Bonus Content: Diary of a Dissenter
As we enter a crucial week in the evolution of the Covid crime, I'm opening this week's Diary up to all readers, as I believe it an important scene-setter for the coming pandemic of mob-baiting.
And Paddy played Cupid . . .
SATURDAY
I’ve decided to cancel my CAT scan at SVPH, following last week’s snotrags episode in which I had to leave due to harrassment from hospital staff who refused to accept that I am exempt from wearing such abominations. They offered me another appointment, for which I would have to wait outside, call a number, and presumably be escorted past the vaguely human attack dogs to have my scan done. I decided against it, in part because I don’t any longer trust any aspect or element of the medical system, in part because the ‘solution’ seemed too much like gaming the system. The real solution is for the health authorities to stop abusing their positions of public trust, admit their crimes and surrender to the consequences.
I couldn’t be sure if those who offered to set things up for me to get my scan by the back door were doing it out of the goodness of their hearts or because they don’t realise how cancelled I actually am these days and thought I might be able to cause some trouble for them. Of course, it’s also possible that this is just some kind of ruse to disable any legal claim I may have.
I don’t want any favours. I just want hospitasl to cease being bullying operations for Big Pharma and go back to healing the sick. I just want the HSE to obey the law, which, crooked though it is — and considerably against the desires of the criminal who put together this evil schedule of laws — does actually provide for exemptions for people who cannot or do not wish to wear masks. It’s important to understand this: The law does not make it mandatory that you get a letter from your GP certifying that you are entitled to an exemption, even though next to everyone, under the corrupt guidance of the media, imagines it does.
The law on face coverings includes exemptions for medical, dental or other healthcare services. This is in addition to the normative exemptions, which provide that you do not have to wear a face covering if you have a reasonable excuse for not doing so, in which case the law simply requires that you tell a member of staff.
‘Reasonable excuses’ include if you cannot wear a face covering because of a physical or mental illness or a disability, or because it would cause you ‘severe distress’.
There is no requirement or provision under the legislation for a person claiming an exemption from the mandatory wearing of face coverings to provide evidence or proof of any disability. In any event, medical matters are subject to conditions of total confidentiality, covering all medical records (including x-rays, lab-reports, etc.) as well as communications between patient and doctor, and is not a matter that any third party may intervene upon. There is no requirement for someone suffering from any disability to discuss this with any other person, in public or private, for any reason. Such information is deeply personal and as such is protected under the Data Protections Act 2018.
Current policy being applied by hospitals on face coverings is in breach also of another legislative instrument, the Equal Status Acts 2000-2018, which prohibits discrimination and entitles inter alia persons suffering from a disability to be treated equally in relation to the provision of goods and services, regardless of disability or its attendant requirements or incapacities.
Moreover, the government website, gov.ie, specifically urges:
‘Do not criticise or judge people who are not able to wear a face covering.’
The HSE and hospital authorities seeking to compel patients to wear face masks could not be more out of line, legally speaking, and if we ever return to the rule of law, this will result in innumerable legal cases and massive damages.
Of course, we should not surrender to naïvete and jump to the conclusion that the Government, in setting things up in this way, was thinking of making life easier for people who might experience difficulty wearing mandatory snotrags.
Be assured that the constructs described above amount to a subterfuge behind which, far from making things easier for people, the tyranny was being given maximum rein.
The problem for the government what that the Health Act 1947 — the ‘parent act’ upon which all the 2020 legislation was raised up — stipulates that provision must be made in any law or regulation that relies on its provisions for exemptions under various headings, and for procedures under which these can be applied for. The government in March 2020, consisting in the criminals it did, provided for exemptions but not for any particular procedure by which these could be obtained. Had they provided for a GP’s letter, that would at least have been a clear and negotiable option. Instead they left the space blank and then fed out the line that you had to have a GP’s letter, while at the same time strong-arming the medical profession not to provide such letters. This left open only the option of self-exemption, and of course when you told a Gestapo agent that you had exempted yourself, he or she laughed in your face before dragging you out by the hair of the head. This was all part of the plan.
So I don’t wish to avail of any special influence of privilege to bypass this corruption, thanks very much. Having made this clear to my consultant’s secretary, she suggests I get back to them ‘in a few months’, which sounds a trifle optimistic to me. In truth, I wouldn’t want to even enter a hospital in this country again until not merely has sense been restored, but some kind of public atonement has been undertaken for the criminality of the past 20 months. I won’t be holding my breath for any of this, which means I better start praying hard for continued good health.
SUNDAY
I’ve been mulling over an event that happened the other morning when, out on my constitutional, I ran into an old friend with whom I had in the past been slightly involved in various voluntary activities and suchlike. He is slightly older than me, retired now after a stellar career in a business-related activity. He’s smart, charismatic, good company, still in high demand for his business acumen and works voluntarily as a fundraiser for a major institution. He and I used to get on very well, and still would, had we occasion to meet. We haven’t been in touch for the past couple of years, although I met him once on the street early on in the Covid debacle and quickly realised that he was completely bought in. On that occasion, he began our conversation by suggesting we agree to differ, which was fine by me. Then we took up more or less where we would have had nothing been happening.
The other day, however, I noticed that when he lamped me approaching, a flash of something like terror crossed his countenance. It quickly dissipated after I greeted him without any horns sprouting from my forehead. In fact, he rapidly fell into tune with our prior relationship and we had a brief friendly chat before going our separate ways.
But I became interested in the flash of terror. I think I can explain it. It has to do with the mass hypnosis, which suppresses and overrules everything of its victims’ prior assumptions and beliefs. In recent weeks, as I’ve been noting, you can quite viscerally sense the uptick in the cultivated hostility of the compliant against the dissenter. This process has not quite reached the danger point yet, but it hasn’t far to go. My plan is to lie low once it reaches a certain pitch, and see the winter out without poking any sleeping dogs, and I’d seriously advise everybody to do the same.
But my friend provides an interesting study in what we’re dealing with. He a thoroughly decent chap — high IQ, highly qualified, terrific schmoozer, ‘stuck in everything’ and valued wherever he goes. In a sense, I ought to think twice about doing or saying things that would make a man like that scared of me, even momentarily, when we meet in the street.
What might he be scared of? That’s simple: He’s been hearing things about, or mentions of me, sufficiently often to make him wonder whether John hasn’t become maybe a trifle unhinged. It’s not just the Covid stuff, but all the ancillary poison the slime of the media pump out to try to fill out their caricatures. Personally, I have no idea what my caricature looks like — I never ‘look’ at it — but I have the general picture. There’s no point in saying that personal relationships ought to trump all that — we know that doesn’t happen. The process of cancelling somehow involves a mechanism that implants doubt in even twins or bosom buddies.
These are mad and weird times. Strange things are happening every day, things we never imagined, never mind thought we’d ever live to see. The subterranean dynamics of society are in turmoil.
This was already happening before Covid. As I’ve written at length elsewhere, I believe it started to happen about eight years ago, and has been accelerating over the past 20 months. Those of us who have been paying attention to these shifts have been enjoying — if that’s the word — quite an education. Among the many things we’ve been learning is that practically everything we had taken for granted about human society in general, and Ireland in particular, was wrong. What I have concluded is that most of the assumptions we were making — about other people, about cultural forces, about the dynamics of communities — were based on a partial and restricted sense of reality. We assumed that the forces we felt, for good or ill, as we grew up in this society, were by and large approximately naturalistic, organic, and, in a precise sense, definitive. That is to say that we took for granted that the way people believed had to do with their characters and natures, and that, by and large, their interactions with other people created a culture that could be read and understood and therefore that impressions of it could be filed away as a reliable map of human relationships in the public sphere, pretty much regardless of circumstances.
This approach to understanding reality amounted to a total farrago of error. We failed to understand that what we were looking at was not a naturalistic or definitive version of society, but a version of society that developed in a context involving the relative absence of externally imposed stress. The behaviours we noted and absorbed, the interactions we witnessed, were all conditioned by a climate in which the stakes were relatively low. Human relationships came at low cost, being buffered by social constructs like friendship, civility, neighbourliness, prosperity, respectability, humour — qualities that provided a grammar of mutuality that was rarely if ever subject to the kind of inclemency we have been experiencing of late times. The ‘social contract’ that developed was therefore loose, accommodating, even indulgent.
In such a contract, it was possible to be an oddball and yet continue to have a place. The stakes, as I say, were low. Hardy hardly ever came to hardy. But now it has, the qualities that once held the contract together begin to push in the opposite direction. Respectability becomes less tolerant, less indulgent of the eccentricity that once entertained it and bolstered its sense of smugness. Community pulls its arms in, puts its hands in its pockets. Neighbours let the hedge grow a little higher. The jokes become thinner in the air.
In my own case, for all kinds of unusual reasons, I never belonged to communities or groups. I scarcely attended school in any meaningful sense until I was about 10. Even when I eventually started to show up more frequently, I had nothing to talk to my fellow scholars about, on account of our not having a TV set. I became what society calls ‘a bit of a loner’. I don’t mean an introvert or a weirdo — loners can be quite garrulous and sociable, and yet hold themselves back from the steaming heat of the mob — but just someone who’s happy in his own company.
Actually, in a sense, everyone is a loner, but a majority seeks to turn away from the condition. We come in alone and leave alone — and never has the nature of the carefully constructed illusion that things are otherwise become more visible than in the past 20 months. As our society allowed its elderly to die in loneliness because of an irrational fear of a head cold, all pretence was dropped. The art of not being a loner is one of pretence, affectation, whistling past the graveyard.
There have been many attempts to analyse the natures and motives of those who saw through the Covid scam from the start, not all of them well-disposed. But it’s actually a lot simpler than anything so far concluded: The dissenters are essentially those who never quite fitted in anyway. Distance and objectivity enabled us to see through the fog of propaganda to what was actually happening.
This, at its root, is the reason why the mob-baiting being orchestrated by government and media is so much easier than anyone might have imagined. Now that some serious stress has imposed itself, we can see things more clearly, and in their true colours. The pretences, civilities, niceties and indulgences have all dissipated, and all that is left is a naked sense of instinctual self-interest. Hence the terror in my friend’s face. His main worry, I guess, concerned being seen talking to me.
The terror I observed, then, was not concerned with something as crude as a fear of a virus or a fear of death — at least not in the conventional sense. It had really to do with a congenital fear of loners, which is to say of individuality, of independence, of freedom worth the name. Loners, no matter how they may be patronised, are never invited in. This is because their presence in respectable company can be destabilising even in the best of times. They make odd remarks and ask disconcerting questions. And, in times of hign societal stress, loners come to be regarded as actively dangerous.
Ultimately, this has all to do with death, as ultimately everything has. By his indifference to the constructs of polite society, the loner also suggests both an awareness of death and the absence of a fear of death, and there is nothing more terrifying to those who have avoided the question. Respectable society fears death, but deals with the issue by avoiding it. Loners, as though taking their cue from the societies of old, tend, as a result of much self-reflection, to regard death as a part of life. In a society in which mythology has been replaced by Prozac, this is the most unthinkable thing in the world, for acknowledging death in any fashion allows the fear to break through the barrier respectable society has constructed against it.. The new myths say that death can be avoided — by exercise, obsessive dieting, social distancing, handwashing, whatever. But the loner knows that these are lies, and sometimes he is liable to blurt this out without thought to the effects he may be having.
Hence the terror in my friend’s face. But it’s a little more complicated than even that .
MONDAY
Bang on cue, I met a man in the street in Sligo today who filled out a further part of the picture for me. Actually, it was more a case of him meeting me and immediately launching into something about my ‘anti-vax legal case’. I rather pointlessly explained that our case was actually about freedom and constitutional rights, but I might have been talking to one of his bullocks out in Coollaney. ‘I used to think you’d have more cop-on than that,’ he rejoined.
He was the kind of man who might insult you to your face but has no problem with you insulting him back. He asked me what I really thought of the Covid crack, and I said it was a total hoax, the biggest in all history. He looked shocked at that, so I asked him if he knew that, on the data available above ground, he had a one-in-a-thousand chance of dying from whatever this thing was — if there was anything in it at all that hadn’t existed for centuries — and that the average age of death was 82. I added that the average Irish life-expectancy is 82.
His shock seemed to deepen on hearing this, but he was not for admitting it. ‘Ah I don’t bother with the details,’ he said. I told him that, like 90 per cent of the country, he was probably pure ignorant of anything except what they told him on RTÉ. He took offence at that and said he watches only Sky. I told him Rupert Murdoch is an international criminal, part of the cabal that’s pulling this stunt.
We continued like this for a while in a good-humoured kind of way, though with the edge that always accompanies such encounters. It turned out he hadn’t the faintest idea about anything — mortality rates, tests, average age of death, how that compares to life expectancy, et cetera He was an absolute dunce and yet had been convinced when we started talking that he knew everything and that anybody who didn’t agree with what it said on Sky was some kind of dangerous maniac. Then he said, as though by way of redeeming himself, that he hadn’t got the vax, and agreed that Joe Duffy is a donkey. There was no rancour between us. For more than 50 years, since I first started travelling in my father’s mail car, I have been accustomed to chatting to men like this. He was a straightforward farmer, friendly and frank, the kind of guy who was to be found everywhere 30 years ago but you hardly ever meet nowadays. He thinks all politicians are gangsters — 'except when it comes to Covid?' I suggested and he shook his head and laughed. I was pretty sure, as we parted, that he went away unconvinced and unaltered in his outlook, and will almost certainly end up taking the vax along with the flu shot once the cold weather comes in.
It struck me afterwards that this man is, in a sense, my gaoler, his intelligence — or lack of it — the manacles around my wrists, the ankle braclet on my right leg. He is, I would say, pretty typical of the cannon fodder of the current fraud initiative, and in his way represents one emanation of the hypnosis. And it struck me also that, deep down, he doesn’t believe a word of the propaganda, and yet, like my friend from the other morning, is heavily influenced by it in so far as it prevents him breaking away from the consensus. When he said to me, ‘I used to think you had more cop-on than that,’ he did not mean, ‘than to think that Covid could be a total spook story’, but something like, ‘than to step outside the mob and make a show of yourself’. He was saying, ‘Ffs, man, what are you at?’ I frequently think of these people and wonder if they would find it easier to die than be cast out of their mob. Very likely, I think.
TUESDAY
There is a concept in British newspaper editing known as ‘direction’, in which the editor calls the journalist and ‘suggests’ what he should write/not write. I first came across this when I worked for the Mail on Sunday — the editor and I would engage in lengthy midweek conversations about what I should devote my forthcoming column to, which mostly involved him steering me away from topics that were ‘not our readers sort of thing’. It never bothered me, as I was able to hold my own and always enjoyed the chat.
Actually, I had this years before when I worked for Hot Press, but didn’t then have a name for it. Whenever I would come up with idea for an interview, the editor, Niall Stokes, would chip in his suggestions for matters to be explored, which generally involved asking people about their sex lives. This led to a few ‘hair raising’ experiences, which I might relate sometime.
When the idea of interviewing Paddy Moloney came up, sex was not, for a change, the editor’s first thought, but rather obtaining Paddy’s reminiscences about the various pop luminaries he’d worked or toured with in his day, how he’d found them and, eh, what he’d seen of their on-the-road peccadilloes and so forth. I very rarely rose to this kind of bait, but with Paddy there didn’t seem to be that much else to talk about. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy and tended to dispose of prepared questions about, for example, the function of the blue note in sean nós singing with an, ‘Ah shure, you wouldn’t know what would come out!’
The editor had helpfully given me a list of luminaries to jog Paddy’s memory — Jagger, Sting, Mike Oldfield, et cetera. This exercise took precisely 90 seconds. To each name in turn, Paddy gave the same answer: ‘A helluva nice fella!’
Paddy and I got on like old mates but, out of five hours of talking, I ended up with 500 words of usable copy. Rather than the expected and customary five pages in the paper, the interview occupied the princely acreage of two columns.
The next time I met Paddy was many years later, in November 2010, in Starbucks of Blackrock. I was there on my first ‘date’ with the woman who is now my wife, and things were not, I retrospectively gathered, going the best. It was snowing outside and I had arrived wearing a massive black ushanka-hat, and — I’m still unsure why this is such a style-crime, but apparently it is one of the worst — matching denim shirt and jeans. In the awkwardness created by this ensemble, Paddy Moloney intruded in the manner of an archangel. He and I had been playing telephone tennis for a week or two and, spotting me in the noonday throng (the hat, I suspect), came over to play Cupid. I wanted to book his band to play at the Meeting of Rimini, a gigantic event that happens every August in the eponymous Adriatic town, comprising culture, science, politics, philosophy and kitchen sinks. We sealed the deal and Paddy saved the day, romance-wise, possibly because he was even more sartorially challenged than I.
To be honest, at that point I was more of a De Danann man, preferring a rowdier brand of diddly-eye. But the Italians were mad for Paddy’s band and I was once again acting under direction.
Nine months later, The Chieftains ripped the roof off the D3 Arena of the Rimini Fiera, leaving 3,000 Italians exposed to the stars. I do not believe I have even been prouder of anything in my life, coming away with the thought that if we Irish were able to do everything else just half as good as we do our music, we would rule the world.
Then in their 50th year, and recording their 50th album, the Chieftains were probably Ireland’s most distinguished cultural ambassadors, and it wasn’t hard to understand why. The longtime nucleus of the band, comprising Paddy Moloney on uileann pipes and tin whistle, Matt Molloy on flute and Kevin Conneff on bodhrán and vocals, was augmented by several wonderful musicians, including the harpist Triona Marshall, who had replaced the legendary Derek Bell. In Rimini that night, they had a local Scottish pipe band help them out on March to Battle from the Chieftains’ album of the previous year, the awesome Hiberno-Mexican consummation, San Patricio. But the most striking element of the show was the dancing, an odd Canadian variant on sean nós, featuring two Ottawa-born brothers Natham and Jon Pilatzke and Cara Butler of the famous New York Irish dancing family. It was little short of mind-blowing to watch this and spot both the similarities and differences between it and the homeland version, and wonder what form of morphic resonances might have been at work.
It struck me that night that the mission of The Chieftains has been to fill out the gaps in our culture rent by radical cultural interference, tailors of tunes and menders of sorrows. They go out into the world as though in search of the music we lost with the scattering of our people, possibly convinced that, somewhere out there, it — we – might still exist as a complete and discoverable entity. They made friendships among the world’s musicians, and in the ensuing collaborations created new truths about what might or should have been.
And Paddy Moloney was the angel among the tailors who, his concise physical stature notwithstanding, rose above them all to lead this voyage of rediscovery for six whole decades. I am truly sad to learn of his death, and also that of Tony MacMahon, the great box-player who died a couple of days earlier. I first saw Tony play in the living room of our neighbour, the shoemaker Eddie Rock, with whom he had some kind of family connection. I was just a child and Tony was in his early-twenties, even then a man through whom the spirit of the ages seemed to flow in a constant stream that emerged from his box in an almost continuous whirl of quasi-variation and near-but-never-quite-repetition, as though seeking some perfect formulation to explain something otherwise incomprehensible. To hear him play a slow air was to be moved by you-knew-not-what.
God be good to them both. I know from material I have seen online that Paddy’s death was unexpected, though I have not heard what happened with Tony. A heartbreaking coincidence, perhaps, that they died in the same week. There was less than a year between them, and both had reached the average life-expectancy, but I saw them both as men who might have lived forever, so strongly did their hearts beat. A few samples, randomly chosen, of their genius and legacies:
WEDNESDAY
Jordan Peterson is heading for full-on engagement with the Covid scam. I can feel it from this latest video conversation with the former Australian deputy prime minister, John Anderson, recorded on September 9th, and posted on YouTube on Oct 11th,
Both men are still struggling with what is happening, and even more with trying to hold on to their respective respectabilities in the face of the culmination of virtually everything their past classical liberal fulminations have been cautioning about.
Theirs is an important conversation, presumably to be followed hard by one in which we can hear the pennies dropping one by one. It will disappoint anyone who has been awake to what’s happened for a year or more, but we must extend to the dinosaurs of global argumentation the licence to appear moderate and reasonable even in the teeth of terminal totalitarian threat.
So, in watching and listening, it must be borne in mind that the conversation is occurring between two globally high-profile public figures who are perhaps understandably determined to stay inside a certain line with regard to criticising the policies of the past 20 months. Apart from John Anderson's bizarre suggestion (for a one-time democrat, at least) that it is okay to deny unvaccinated people fundamental freedoms — like flying, for example — this was quite a civilised discussion, and one that it is to be hoped will be the start of a campaign by these two gentlemen to assist those of us who have been out here for a year and a half struggling to claw back our civilisation before it is too late.
It is actually shocking how little they appear to know about certain key aspects of what has happened: for example, the wholesale falsification of 'Covid' mortality statistics, the fundamental decrepitude of the PCR test, and the massive numbers of deaths that occurred globally in nursing homes between mid-March and early May 2020, which were not due to 'Covid' but to loneliness, stress and misuse of dangerous sedatives.
Another thing: JBP needs to either stop using the term 'conspiracy' or at the least to pay some attention to its true meaning: A 'conspiracy' becomes a bad thing when powerful people get together and plot evil deeds; it is not a bad thing to propose or discuss the possibility that such, yes, 'conspiracies' may be happening. It is hardly to be deemed bad at the theory stage, and certainly not — as in so much of this horror show — when it attains the status of fact.
Still, this conversation is a good introduction to what we should hope will be a thorough public exploration by JBP of all these issues. Maybe next up he will speak with his countryman Denis Rancourt, and then, perhaps, the Belgian Clinical Psychologist Mattias Desmet.
In any event, I fully expect to see him on the barricades by Christmas.
THURSDAY
With ‘Freedom Day’ scheduled for this day week, a word of warning. Remember not to take seriously anything the unspeakable creeps have to tell you. They make none of the decisions other than the daily decision to continue sticking the boot into their own people.
It’s important that we understand what’s been happening here, so that we don’t get misled again by the slime emanating from our political life, and the raw sewage pouring our of the rancid media.
Okay, take their ‘health’ agenda at face value, but crank up your memory: The objective, we were told, was to ‘flatten the curve’, protect the health service from being overwhelmed, vaccinate first the ‘most vulnerable’, then vaccinate perhaps 80 per cent of the population. Now they tell us they’ve ‘vaccinated’ more than 90 per cent of the population, and still the message about ‘freedom’ remains unchanged: Forget about freedom.
Are you getting it yet? It’s not about ‘freedom’. It’s about the opposite. All this talk is just talk, treading water until the flu season kicks in. They know that the depleted immune systems (courtesy lockdown) of the population will this year deliver the worst flu season for decades. They’re counting on it. They want thousands of people to die. They’ll call every death a Covid death, like they did last year, and somehow try to pin it on the unvaccinated.
This is not about freedom, of any kind, except their freedom to lie and lie and lie.
Please. The situation is not that the Government is reconsidering lifting restrictions on October 22nd. The Government never intended to lift restrictions on that date or any other. That was a lie. The Government does not decide anything, but merely carries out orders from those seeking to use this scam to asset-strip the global population. The Government consists of bare-faced liars. The purpose of October 22nd was to raise hopes so that the vaccinated public would become angry when their hopes were dashed, but not angry enough to realise that the real issue is that the ‘vaccines’ don’t work, just angry enough to take their rage out on their unvaccinated neighbour, because that’s what Pat Plank and Low Joe are telling them to do.
The point of the ‘Freedom Day’ was never to offer people their lives back (that would be a semantically and morally dissolute idea anyway, as I’ve already said many times), but to set things up so the vaxxed would go crazy when their ‘freedoms’ were snatched away as a result — it would be insinuated — of the refusal of the unvaxxed to roll their sleeves up. This, the unspeakable creeps are hoping, will be sufficient to set the vaxxed at the throats of the untermenschen — the unvaxxed — thereby creating a diversion to enable them cover up their crimes.
The most amazing thing is to watch and listen to these guys become outraged when people compare them to Nazis or draw parallels between vaccine passports and apartheid: 'Abuse of language', 'disproportionate invective', et cetera. Yet they follow the Nazi/Afrikaner playbook to the letter, and in doing so lack all sense of self-observation or irony. Let me make a prediction: Honest men called Leo and Simon and Michaél will be glad to change their names to Gottlob, Heinrich and Adolf before this thing is rightly over.
Of course the core proposition is an absurdity: How could it remotely matter to a vaccinated person whether I’m vaccinated or not? Actually, Jordan Peterson asks this precise question in the video linked above. The elephant in the elevator is that the ‘vaccines’ don’t work, most likely because they’re not vaccines. But the operation of the hypnosis serves to prevent people seeing the obvious and head straight for the option that best allows them to vent their rage. This is how the whole thing is set up.
And don’t forget that the politicians and journaliars are tied together at the hips on all this. The pols made the balls, but the journaliars threw them, and kept throwing them even though it became clearer and clearer that the entire thing was a con, or much worse. So, when you hear one of the would-be Lord Haw-Haws engaging on a rehearsed one-two with Varadcreep, remember that both have had glaring means, motives and opportunities to assist one another in this crime-of-the-millennium. Together they created and dissseminated the false narrative that’s already led to thousands upon thousands of unnecessary deaths. So don’t get yourself into a knot trying to figure out what they’re up to now. It’s simple: They’re prolonging the narrative, conscious that, operating on a largely hypnotised public, they still have enormous scope for saying ludicrous, senseless things and making them stick. The important thing is to keep the Big Lie going until they come up with an exit plan or until the next opportunity for mass carnage enables them to disguise their crimes in a miasma of, for example, flu deaths in the coming flu season starting in a month or six weeks. There’s not much else they can do, given how deep-in they are here, except maybe emerge with their hands in the air, so they give it one more turn on the lie-lathe and hope for the worst. But do not be deceived or disheartened by their twisting and prevarication: The writing is on the wall. Justice beckons, and the clock is ticking ominously on the Lie Factory wall just above their heads.
This is why it is so important that we, the untermenschen, stock up immediately on food and other necessities so that we can get through the coming winter while requiring to have as little public interaction with strangers as possible. So, this coming week if you haven’t already done so, fill your larder, fuel shed and medicine cabinet and prepare for a three-to-four-month siege. At the very least, this will help you avoid some of the shortages and dramatic price increases that are on the way. Secure your locks and windows. Grab from someplace an armful of readable books. Keep a hurl or some such nearby, purely for recreational use, of course.
The immediate problem is keeping safe until the hypnosis starts to wear off. This will begin to happen once the vaxxed begin to realise that they’ve been sold not one pup but two — and a bitch called Booster to boot.
FRIDAY
Don’t forget the Three Iron Rules of the Covid crime, which are vital to stopping yourself following the superficial content of what the unspeakable creeps are saying and keep youself in the real:
1. Every word that comes out of their mouths is a lie.
2. They’re not in charge.
3. It’s not about your health.