The Inheritors Prefer Horses to People

I will go to my grave labelled a horsey person. Wasn't always, but got there via persistent gambling and a late-flowering desire to play cowboys while riding on the glorious hillsides of Wales. I am, by chance, a slum-bred city-boy who crashed and burned, went rural, lost one mind and found another. You get what you get. In the aftermath of the horific spectacle of 9/11, which ripped the lid off some terrible (to me) truths about our world, I recovered my sanity through horses. I understand, however, that nothing is more tedious to the non-horsey than the delirious ravings of the equestrian fanatic. I confess, hands up, I could win a medal at the Horse-Bore olympics, but that's neither my ambition nor the point of this article. I simply want to explain a few important realities about what the elite has in store for us, viewed through the -strangely revealing- lens of horsiness.

I spent so much of the last twenty years around horses, it was not surprising (to me) that the launch of the Covid/Reset drama just happened to coincide with the climax of the British horse-racing season. In the British elite calendar, every March brings a four-day festival of jump-racing, held in the Cotswalds: the "Cheltenham Festival". We horse-racing people take it very seriously. Religiously. And it came to pass that in March 2020, literally within hours of the last horse crossing the finishing line in the last race, all sporting events from racing to football to target-shooting were cancelled without exception across the entire world. A once-in a-lifetime first. 

Unfortunately, I was not surprised (that this unprecedented global cancellation was delayed until the Cheltenham Festival was finished) because I had long ago learned that horses and the elite are joined at the hips -quite literally in many cases. Too many of the major-league familes and individuals are heavily invested in racehorse-breeding (one of the biggest financial rackets on earth) and these are often discreet but hugely powerful string-pullers, elite parasites who expect to enjoy their expensive elite pastimes whatever crap the rest of us have to eat. The flagship 2020 lockdown was engineered for their convenience.    

FLATTEN AND SPREAD

I will never forget that first, ghastly taste of the self-incarceration they called "flattening the curve". And I don't imagine you will either. Stripped of our ability to earn, driven out of our home and trapped in a tiny flat in Glasgow with my ageing older brother, those first weeks and months were, for my partner and myself, the worst of our lives. It didn't do my brother much good either, and he was, in short order, yanked into hospital for heart surgery. 

I won't dwell on the daily grind of how we three began adjusting to the unexpected experience of state-commanded house-arrest. I'm sure you too have your own gruesome memories of that novelty, but I mainly recall how obsessive we became regarding when will we be allowed out again? This, of course, is what all captives do. Freedom becomes very precious the moment it starts dissappearing.

The Lockdown proceeded, one miserable day after another. We walked in ever-decreasing circles around our pitifully small apartment , trying to keep our spirits up and generally failing. In the spirit of informed cynicism that is my default position, I confidently predicted (to my captive audience of two) that the lockdown would end by the second week of June 2020, because otherwise, the horse-racing Holy of Holies (Royal Ascot) could not take place. Having spent a few summers boozing in the same refreshment tents as the likes of Phil the Greek (the late Duke of Edinburgh) I had a pretty good idea how these things tend to work.  And whaddaya know- the miracle happened, and slowing the spread, flattening the curve etc. became unnecessary a mere four days before Royal Ascot 2020 was scheduled to commence. It was both predictable and obscene.  

Lockdown ended and Royal Ascot began. This allowed the lickspittle UK horse-racing authorities to rehearse their 'new normal' version of racing (i.e. the version where the plebs didn't get in but the races went ahead for the pleasure of the billionaire owners and their privileged horse-trainers and jockeys).    

You don't, if you'rre half awake,  need to spend more than a few weeks with the premium horsey set to see how the scheme of  things is organised.  

TWAS ALWAYS THUS   

Horses equal power. Throughout most of recorded history, horses were the most important possessions  anyone could have. It's there in the literature...my kingdom for a horse etc. From Genghis Khan to Napoleon the great and the powerful ruled and fought from the saddle. The history of America, as every John Wayne fan knows, was the history of men on horseback building the mightiest nation on earth out of deserts and prairies. But -for our own purposes- let us return to the relatively tranquil bunfight of 19th century Europe, where most forms of conflict were resolved by -you guessed it- men on horseback.  

Around 1870, when British coal-mining was a huge, growing industry, the sound of people in the rush-hour was almost identical to the clatter of cantering hooves. Because the inhabitants of UK mining towns mostly wore clogs, not shoes. These were extremely practical, cheap and long-lasting. Footwear  adapted from the horseshoes that allowed our four-legged servants to do their many important jobs in an urban environment. Yes, as the industrial revolution hit top gear, people were shod like horses. It was logical. From the perspective of the ruling class, miners and horses were pretty much the same thing: resources to be exploited for a number of years until they wore out or broke down. 

Working horses -and people- until they died was, in those days, a regretfully common thing. Over the course of the next 150 years, industrial practices changed dramatically. By 1960, vehicles and other engines had replaced all but a few working horses and, inevitably, a large amount of people too.

In the nineteen-sixties, I was a schoolchild in a Glasgow tenement, heated by coal my Mum bought from a lorry pulled by a shaggy old horse. But I was absolutely not tromping around in wooden blocks held together with steel rims and neither was my Dad. By that time, everyone in Britain was wearing shoes and boots, not clogs. To emphasise how much things had improved, the Welfare State and the arrival of the old age pension now allowed weary greybeards to retire from work and see out their lives in relative comfort. From my perspective, the horse was a symbol of a byegone age. How wrong I was.

IN WITH THE IN CROWD

My underclass origins meant the coalman's hairy nag was the closest I ever got to a horse - until I started hanging around racetracks in the 1980's -a great pleasure which I never outgrew. And one which gradually drew me towards the animals themselves. In 2003, a series of chance encounters led me to become a reporter for Horse & Hound magazine, and I was quickly catapulted into the core of the horsey set. Suddenly I was on first-name terms with horsey sorts from all over the country and indeed the globe. At my local racecourse -Hereford- I became a respected guest in the "free-champagne for winning owners" (and thirsty reporters) area. On a weekly, semi-professional  basis, I was befriended by multi-millionaires and made welcome in their stables and their homes.  

There is an unspoken freemasonry within horse-world, and the deeper in you go, the more aware you become that the hidden wheels of power are very real and very close; you can almost hear them turning. To a certain extent, this is merely the freemasonry of wealth (horses are not cheap to run) but that is by no means the whole story. When I started riding six days a week, the penny dropped, and I finally understood the strange fascination that horses have for humans and the reasons why the elite obsess on the relationship between the two. 

It's really quite simple. These unlovely people have planet-sized egos baked into their genetic cake. For thousands of years, people on horseback have experienced the thrilling illusion of being superhuman. You can be nine feet tall, run like the wind, jump large obstacles and trample inferior things that get on your way. You can feel pretty damn awesome on a horse. A well-trained horse can be amazingly responsive and cooperative - to the point where the animal becomes (in your mind) an extension of yourself. 

       

It is no secret that much of the real power on earth is held by a number of super-rich European families. But it's not merely geography and gold bars that connect the curious web of the globalist vampires. They are -every one- the inheritors of generations of extraordinary men and women whose enormous wealth and power was created, secured and enforced by the exploitation of horses and horse-power. From the plough to the coal-mine, horses created billionaires. Until the First World War, armies with horses almost invariably crushed those without. Horses freed their riders from the limitations of a human's inability to travel very long distances, or at high speed. For centuries, horse-thieves were hung because a horse would often be the difference between life and death.   

In short, the horse is embedded in the DNA of the power-brokers because civilisation itself was a product of horse-power. Throw in the immense ego-boost derived from owning and riding the finest horses on earth and you begin to see why the elite and the horse cannot be separated. The Arab oil-sheikhs -some of the wealthiest human beings who have ever lived- have monumental investments in thoroughbred horses and  squander astonishing amounts of time and money on breeding and racing them.

Uber-rich Europeans are no less fixated. For example, the inheritors of the Mellon coal-mining dynasty (Bank of New York Mellon holds a staggering 1.9 trillion dollers in assets) have been frequenting the racecourses of Britain for 100 years. These days -as before- they hang out with the Queen, the Aga Khan, Sheikh Mohammed etc. On the way to their first billion, the Mellons of the 19th century were notorious for the appalling and lethally dangerous working conditions in their coal-mines.

It need hardly be said that the descendants of such people are keen landowners, but the phenomenal greed driving them can be hard for sane observers to grasp. We are inclined to mock the nouveau billionaires as vulgar -think Elon Musk and Richard Branson with their goofy space-rockets- but the long-established elite families are, I suggest, considerably more shrewd and sinister.  Just one of several incredibly rich brothers, Sheikh Mohammed (pictured above) has quietly acquired over 100,000 acres of land in the UK including prime locations in Newmarket -the "headquarters" of UK FLat racing, and estates in Scotland. That will be all the best remaining Scottish land which the House of Windsor hasn't already got in  its sweaty clutches. To put the size of the Sheikh's land-grab in perspective, he's bought up about 156 square miles of Britain. He's a bit of a one, this guy. A little reported fact is that in the nineteen-nineties he used to go horse-riding in the desert with Osama Bin Laden. I'll admit to having galloped alongside a few dodgy millionaires myself, but nobody quite that infamous. (I invite all my readers to visit Sheikh Mohammed's mind-boggling, unintentionally hilarious website CLICK HERE)

I have focussed on only a handful of names, but the list of horsey elite bloodsuckers is a long one. Let's not kid ourselves that these characters are uninvolved in the evil that is unfolding across the globe. These are the inheritors of most of the dirty money on earth. It is their collective intentions, their collective will that we see in play, as the "little people" -no longer any use to them- are brought to heel, caged and prepared for gradual extinction. The planet, you see, aint big enough for the likes of us. The future which they envisage  -beyond the Great Reset- is a much better, bigger world (for them). A world where the landscape has been emptied of those billions of annoying proles and their inumerable offspring.  These are hard-nosed fifth-generation badasses who yearn for the unfettered dominance enjoyed by their late, great-grandparents, who most certainly viewed their finest /worst achievements through the pricked ears of horses.

LOCKDOWN BETWEEN RACES

This afternoon I reviewed the "official history" of the 2020/21 lockdowns inflicted upon the UK by the puppet regime still squatting in Westminster. (You can read that -if you can stomach it - at the online House of Commons Library CLICK HERE). Below is a summary of the sequence of events, with one eye fixed on the racing calendar.

Lockdown#1 commenced March 23rd, just after the Cheltenham Festival of jump-racing was held. That lockdown was ended just in time for Royal Ascot.

Lockdown #2 commenced on November 5th 2020 - just five days after the final race-meeting of the season at Newmarket racecourse (the "headquarters" of UK flat-racing). This lockdown dribbled along in various forms called "tiers" until the official launch of national Lockdown #3. 

Lockdown #3 commenced on January 6th 2021:  Here is the relevant "official" quote :"Following concerns that the four-tier system was not containing the spread of the new variant of the virus, national restrictions were reintroduced for a third time on 6 January. The rules during the third lockdown were more like the rules in the first lockdown. People were once again told to “stay home”.  

Two months later the regime announced that it would "cautiously but irreversably" begin to ease the lockdown restrictions, starting on March 8th. The 2021 Cheltenham Festival of racing began a week later on March 16th, and went ahead with no public spectators at the course. In the weeks that followed, racecourse restrictions were gradually lifted. On May 17th, a "limited number of spectators were allowed to attend racecourses", exactly one month before Royal Ascot, where the billonaires and millionaires were once again free to frolic at will. 

As I stated last week, all the signs are that the Covidians are determined to loudly scapegoat the remaining Covid-dissenters by locking down the entire country again by January 2022 at the latest. Using their own template, and realising how terribly vital is it for race-horses to run, I will predict a relatively short spell of incarceration, ending in time for the Cheltenham Festival of horse-racing to begin on Tuesday 15th March 2022, as scheduled. 

The NHS staff "vaccination mandate" axe falls -no joke- on April Ist. (Details HERE) I suggest that by that day, the "unjabbed" -as a collective group- will have been universally reviled and blamed for the "ongoing covid crisis." They'll probably have rolled out another variant by then. Everyone from the BBC down to the crappiest local rag in South Wales will be headlining the "pandemic of the unvaccinated". And before Royal Ascot begins on June 18th 2022, the regime will anounce vaccines to be compulsory, with the only alternative being permanent internment.

In any case, I won't be going racing again as all racecourses now demand "vaccine passports". It's a quiet existence these days, without pubs, restaurants, foreign holidays or racecourses to break the monotony.  If my projected timeline is correct, however, at least we shall get to fight the civil war in relatively good weather.

Ian Andrew-Patrick

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