Year Three of Being A Prisoner: Stockholm Syndrome
So many special events; so little time. What's today's compulsory celebration? Trans-risibility Tuesday? Having spent the last month deep in the countryside policing tame animals, I missed a few thrills, like fat-fetish Friday, monkey-pox Monday, pedo-pride and the wet-wank Weekend. I must admit, however, to a little disappointment when no-one bothered to commemorate the critical historic landmark of March 23rd. No minute's silence, no 21-jab salute -not even two lousy metres of social-distancing- to mark the third anniversary of CoronaPanto UK: The Day The Earth Stood Still.
"Scattered pictures / like the smiles we left behind / misty water-colour memories / of the way we were..."
Never forgive; never forget. March 23rd 2020, the grand launch of British pandemication. Lockdown launch. Remember that day? Having open eyes and a functioning brain, I already knew the lockdown was coming. Not having a TV I didn't see it live, but managed to catch Chairman Boris on Youtube, explaining in nauseating close-up why we were all now prisoners of the State. My most favourite quote of the 21st century flopped from his blubbery lips that evening:
"No Prime Minister wants to enact measures like these..."
Oh what a porky pie! Because every last Prime Minister on earth was gagging to do exactly that. In fact, over seventy-five prime Ministers and another fifty Presidents were "enacting" identical measures even as Johnson spoke. But it took an Oxford graduate to make such a precise choice of words, hence: "enact" measures like these. Because "impose" -a more accurate description- would sound just a teeny little bit fascistic-ali-fragalistic ex-pee-alidocious, not so?
Three years ago; another lifetime. Stay home, stay safe. Yesterday I saw a mother and daughter (30-ish & teenage) wearing matching leopard-print face-muzzles to buy their lunchtime salads in the Coop, and nobody laughed. It's your syndrome and you'll mask if you want to.
Great news on the Daily Telegraph website today - sensational stuff, offishul covid conspiracy-theory number one proven 100% correct by offishul confirmation FROM THE AUTHORITIES a mere three years late! And by golly the Telegraphers were pulling no punches - see if you can find the pandemic bombshell screaming on this front page...
Yes, it's right there if you look ever so closely, the GM-lab-grown meat in the info-sandwich, stuck between a thick slice of Trans, a swipe of migrant mustard, a dollop of Sturgeon and three helpings of Royal Jelly. Remember that Covid thingy, old chap? It was the "Accidental lab-leak" wot dun it. Never mind; water under the bridge, eh?
Meanwhile, like the discarded corpse of a once-buxom wench in a Dracula movie, the pale, lifeless body of Ukraine, drained of blood, no longer sexy enough for exposure, recedes into the media background. The war-weary British public reach in vain for rest and recreation, clutching at booze, meds and sport, god help them.
But there is no peace for the vaccinated -well, not on TV anyway. With barely a Ukranian refugee left outside of a Holiday Inn, it's time to fill the sporting screens with government-sponsored protestor-puppets. Watch the testosteronal ball-busters of Premier Leaguehood go BLM-kneeling for a million a month apiece, live on BT Sport! Tune in to ITV and see coachloads of vegan rent-a-slob couch-potatoes glue themselves to clumps of Liverpool birch. What a great way to frighten some naturally paranoid horses and guarantee some dead-dobbin chaos at the Grand National. Well done, Tarquin and Tabatha! Prod the remote and gasp on BBC2 as heroic work-shy knobheads leap all of three feet onto defenceless snooker tables and shake some coloured powder because global warming!
(I was privileged to see all the above on a hotel-bar television in Cumbria).
It's a grand life as an activist, innit? Fear not, proud social-justice warriors! Polite, short, overweight police are on their way to comfort you between meals in a comfy, clean cell. Write your memoirs, young Papillon. Tell the world how you singlehandedly halted the anthropomorphic climate catastrophe with just one condom full of orange talcum.
It takes remarkable dedication to commit one's life to protesting in favour of every last government policy; some kind of medal should awarded for services thus rendered. Such blind loyalty borders on fanatical -is it possible these scrawny, useless pawns have begun identifying with their idealogical captors? Or are they perhaps the spawn of a middle-class so beguiled by the tricky business of survival that the concept of individuality has dropped off the cerebral menu?
Meanwhile in the theatre of vampires, sober consumers are invited to re-imagine the concept of democratic rule, suspend their disbelief and gear up for the party-political pandemonium of post-pandemic Britain. Elections -gotta have 'em, gotta love 'em! All the important questions will be answered -or else. Did the billionaire Prime Minister bung his billionaire wife a few grand under the table? Do women have penises? Let's be clear, immigration is a top priority and will be tackled as a matter of urgency, robustly, and in a sustainable non-judgemental way as soon as possible after I am elected / re-elected / appointed / interviewed on TV.
But wait! More news -please, I implore you, read these headlines...
"...can it be that it was all so simple then...or has time re-written every line?"
Three years, that's all it was, and now it's time for (yet another) change. It's time to give up your car and buy one ten times as expensive that works half as well. Time to say "fuck farming" and start eating lab-grown meals. Time to kiss your chickens goodbye -oh yes it is- because scientists ("scientists") are working in bio-labs, creating studying a brand new variant of bird-flu virus that will (aw, you guessed didn't you?) jump from birds to humans, so all your chickens must die. Private chickens not allowed. Think I'm kidding? Think again. "According to the WHO, a total of 868 cases of human infection involving
various strains of avian flu were reported between January 2003 and
January 2023, with 457 of those proving fatal." Regular readers may remember this post from 2022: [AVIAN FLU]
Ring any bells? Fear not - anti-bird-flu mRNA injections are on the way. Speaking of which, it turns out pigs across the USA have -since 2018- been injected with untested, experimental mRNA gene-therapy goop because 'public health'. Kept that quiet, didn't they? Watch this short video and savour the prospect of "properly vaccinated pork"...
Beef cattle are next in line for this glorious enhancement. Yes, the jab-juice is flowing into the food chain so you can eat your way to myocarditis without even rolling up your sleeve. Chow down, brave carnivore.
SPEED BONNY BOAT
As you may have gathered by this point, I'm just catching up with what they call 'current events'. It feels a bit like re-entry to a once-familiar planet. Sunday afternoon I returned (after seven-weeks work) to Scotland and my secret hideaway on the Island that Time Forgot. And was greeted by the surprising forecast of an entire week of sunshine.
After weeks of gazing on distant leafy horizons, juvenile thoroughbreds, newborn spring lambs and poorly-trained dogs, coming up to speed on the progress of civilisational Armageddon has been a bit of a head-trip, but I'm coping. I was awoken at four a.m. by the Apocalypse-Now choppa-choppa-choppa of the hospital rescue helicopter landing in the playing-field just up the road. Another heart-attack victim heading for the mainland, no doubt.
This morning's sun rose over the sea into a true-blue sky. Young gulls are nesting by the moat on the castle ruins while the elders go limping around the bus shelters, hustling last nights chips and pizza-crusts. A tall, ominous 5G mast has sprung up on the roof of the abandoned school up the hill. From the bedroom window I can see a fat herring-gull sat on the roof of our car. I suspect he's one of the robot surveillance-gulls the Council use to monitor public unrest, but I may be mistaken. In any case, I'm planning nothing more subversive than a stroll along the prom.
THE BIG PICTURE
On the other side of the Atlantic Elon Musk is apparently worried that the forces of uncontrolled rogue AI might wreak havoc upon an unsuspecting world and attempt to eliminate the human race. He voiced this concern in person, apparently, to the boss of Google, who accused him of being "a specist". Whereupon Musk replied "I thought to myself, so what are you then?"
I reckon a squillionaire like Elon shouldn't stress too much about such things. I mean, I was confronting the same technological nightmare scenario in the pages of Magnus Robot Fighter every week back in the 1970's as a young teen. Eventually, I stopped worrying about the machines. It's the humans you've got to keep an eye on.
Musk really should chill out, find a nice peaceful island and sit for a spell by the seashore on a conveniently-placed bench to watch the ferry-boats come and go. The local council is warning that "essential maintenance work" will see ferry-crossings disrupted in a major way later this year. People might find themselves temporarily unable to leave the island at all. Well, that's something to look forward to. It's the kind of captivity I can probably face.
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