Plotting Revolutions: What You Can't See Can't Hurt You

Showbusiness veterans used to say: "Be nice to people you meet on the way up because you'll meet them again on the way down." Not bad advice in an unstable  snakepit where success is fickle and failure is the norm. But in certain specialist fields, those tough enough to succeed have less to fear. A true specialist may stomp the faces of rivals underfoot on his climb to the top, confident they will never be seen again. Success like this, however, can come at a terrible price.

MONEY ISN'T FREE

Wealthy people come in all shapes and sizes; the weight of money bears down on the short and the tall alike. Victory corrupts the bright and the bozos with equal ease. And I'm afraid I have to report the bright are in short supply these days. 

The trouble is, when the governments go rogue -and ours has- you need a few  bright sparks on your side to fix things. It's a historical certainty that you can't hope to overturn a tyrannical political regime without a large slice of the moneyed class onside. A truth as pertinent in UK 2022 as it was in pre-revolutionary Russia. If we are realistically intending to halt the planned descent into Reset poverty and Global Governance, a phalanx of well-off smart people will need to be recruited. So why are the current crop such blinkered dupes?

Having squandered plenty of time around the economically privileged, I've long been aware that many rich people will demonstrate quite extraordinary  ignorance, while loudly advertising themselves as exceptionally well-informed. As a rule of thumb, the greater the quantity of daily newspapers, colour magazines, monthly subscriptions and weekly circulars in any given posh house, the further detached from reality are its occupants. To be misinformed by media professionals 24/7, all year round, can only reduce you to the level of a hypnotised pawn. 

 

YES SIR, YOU'RE RIGHT

The moneybags echo-chamber is not, however, just a media phenomenon. Hard cash can buy a lot of nodding dogs in the domestic-service market. Be they ever so humble, the more staff you employ, the more time you spend hearing voices agree with you, and that's a habit difficult to  break. Ask any Victorian. 

Yet as every smart cookie knows, the less challenges it meets, the lazier the  human mind becomes. A well-fed ego grows, puffs, blocks and supresses unwelcome input. Ego works in exactly the way a Facebook / Youtube algorithm moves to bury uploads containing political dissent. What you can't see can't hurt you, says Big Brother.

Among its many other accomplishments, Covid-19 threw a spotlight on the popularity of wilful ignorance. It was, I recall, an ugly spectacle watching wealthy Covidians retreat from the harsh glare of reality, yanking the masks on as they fled from the grubby herd. Not that gullibility was confined to the well-off. Quite early in the Coronapanto, the entire population audience was dividing down the middle. ("It's a global pandemic! Oh no it isn't! OH YES IT IS!")

COVIDIA MON AMOUR

As those first weeks of hysteria subsided into a daily grind of dire warnings and ever-growing restrictions, the clearer it became that the monied classes were having a very different plague from the groundlings. Government restrictions on movement, social distancing and public gatherings had landed with a sickening thud to the guts of the millions stuck in concrete inner-city rabbit hutches.

On the other hand, friday night lockdown had a somewhat softer impact on those confined to agreeable mansions with pools, gyms, wine-cellars, gigantic freezers full of venison and lobster, and maybe a snooker-room from which you can watch peacocks nibbling buds on a landscaped garden. You might think. 

And what they thought -the lucky ones with room to manoeuvre- was both revealing and unexpected. Far from flexing their economic muscle and demanding a return to precious freedom, a startling amount of society's winners shrugged with untypical resignation and outsourced the entire mystery of the invisible plague to the powers that shouldn't be. 

But I understood all too well what they were thinking -particularly the newly-minted millionaires, the bottle-nosed specialists who had fought and clawed their way to success. Their logic was simple. 

I work for the system and the system works for me. It always worked, and here I am, surrounded by the rewards I so richly deserve. The system will resolve the pandemic problem, because the system works. 

PARK MY BRAIN

I guess it's quite a thrill to join the elite Borg, so perhaps the sacrifice of personal autonomy was less painful than confronting the rot within the hive. But I still find it hard to reconcile the way intelligent, educated, high-achievers could just park their brains by the government's door at the first cry of "Unclean!".

I offer three specific examples of head-in-the-sand specialists I have known. 

THE DOCTOR. One former client I had was a top-tier surgeon with Royal Academy Fellowships etc.  His life -which I observed at close quarters- was an all-consuming whirl of consultations, stacks of unavoidable paperwork, incredibly punishing schedules and knife-edge (literally) decisions. 

On practically any subject outside of his specialisation, this likeable, erudite man had no more grasp of everyday life in Britain than a recently-arrived 16 year-old Romanian fruit-picker. Utterly preoccupied with his uniquely skilled work, there was simply not time or space in the doctor's life for personal experience of the workings of society. Nothing could reach him from beyond the hospital (within which he ruled like a monarch) -except through the newspapers, magazines and televised 'news' that he consumed each day in the few precious minutes allotted for that purpose.

As a consequence his every opinion came ready-baked and pre-packaged for consumption, and he swallowed it all whole. At various times we discussed immigration, the military, literature and poltics, and never once did he express anything but soundbite-size globalist talking-points which he had clearly never examined in any depth. 

But in the few weeks of holiday he took every year,  this elite physician would carouse with international gazillionaires on yachts around the globe, holding forth on any and every subject -with complete confidence, I have no doubt. Throughout the entire covid fiasco I resisted the awful temptation to ring him up for a chat; I knew his input would only have depressed my already battered spirits.

THE HUSTLER. My second example is a retired entrepreneur, a no-nonsense sort who has employed me off and on for several years. Unabashedly nouveau-riche, he has the impatient, confident air of a street-level go-getter who worked sixty-hour weeks most of his life, and is determined to milk the remainder for everything it's got to give. 

Fair enough. His collection of trophies -vehicles, furniture, art etc. speaks loudly of both his pride and insecurities. His children are suitably spoilt, his wife equal parts overwhelmed and exhausted, his energy seemingly undiminished. Scuba gear, cases of Bollinger, tennis rackets and shotguns are scattered around the premises.

We met three times during the two grim Covidian years. It was obvious he and his family had fallen for the whole story, hook, jab and booster.  Again and again, however, their jet-set travel plans kept crashing on the rocks of 'positive testing'. On two separate occasions I offered him covid-testing information -impeccably sourced, eminently checkable- which would, I hoped, upend his bland acceptance of every daft twist in the corona track and trace fairy-tale. I wanted to share stuff I thought he deserved to know. I wanted to open his eyes.

Instead, his eyes visibly narrowed; I could see the physical manifestation of cognitive dissonance in his head. He was more than smart enough to understand that if he accepted my invitation to the covid rabbit-hole and (god forbid) I turned out to be correct, a big chunk of his world-view would have to go in the bin. And that was too dreadful to contemplate. His world view had, after all, produced the fleet of vintage runabouts, the electric 4x4 hybrids, the tennis court, yada yada. What you can't see can't hurt you. 

[To read about Cognitive Dissonance click HERE]

IGNORANCE IS BLISS

THE SPY. My last example is from the old school of British elitism. In 2011 I found myself at a quasi-military dinner-party thrown by a notorious ancient spy -we'll call him K to make it sound exciting- who lived in Herefordshire. It was a bit of a crusty affair; I was certainly the only adult male present without some kind of medal on his CV. After the trifle and port, my host insisted that I explain to him the concept of credit default swaps (a gambling technique popular in the stock market at that time. ) Although my own understanding of the subject was limited, I was sussed enough to offer a humorous allegory. 

"You rent a cottage for holiday. Second night there, a brick crashes through the kichen window," I told him, "and stuck to it is a note reading 'Broken glass? call ABC glass-repair.' So you check your rental contract and ring the insurance company. But it turns out the insurance company owns ABC glass-repair."

Not at all amused, K was however impressed and disturbed. He -a lifelong professional deceiver-  thought the principle of legally scamming on both sides of a bet to be disgraceful. Yet in the cold light of 2011, he was a Cambridge classics graduate with fifty years of service in the mud-slinging, throat-cutting spookworld behind him. I was just a weary, unemployable ex-journalist shovelling shit in a hilltop riding-stable to avoid the horrors of office work. 

Over a bottle of Glenlivet we figured out that in 1984, he had been on the east side of the Berlin Wall subverting communism while I was frolicking on the other side, a mile or two away down Freidrichstrasse, getting pissed and singing arty punk songs for teenage German pop-chicks. 

It turned out his dad had been a stockbroker, and K's respect for the lions and tigers of the City of London had lingered into his retirement years. I left feeling genuinely sorry to have soiled his long-cherished illusion of the "gentleman traders" in the City.   

A SORRY STATE

But the innocent physician, the cynical hustler and the elite spy were all so wedded to the source of their own successes, not one of them could stomach the reality that government is really the PR wing of corporate business. The mere idea that government/corporate business is also the theatrical front for organised crime would be rejected out of hand by all three of the above, and legions like them.

Because there are, alas, a great many such people in Britain, wearing self-made blinkers they refuse to remove. To a degree they are all that remain of the nation we once had. If Britain exists at all, it's in the memories of those who remember what was once possible in this country before it went bankrupt. 

By the mid-1990's everything worth buying on the island (outside the grasp of the Windsor family) was being snapped up by Arab princes and the Wall Street hedge-fund mafia. After three more decades of ferocious bargaining, we're now at the tail-end of the Great British Sellout, where the remaining properties and infrastracture go at knock-down prices to cash-rich Russian oligarchs and anonymous Chinese billionaires. 

As a result the various north African oil-monarchies are now free to offload the dregs of their underclass onto Europe's various benefit systems, comfortable in the knowledge that replacement migration will only be accelerated, not stopped. All the right people have been paid off in advance. As for the theatrical "siezing of assets" being enacted to punish the naughty Russki zillionaires, give me a break.

Here is the truth about the fictional "support" offered to the stinkingly corrupt gangsters running Ukraine: it consists almost entirely of untold bllions of imaginary dollars, euros and pounds printed by the USA, EU and Britain. This money-mountain disappears into the fog of the current European "war" -an event launched by and for the global money-laundering trade. The dosh, after a brief interval wandering in the economic twilight-zone, re-emerges in numbered accounts in Switzerland and...yes, you guessed, dear old London.

The fake-politicians we still pay to cluster on the banks of the river Thames have one task only : to concoct plausible explanations that conceal this obscene money-go-round, while feeding the public endless threats of deadly plague, climate catastrophe and nuclear holocaust to distract them.        

Unless we can explain these kind of unpalatable truths to our garden-variety millionaires -and quick- there won't be anyone left with enough clout to organise a poster campaign, let alone a revolution. Arnold Schwarzenegger once said, you can't climb the ladder of success with your hands in your pockets. I don't know about that, but you sure as hell can't see much with your eyes closed.

Ian Andrew-Patrick

99endof supports no political party or ideology. The individual is what matters here, and the freedoms for which we are now obliged to fight.

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