow and stern remind me of the UK security agency’s weather alert system. Since when did we need a government agency to tell us that it’s hot?
I have been mulling over thoughts from a long time ago all morning. I think of my old mum most days, but this was different. She died in April 2020, and her funeral was unattended.
This morning I had an unintentionally early start. I awoke sitting bolt upright in bed, thinking of a day, or more correctly, a morning, in the early sixties. A day very much like today, a day in flaming June.
“Oh, I ain’t ‘alf proud of my old mum, and she ain’t ‘alf proud of me!” as Max Miller once said.
“Well, boys, it looks like we might be getting a new addition,” dad says.
We looked furtively at each other, not knowing quite what he meant. Mum was violently sick in the mornings earlier in the year, but that stopped as suddenly as it began.
“Don’t worry,” dad reassures us, “the quack will pop in from time to time, just to check on things.”
On the morning in question, I was up early, as is my wont. I heard noises in my parents bedroom—sobbing and whispering words. I remember thinking it was very early for the quack to be here. As I slipped along the landing, I noticed a big white bucket with a tight fitting lid outside my parents bedroom door.
I was drawn to it but resisted the temptation to look. I made my way downstairs to make breakfast.
The new addition wasn’t mentioned again. The laughter eventually returned to our home. My mum never complained or blamed anyone for what happened; her indomitable spirit and her zest for life sustained us all. She ruffled our heads in turn: “My three little Musketeers—what is life without laughter, without love?”
“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.
“No problem,” I say, moving my bag from the seat and putting it on the ground.
“Pretty dog, what is she?”
“She’s an Eastern European Labrador cross.”
She explains that she is studying health and exercise science at Bath University. She tells me about her interest in pharmakeia, which is a Greek word for “sorcery” but can mean the use of substances and natural potions as either medicines or poisons.
“Sometimes it’s used in pagan rituals for divination and necromancy; I’m not into that,” she added hastily.
“I have come to the conclusion, especially over the last three years,” I pause, “that most things can be used for good or evil. A television screen, for instance, is not inherently good or bad in the same way that a gun is neither good nor bad; it is just a tool. Whatever a screen portrays—it’s just a screen—whether horrendous violence or a well researched nature documentary, I am increasingly concerned about predictive programming, and I feel the television screens and black mirror devices are probably responsible for more deaths than guns have ever been; it’s not the “screens” per se but the material displayed on them.”
“I am not sure I follow,” she says.
“I am thinking about TV shows with events purposefully included into a storyline to prepare the audience to accept those events and increase their propensity to accept or even support the situations in their own lives.”
“I get it; like in Coronation Street, when one of Nurse Aggie’s colleagues tested positive for COVID-19, she had to self-isolate in a nearby NHS-sanctioned hotel, forcing her and her husband Ed to have their anniversary dinner over Zoom. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”
“Yes, exactly, but what if we are being coerced, cajoled, and bamboozled into taking those actions? What if these narratives are driven by big corporations? What if we are making life changing decisions based on fictitious characters in soap operas and highly paid celebrities giving endorsements to medical procedures they know nothing about?”
“My mum,” she whispers, “had the first shot because she was threatened with dismissal if she refused; the second one knocked her for six; that’s really why I want to learn all I can about health and natural medicines.”
“I am sorry to hear that. How is your mum doing now?” I say.
“Not too bad; she takes each day at a time. The irony is that she hasn’t been well enough to work; that was the reason she took the bloody thing in the first place. I had better get my bus.”
“All the best,” I said inadequately. As she walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness.
“Penny for your thoughts,” my missus says as she sits down beside me and gives me a nudge.
“Did you see that woman with the little boy going into the bakery? He’s holding a Barbie doll with rainbow hair.” She rolls her eyes.
I tell my wife about my encounter and my new knowledge of pharmakeia.
“Well, are we really talking about science?” my wife asks. “It seems that science and magic are the very same thing.”
The MSM is casting potent magic. Was it just a verbal formula, a spell—something to enchant the masses and bind them into unthinking submission? It was that, but it was worse—serious threats of violence, physical removal from your home, detention in quarantine camps under high security with threats and menaces, and forced vaccination. Where is the evidence that suggests the need for those actions? Was that lawful? What is the punishment for those complicit in criminal actions?
Many “vaccines” use tissue from aborted babies as a key ingredient, such as “MRC-5” and “WI-38.”
It’s a witch’s brew with ingredients such as thimerosal, a neurotoxic mercury, formaldehyde used in embalming, aluminium, and a splash of peanut oil. This unholy witch’s brew sounds like a form of rebellion against both God and the human race, and that’s before we consider the concoction that is MRNA gene therapy. COVID-19 shots are called “vaccines” but are not. Researchers believe that MRC-5 is an ingredient in COVID shots, but does an accurate list of ingredients even exist? The manufacturing of the “vaccine” used the HEK293 foetal cell line, the kidney cells of an aborted or spontaneously miscarried female fetus, though we are told the cells are filtered out of the final product.
“At the speed of science,” declared Pfizer. The only things at speed were fear, more fear, and the tsunami of money flooding into the coffers—no pesky worries about product liability, indemnified by governments worldwide on that one.
We are in the hostelry we call the Elephant House, sitting in the cafe. My missus buys the coffee; our hound is interested in a tiny Dachshund dog with a bright yellow bandanna. “Leave it, Willow.”
“It’s okay, our hound loves meeting other dogs; her introductory techniques are,” I pause, “a bit unconventional.”
“Ooh, we like unconventional,” she says, relaxing her grip on Willow’s lead.
She sits down at our table and tells us that she works with people with mental health issues, particularly those who have been institutionalised. She talks about her clients, mostly prisoners, that she visits all over the UK.
“Willow comes with me; he’s a therapy dog. Well, that’s what I tell them,” she giggles. My clients love him; even the most aggressive seem to relax when they meet him.”
“My father is a physician, and he alerted me to the corruption in the system. He told me to keep the knowledge under my hat because most people wouldn’t understand it.”
“You wouldn’t believe it, would you? But I have an unerring ability to spot other like-minded people.”
“Well, you have us bang to rights,” I say.
She tells us about her job: “I love it, but I need another challenge.” She is going to train as a GP and follow in her father’s footsteps.
“I am going to try to help where I can, act in honour, and at the very least do no harm.”
“That’s interesting,” I say. “My cousin started out as a journalist on a local paper; long story short, he ended up working for MIND up until recently, when a difference of opinion resulted in his leaving.”
“Does he want a new job? Get him to call me.”
“What was I saying?”
“Your father,” I suggest.
“Yes, my father described the devastation and told me all about the man-made afflictions caused by the drug thalidomide, used to prevent morning sickness.”
“12,000 babies worldwide and 390 babies in Britain were born with non-existent limbs, eye and ear damage, brain damage, heart, kidney, and genital damage,” she continued. “Just down the road from here, at Chailey Heritage, they cared for many of them. It feels like history is always repeating itself.”
She tells us about her family and the breakup with her husband; it’s amicable, but she has custody of her two children. “They know they have to play the game at school to achieve their grades; they see the agenda, the indoctrination that is strangling their peers, and the gender dysphoria and overt sexualization causing confusion and misery for their friends, but they are not able to help them much.”
“My father told me a story when I was young about the influenza outbreak in 1918. My grandfather, who died when I was a baby, told him this. Anyway, it was during WWI, according to him, that up to 15 or possibly 20, I can’t exactly remember, untested experimental vaccines were given to US soldiers over a couple of weeks, and many became very sick.”
“Several men dropped dead in the doctor’s office after being vaccinated. Letters were sent to their families stating that they had been killed in action.”
All we can do is stand up for what we know to be right. We are creative, sovereign human beings, and collectively, we have the strength and the powers that terrify the global narcissistic elite. Our ability to laugh in the face of adversity emits a high frequency vibration that makes them cower; they crave and feed on the low frequencies of submission, fear, and despair.
Oh, I ain’t ‘alf proud of my old mum, and she ain’t ‘alf proud of me! Live, laugh, love.