Diary Of The Last Conspiracy Theorist
Today's Met Office forecast was a row of cartoon suns -their way of predicting a hot, cloudless day for internet users who can't read. Inspired, I clawed myself upright at seven. Finbar was by the door with an orange ball, tail wagging. There's a wood outside blessed with trees, bushes, wildflowers and regular deposits of Finbar-poop, so we kicked off towards the pond and the game began. Ten minutes in I had beer-flavoured sweat on my forehead and a sore right ankle but the dog was still full. I took off my hat to squint up at the sky and saw just what I expected -jetplanes laying fast-expanding chemtrails across the face of the morning sun.
With the score at 5-0, Finbar finally expelled his bio-degradables and for the next hour we roamed the landscape together beneath rapidly diminishing sunshine. By 8:30 the sky was a grey slab: that featureless, milky slop they call 'haze'. It was midsummer's day, however, and in the absence of natural cloud formations, I expected the artificial muck I call 'cloudscreen' to get burned off within a few hours. In fifteen years of studying weather manipulation I've coined a whole vocabulary of terms.
Meanwhile, after 20 minutes of make-poop football and an hour of limping in Finbar's wake I was in dire need of breakfast. As it happened, I was more inclined to crash out on the sofa till lunchtime, but a man was coming to fix a window-sill, and sleeping till noon doesn't get you any dog-sitting brownie-points. So I put together a modest plate of bacon, eggs, beans and mushrooms, half a crusty loaf, some unfamiliar but delicious cheese, a pot of tea, a few large biscuits and some leftover slices of roast chicken.
Finbar's owners have lots of everything, including fridges. Stacks of rubbish magazines, for example. Every up-market left-wing rag in Europe finds its way here. The Economist; The Spectator; Time; enough Guardians to line a pterodactyl's cage.You could paper the entire building in globalist propaganda -and this is not a small gaff. A disabled Somalian vegan trans-activist dwarf could read eight hours a day for a month in here, without feeling the need to post a single offended tweet. Socialism truly is the opium of the monied.
TRUE STORIES
Anyway, post-breakfast is my morning research period -always, as readers might expect, a highly disciplined exercise. I open the battle-scarred laptop that roars uncontrollably when touched (the fan is a hysteric) pack my chair with soft cushions and plunge into online hell to jeer and curse at the fake news headlines while slurping strong tea and listening to my favourite far-right white supremacist podcast. (A civilised English bloke my age politely describing the ongoing assault on Britain's indigenous population and culture). Today I also had to keep pushing Finbar off my lap to preserve various breakfast fragments.
On the 'news' front, I gathered that Britain's Prime Monster had popped into the super-deadly war-zone of Kyev/Kyiv/East Disneyland to announce that Ukraine should definitely host next year's Eurovision song contest. Another professional clown named Jan Tomasz Rogala got his face in three UK newspapers because he's touring Ukraine to cheer up refugees with his red nose. British Covid-19 cases were up up UP. Three hundred more African brain surgeons had paddled into Kent, the WHO was saying Covid-19 probably escaped from a Chinese bio-lab, and the healthy, sane American president had fallen off a stationary bicycle. Train drivers are apparently on strike (I didn't know trains still existed) and the Daily Telegraph addressed the thorny question Do I have Hay fever or Covid?
DEER OH DEER
By this point the last wisps of cloudscreen were dissolving so I dragged a comfy chair outside to read in the life-giving rays of brilliant sunshine until my head and chest turned bright red. I was re-reading a book about the Nazi scientists who invented Lyme disease in an offshore bio-lab in America. Plum Island was the location. The disease escaped, of course, in insect form, and the runaway ticks attached themselves to deer which then swam from the island to the mainland, beginning the spread of Lyme disease across the western world. Allegedly. [Read the book LAB 257 on Amazon HERE]
I take this personally, as I was bitten by a deer-tick of the Lyme-carrying variety many years ago and woke up the next day to find one half of my face dangling like a wet sock. I got my face back (Bell's Palsy -very common, many causes) but it took the NHS another two years to figure out my case was triggered by the onset of Lyme disease. Which was exactly two years too late to do anything about it. As I don't know any actual Nazi scientists, eating the odd venison steak is my only available revenge. Venison won't cure the disease but it always makes me feel a little better -something the NHS has never managed.
REALITY BITES
There was still no sign of the tradesman supposed to be fixing the window-sill so Finbar got another shortish walk. But that was aborted when he launched an unprovoked attack on one of those tiny gerbil-faced dogs that trot instead of running. It was attached to the sort of aged lady who bakes cakes and forgives all sins. She yanked the gerbil-dog out of Finbar's jaws, shoved it into some kind of pouch in her parka, complemented my drooling four-legged companion on his looks and asked what breed of animal he was. Hungarian Elk-Tracker, I replied, dragging him away by the collar.
By 5 p.m. the planes had returned to erase the
sunshine and blue sky that had briefly lured the laziest gardener in Scotland
out of his cannabis-filled lair to visit these premises long enough to
mow the huge lawns that supply his equally large wages. 'Haze' had returned with a vengeance and the blank, bleak skyscape of modernity was back in place overhead. Below is a short timelapse video from 2018 that I shot one morning in the Cotswalds.
When a full whiteout is achieved after of a day of prolonged sunshine, I know a spell of rain is pretty much guaranteed to follow. The modern cloudscreen is held together by microscopic metallic particles which can be charged by irradiation, producing a kind of magnetised blanket. As cloudscreen necessarily contains moisture, it is childs play (in terms of nanotechnology) to agitate these particles in ways that produce rainfall.
A REAL SHOWER
When it became obvious to me that the level of rainfall and its distribution around the UK was being artificially manipulated -around 2008 this was- I contacted the Met Office. Not to inquire after their shameless participation in Britain's illegal weather-modification programme, of course. That would be a waste of time. The meteoroligical experts at the Met Office are completely unaware of any such programmes having being undertaken anywhere, anytime, ever. Conspiracy theories, they will assure you.
You can, if you like, direct their attention to the hundreds of newspaper and magazine articles on the subject going back seventy years, or indeed, send them copies of TV interviews with the boffins concerned, without shifting these bullshitters from their missionary position that all weather is 'natural' - except the freaky 'climate change' stuff which you and I have caused by driving to work and cooking barbecues on the three sunny days we're allowed each year. Below is an official NASA video of of their very own 'cloud-creating machine' in 2017. Presumably the Met Office thinks this a 'conspiracy theory'.
All I really I wanted was to get my hands on historic rainfall data. More specifically, I wanted raw data which I could analyse and interpret without 'professional' input. (This request was part of an ancient, near-extinct process called 'journalism' that I had miraculously learned despite writing for newspapers.) So, having explored their cleverly unusable website for a day or two, I emailed the Met-heads with a rather huffy, very explicit description of the kind of rain-records I wanted and how I would like them to be compiled. More in hope than expectation, I may add.
To my astonishment, the following day I recieved an idiot-proof guide to accessing the precise info I wanted, and a couple of handy links to boot. I sent X my thanks (he knows who he is) adding that my previous similar requests had been effectively blanked. I recieved a short but amusing reply, in which X included strong hints that (a) he quite understood why I'd been offered no assistance and (b) he would shortly be leaving the Met Office for a more attractive job elsewhere.
UP IN THE AIR
The rainfall records tell their own story. Since around 1970 there has been a steady increase in both the amount of rainfall and the frequency of severe, sudden rainstorms particularly in populated areas. Coincidentally -and yes, I'm being sarcastic- by 1970 the military scientists of America and Europe were heavily invested in every form of weather manipulation, including the artificial production of lightning, rain, hail and snow. There was no attempt to keep this secret; in fact they never stopped bragging about their exploits.
Right up until the turn of this century, that is, when wide-awake citizens in every country began pointing at the evidence, whereupon the Wetmod (weather-modification) boffins shouted CONSPIRACY THEORY! and vanished without trace. The timing was significant. By the year 2015, all the the major visible terrestrial Wetmod centres like the HAARP facility had been shut down. (Nothing to see here). The new, nanotech equipment -smaller, lighter and much more powerful, had been installed on some of the hundreds of military satellites orbiting the earth, far from the prying eyes of pesky tin-foil hat nutjobs like me. This was a logical development, as it is much easier to manufacture clouds, rain, hail etc using equipment located in the stratosphere itself.
[To Read About Miltary Wetmod in an official US Air Force document from 1996 click HERE]
Of course, the rain squeezed out of these artificial clouds is loaded with the metallic nano-particles that are used to create them. These microscopic, invisible pollutants go into the soil, the rivers, the sea, into you, me and Finbar. If anybody knows what effects they have they're not telling because we're supposed to pretend this isn't happening -although they've been at it hammer and tongs for half a century. Like we're supposed to believe they spend trillions putting satellites into orbit just so we can have smartphones and GPS in the car and photograph North Korean generals picking their noses. Like we have to pretend Covid is a deadly global pandemic and Russia wants to destroy Ukraine but mysteriously can't quite manage to.
There's popular Q&A joke going round online:
Q: What's the difference between a conspiracy theory and a known fact?
A: About six months.
After supper I opened the whisky and explained the principles of weather-modification to Finbar. Judging by his sharply pointed ears the information was not wasted on him. He scratched his face with one foot, shook his hairy head in sorrow, and said "Jesus Christ the bastards even ration the amount of sun we get." Come to think of it, I might have imagined that bit.
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