Tuesday, 27 December 2016

Tension in my Lady's Chambers.


Tension In my lady's chambers.

Your mail Ma'am.

Oh for Christ sake not another bloody youth centre to open. That’s three this month, Beecham what the friggin hell’s going on here?

Can’t you get Charles to open it Ma'am ?

Christ no he’s bloody useless, he has formed a close attachment with the oak tree in the village; we don’t see much of him these days, come to think of it nor does his wife, whatsername.

Can we get Charles’s wife..., thingy to open it?

No she would frighten the kids and the horses. Look I’ve had it up the here, they can stick it up their Jacky. Christ Beecham, 161 Mosques in Birmingham and about 245 table tennis clubs in Tower Hamlets we are losing all sense of proportion here.

 I don’t know what to suggest ma'am. What about telling them you are having your appendix out.

FFS man you are my advisor how stupid is that, everyone knows I’ve already had my appendix out.

Well Ma'am for a little levity just tell them they are going to put them back in again.

Frankly Ì don’t find that remotely effing funny Beecham I have got no time to frig around with this, I‘ve got a Trooping of the Guard this weekend, attend a consecration of a cathedral somewhere and two EU treaties to sign, I have no time to have to worry about opening yet another bloody table tennis club in Peckham. Frankly my family disappoint me as well. Christ look what I got for my 90th birthday an embroidered tea towel with my name on it and  a set of Windsor Castle place mats from Philip and a pair of joggers from Charles FFS.

True Ma'am but it is got to be an improvement on last year when Philip bought you a tool for punching holes in leather belts…………….. Hang on, the Duke of Cambridge is free Ma'am….I think.

FREE! FREE!? He’s not effing free; he’s bloody married for F.ucks sake.

 There are not are lot of other royals of substance left.Ma'am 

Oh Shit!......... What’s the name of this woman he’s married to?

The Duchess of Cambridge,

That’s not a friggin name that’s an effing title, what’s her name for crying out loud?

Kate.

Kate what?

Middleton.

Never heard of her, Does she know much about table tennis?

She does plays tennis ma'am.

Close enough.

Shall I contact the stables that you might require a horse milady?

I am not riding to Peckham on a friggin 'orse you bloody fool, order a State Carriage with all the flunkeys, the whole box and dice, flags and everything.


(Is nothing sacred?)

Saturday, 10 December 2016

The Question is, are we for Real?



The Question is, are we for Real?

From the moment you stick your nose out of your mother's womb THAT is reality, BUT IS IT?

The premise is that in our case our apparent reality could be caused by interference by a ‘Matrix’ that gives us APPARENT solidity and SUPPOSED purpose and it is the controllers of a ‘Matrix’ for the want of a better description that projects a Hologram and who determine the narrative. Are we in reality pure invisible energy or a singular consciousness, a single awareness that exists throughout the Cosmos unlike man-made electromagnetic energy like Radio and TV signals? Perhaps we are of this universal singular consciousness but trapped in some-ones else’s game?

The bible talks at length of spirits and souls, never of a singular consciousness or cosmic awareness. No-one is sure what our purpose is assuming we have a purpose at all. Sceptics will say we serve no purpose other than to be born, live and die; that is an even bigger ask. There has to be more, so they will never question who controls the Matrix if there is such a thing, Non-sceptics might ask is it a civilization that is so far advanced than ours that projects on its inhabitants a bogus reality, but more importantly is it possible to escape this Matrix?

There are Professors, Astrophysicists and Academics that theorise that what we experience as reality is not so. Could it be possible, as they suspect we are participants in a hologram; players in a game, not unlike the Computer Game Second Life except we do not get to choose our role, it has been chosen for us. If this ‘game’ has been played out since time began for humans we will accept this as reality without question.

It is difficult or impossible to comprehend this line of reasoning that I propose that what we are experiencing is NOT true reality.

Of course this is all speculative and can be easily dismissed but impossible to prove, as are many of our traditional beliefs. One could ask the question why the huge contradictions between intelligence of man the architect and engineer and the stupidity and the huge contradictions of his systems of beliefs, they are myths and traditional stories, especially ones concerning the early history of a people and social phenomenon’s typically involving paranormal and/or supernatural beings or events or a widely held but false beliefs. We send probes to Pluto and hope to send people on a one way trip the Mars. We have come a long way, we have ceased worshiping Idols but still worship; well take your pick.

If there were to be a way out of this Hologram we might call it death, although we cease to be a player in the game we are still of interstellar origin, we would have been released but we are still pure energy and we return from whence we came as a Singular Cosmic consciousness. I also ask the question do our inter-stellar visitors who flit between universes even dimensions instantly hope to be received in a heaven on death ….that is if they are true believers.

Things have changed. I was taught that an Atom was the smallest particle of matter that can exist, but Sub Atomic particles and the concept of string theory have been discovered that surpass this smallest particle of matter that can exist. Here we step into the realm of Quantum Physics and here it starts to get difficult. So what else have we to learn?

Mr Einstein as clever as he was explained in his formula that E = MC 2. It is mass that dictates the speed of light. It does hold true in this part of the universe. In another universe where does it leave his speed of light if mass is not factored in as it may not even exist?

Briefly I would like to put our position in our Galaxy into perspective. Proxima Centauri is 4.24 light years away from Earth. The furthest humans have ever travelled is a loop around the moon: a tiny .00000007 light years away. Voyager 1 our furthest and currently fastest travelling space craft—would still take about 75,000 years to reach this system, our closest neighbour (and it's not pointed in the right direction). I suppose we refer to slingshots here to speed up our trip.

Friday, 18 November 2016

Rhonda’s unexpected trip to Epsilon Bootis or Panic at Rickmansworth Young Ladies College.




Rhonda’s unexpected trip to Epsilon Bootis.
Or
Panic at Rickmansworth Young Ladies College.


Rickmansworth Young Ladies College is a very expensive boarding school for genteel young ladies, from well to do privileged families whose allegiance is to England, the flag, the English way of life, its traditions, customs, history, the King and the empire…......... well when we used to have an empire that is.

A place of learning for  the daughters of Captains of industry, representatives of the Judiciary and influential Political figures, a number who had managed to escape the courts. Patience my very best friend's father had been bankrupted twice and on another occasion found not guilty of fraud. He had reserved a half dozen QC’s and informed the press that he would defend the slanderous, malicious, trumped up charges vigorously but if he were found guilty he would throw his reputation on the line and plead leniency, even plea bargain and show grovelling remorse hoping for a reduced sentence. 

He is now a well-known politician, high in government whose position is something to do with the Treasury.


Rhonda was my third best friend until she un-friended me from Facebook just because I criticised the colour of her lipstick which her mother forbid her to wear anyway and it was Rhonda who unfriended Phaedra because it was Phaedra that accused Rhonda of being a loose tart. It was getting out of hand. By the way Tamzin is now my second best friend.  Patience my very best friend never joined in these spats, Phaedra put it down to breeding.


So this event one could say was timely. It was the day the science teacher Mr Crisis accidentally took Rhonda off to Epsilon Bootis. I suppose you are going to ask where Epsilon Bootis is. That’s precisely the question Miss Pringle asked when we broke the news that one of her students was missing. 

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Mr Crisis our Science teacher was a most strange looking man; he had a large oval head, long skinny arms and large oval eyes. Rhonda my third best friend said perhaps he is an Alien. I asked why an Alien would be teaching science at our school. Rhonda suggested maybe he is seeking asylum.

Mr. Crisis had been warned repeatedly not to hypnotize the girls, which was a pity as it was always the highlight in the science class watching stuck up Madeline Carter-Brown behaving like a chicken. Incidentally it was Madeline who was caught skinny dipping in the canal at Chorleywood by Pastor Dickie and his wife,  Madeline's  mother would have had a fit.

I suppose at this point I should make mention of the gardener, Cripps. Rumours would spread like the bubonic plague at RLC. One of the older girls speculated he was Miss Sefton’s illegitimate son, sired by the village lock keeper. Another rumour was that Cripps was a German spy who got left behind when Germany lost interest in last war.

The rumours got wilder as each intake of new girls entered the school.


What the girls did not take into account was if Cripps was Miss Sefton’s illegitimate son she must have been eight when she had him. But the speculation of this event was far more exciting than fact.

My mother’s words again reverberated in my ears “children can be so cruel”


One evening in the dormitory Rhonda told me that on a trip to the seaside when Millicent Martin made it to France on an inner tube she had seen Cripps signalling with his torch to a German warship off the coast.

I reminded her that Germany had surrendered and the war was over long ago. Rhonda pondered this conflicting anomaly for a moment then suggested maybe the warship people had not been informed of this. She had a point of course, but being of a late hour I was not about to get drawn into a conversation about the matter, because I was well aware of Rhonda’s fixations on silly fantasies and that she would not let the matter drop.

We broke the news to Miss Pringle.

This is the conversation I had with Miss Pringle ad verbatim or as best as I can recall.


“Miss. Miss. its Rhonda she’s gone.’


“What do you mean she’s gone?”


“Well she’s not here, Miss”


“I can see she is not here, where has she gone”?



Miss. Pringle was getting inpatient, and I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to break the news that the parents of one of her fee paying students would not be tending any more cheques.

“Well Bridgette I will ask you once again...., WHERE-IS-RHONDA?”

There was a moment’s silence.


“I think she has gone to Epsilon Bootis Miss”


This conversation was going to hit a dead end very shortly.


Miss. Pringle regained her composure, paused, leant forward and in a quiet, measured voice repeated the question.


“Now then Bridgette, for heaven’s sake where-is-Epsilon Bootis, is it the flower shop in the town?”


This was the dead end I was referring to a little earlier.



“No Miss, it’s a star system about 210 light years from earth. We discovered that Mr. Crisis comes from a planet that circles the star Epsilon Bootis”  he has returned home accidentally taking Rhonda with him,  I gushingly replied.

I would have also liked to have added his home Planet circled Epsilon Bootis which  was the second brightest star in the constellation Bootis with a visual magnitude of 2.35. But I felt the information I had already given her was going to keep Miss. Pringle’s attention focused for quite a while, without adding any further irrelevant information

It was all too much; Miss Pringle decided to seek a higher authority.

“Bridgette come with me, you can try and explain this to the headmistress”


I repeated to Miss Sefton what I thought had happened, again with a little embellishment about a bright flash of light, the smell of cordite and a whooshing sound.

“So what on earth was Mr. Crisis doing in charge of my science class?” asked Miss Sefton.

I tried to explain briefly “Well he got left behind after being on a sabbatical, Miss”



I didn’t quite understand why it was I that was being quizzed; it wasn’t MY fault that Mr. Crisis accidentally took Rhonda off to Epsilon Bootis, it was just his carelessness. I asked myself, was I the patsy here?

“Well. I am now forced to call in the police” said Miss Sefton crossly.


I could also foresee problems ahead for the local police as regards how they intended apprehending Mr. Crisis as their hands were already full finding the culprit who tied helium party balloons around the neck of a swan on the village pond, a news story that the Rickmansworth Bugle managed to carry on its front page with pictures for over a month now. Know-all Madeline Carter–Brown said they would probably call in the Yard.

It goes without saying, Mrs. Little; Rhonda’s mother was beside herself with worry. I did my best to console her by putting my arm around her trembling, quivering  shoulders and gently reminding her that Mr. Crisis was by nature a kindly, gentle, considerate, careful and responsible person; well apart from Rhonda’s disappearance that is and had a lovely and carefree disposition, but it didn’t seem to help very much.

At each religious lesson Pastor Dickie would remind us to keep Rhonda’s safe return foremost in our prayers. There was some reluctance by the girls to start a collection after the last debacle of Millicent Martin’s unscheduled 3 day trip on an inner tube to France, besides Rhonda’s parents were not actually on the bread line as her father was an Industrialist so how 2 pounds fifty pee or thereabouts in small change was going to lessen Mr. and Mrs. Little's grief was beyond me.

However there is a happy ending  to this story. A few days later there stood Rhonda in her crumpled school uniform, glasses askew, looking slightly flushed, one sock at half mast with her arm outstretched confronted her parents,“On behalf of Mr. Crisis, please accept this small gift and a letter of apology for any inconvenience he may have caused”


Sunday, 13 November 2016

The Nigerian Sex Scam


Lucius

The Nigerian Sex Scam

Replying to the mail was his first mistake. A mistake that would cost Lucius more than the amount he gave to Mr Bandabaloobi.

"Mr Bandabaloobi said he was from the Nigerian Bank" said Lucius "We first met when he wrote me an email explaining he needed me to transfer 3 million dollars out of the country because a rich old guy had died and the government was going to keep the money unless I could help and for this I would receive a percentage."


"I gave them my account details and bought a plane ticket to Nigeria to meet Mr Bandabaloobi and sign the transfer papers."


"Once I arrived I was beaten and taken to a small hotel room on the outskirts of town. I was stripped and kissed by dark and very hairy men. One of the men, named Carl, was very gentle and told me he loved me but the others were rough. So very rough, I struggled and told them I was a friend of Mr Bandabaloobi but they tied me up and took turns kissing my beautiful body, touching me and making me do things I had sometimes thought about and imagined, but had never expected to really happen because I am straight."


"The fact that one of the men looked like a black version of my dad kind of freaked me out and Carl turned out to be huge but like I said, he was very gentle and we just took things really slow. He's cool, we have swapped emails since. Nothing gay though, cause he knows I am straight."


"Having survived the ordeal and returned home, my only regret is that I missed my meeting with Mr Bandabaloobi and didn't get to see any African animals like giraffes and lions and those little things that peek up really quick and look around and then pop back down really quick. They are really cool. They are like those little dogs that live on the prairie. Can’t remember what those ones are called.


I do not want to go overboard being over-patronising and that, but David’s Internet site is the very best Internet site in the whole world. I agreed to give him credit for this wonderful article of his and asked him if I could include a recent family photo, the only family photo he said he possesses is one of his Uncle Bill.


David’s other name by the way is Thorne…That’s David Thorne.


www.27bslash6.com (PS.what size font did you say David?)


Wednesday, 2 November 2016

The Wedding Party Principle


The Wedding Party Principle.

There have been times in the past when my wife who had been endeavouring to sleep ignores my attempts to discuss the basic flaws I have discovered in Einstein’s theory of Relativity. I explain to her it is not that I disagree with his theory per se and yes I am in agreement with him that it does hold true on this nondescript planet in an outer whorl of a Galaxy in a backwater of one of an unknown number of universes but it does not necessarily hold true everywhere else. I do not get a lot of feedback from my wife in fact I would even go as far as to say I have been met with downright hostility.

Talking about theories not many people have heard of the “Wedding Party Principal” either or the Georgia Guide-stones which I will come to shortly which will then take me seamlessly on to tins of Spaghetti and Baked beans.

My wife is a cavalier of chance. When she explains to me how she is going to spend her Lotto winnings, I explain to her the “Wedding Party Principle”

It goes like this. My wife is getting married and has invited 8,000,000 or so of her relatives, workmates and Facebook friends to the wedding, oh and her sister Beverly. During the festivities Beverly who is still single at aged 69 is in the middle of these guests when tradition demands the bride tosses the bridal bouquet over her head into the crowd. Beverley is hoping to catch the bouquet as it could be her last chance of happiness, matrimony and motherhood.

Beverley stretches valiantly for the posy as it flies tantalisingly close but not close enough as the bouquet disappears toward other 4,000,000 million or so guests at the back of the hall all jostling to catch this floral tribute.

It is not by coincidence the odds of my wife’s sister Beverly catching the bridal spray are exactly the same odds my wife has of winning the Lotto.

Now this was the principle I was discussing with my wife while we were wandering aimlessly around the supermarket being subjected to an infernal racket masquerading as music. We paused at the Pasta section where I offered to lift my wife up whom being small in stature was unable to reach the top shelf to retrieve two tins of discounted baked beans and spaghetti, discounted due to their being past their use-by date. I could not help noticing a young lady scavenging at my feet like a Beaver laying the foundations of her dam, or was it a Badger building her Sett?

Doesn’t matter. She had a stroller filled with a young child with tattoos covering her arms; No, no the tattoos covered lady’s arms not the child’s, the price of the tattoos would have fed a Third World child for a number of years, maybe more.

As I was In charge of the shopping trolley I had time to ruminate over this. As we moved on and headed for the brown sugar section I put it to my wife in this world of Apps if say a lady of the night were to have a bar code tattooed on her arm and one was to download a special Apps on their mobile phone then all a prospective client need do is to swipe the ladies arm with a mobile phone to get a price on her favours, he has no need even speak to her. My wife’s eyes briefly closed, she sniffed as she inquired “what’s yer point?”

“Well think about it for heaven’s sake” I replied “it’s a win, win thing; it saves time in patronising, pointless dialogue which in turn would cut into a client’s valuable time to indulge in a productive endless variety of recreational sexual activities, do you follow me? “

I paused and looked at my wife, I have to admit I was certainly not expecting a massive reaction like a English Premier League footballer might expect on scoring a goal, pleading for God-like exaltation from the adoring crowd by taking off his shirt sliding on his knees, arms outstretched like the statue of Jesus atop the mountain of Corcovado pleading for deity-like adoration from a hysterical manic crowd, resplendent in their woolly hats and scarves emblazoned in their teams colours, waving little buntings, writhing and rolling like disturbed breaking waves on a deserted beach. ……..iss good innit.

Instead my wife’s eyes glazed over and she looked at me vacantly, shook her head and walked on, confirmation which cements my belief that if two people are in love and have absolutely nothing in common they already possess the basic fundamental building blocks for a long and happy marriage.

At this point some of you might ask what’s has this got to do with world politics. Well frankly nothing but it would IF when putting the tins of spaghetti into the trolley my wife and I were to discuss Merkel’s handling of the German economy, Boko Harams disgusting forays in Northern Nigeria, Berlusconi’s latest girl friend or friends, the illuminati, Bilderbergers or the worlds looming food shortage it might have brought me to the subject of culling the world’s population. Stay with me on this one!

I asked my wife if she had heard of the Georgia Guide-stones, she said she hadn’t……. I sometimes wonder why I even bother.

Google tells me that the World Population in 1900 was 1,650,000,000. In the year 2000 it was 6,122,770,000 and by the year 2100 it will be 10,124 926,000. For Europe in 1900 its population was 408,000,000 in 2000 it was 726,777,000. By 2050 that figure is expected to reach 2.8 Billion a figure that might interest you if you are one of these people.

Anyway back to the Georgia Guide-stones. It is a granite monument much like an enormous monolith but much smaller. It appeared in 1979, strangely enough in a field in Georgia USA. No-one is sure who was responsible for this erection but a cryptic message might give one a clue, it reads Sponsors: A small group of Americans who seek the Age of Reason.

There are a set of TEN guidelines or principles engraved onto the stone. I was a little concerned if one of these sponsors might be a Mr Rothschild because he has publicly ‘reasoned’ in the past that 500,000,000 people is an ideal number to continue to sustain life on this planet and he usually gets what he wants, he has a lot of influence and clout.

The ten guidelines or principles are engraved in English, Spanish, Swahili, Hindi, Arabic, Chinese and Russian. A shorter message is inscribed at the top of the structure in four ancient languages’ scripts: Babylonian, Classical Greek, Sanskrit, and Egyptian hieroglyphs. The world’s population on Monday @ 2219 pm on the 30th June of this year puts the world’s population clock, with the last three figures changing like a crazy stopwatch every second as 7,475,926,690.

Thus according to the Guide-stones and a quick cross mental calculation puts the world population as being over-populated by 6,675,926,690. Now I suspect this mysterious heap of granite, this American Stonehenge heralds an omen, no a dire warning. I am keeping my fingers crossed I am not one of the millions of souls destined for the cull list because I am not all that old



James Albion., Author of many books, many that have not been published……..yet.
The London Times waxed lyrical pointing out ‘The Wedding Party Principle’ is an example of the finest writing yet to come from the pen of Mr. James Albion and described Albion's new novel as soul-searching and poignant; and a ‘statement of the times’.

In contrast the Guardian literary critic Baker Walker-Brown described Mr Albion's work as utter drivel; he added “quite frankly I cannot see a vast difference in the discourse from his first novel ‘The Awakening’



Tuesday, 11 October 2016

. Rickmansworth Got Talent. .or Escaping the Matrix.


  Rickmansworth Got Talent.  
Or
Escaping the Matrix

Like mortality, finite is a word that we as human beings use when we believe there is a beginning and an end, but in the wider scheme of things if we are not of substance but pure energy then these two words exist only due to the data being transmitted to us by the controllers of the matrix. I suspect this pure energy is the universal singular consciousness shared by all beings of interstellar origin.

But in our case it is the interference by the Matrix that gives us solidity and supposed purpose and it is the controllers of the Matrix who determine the narrative. Are we in reality pure invisible energy that exists throughout the Cosmos unlike man-made electromagnetic energy like Radio and TV signals? So the question is who controls the Matrix, is it a civilization so far advanced than ours that this floating piece of blue green space debris and its inhabitants is an experiment, but more importantly is it possible to escape this Matrix?

I think I have escaped the Matrix on more than one occasion. Each time I thought it was just another dream but I recognised the faces and heard the voices. In dreams the faces are indistinguishable and there are no sounds. If I am in someone else’s play what is my part and will death be my release from the Matrix when I as a globule of pure energy move instantly elsewhere in the Cosmos, who knows. It was not to be another dream for I recognized the faces and heard the sounds, had I escaped again?

We had arranged to meet for breakfast at the Côte d'Azur café in Rickmansworth high street near the garage, opposite the Ocean something or other fish and chip shop.

 Pastor Dickie and his wife Mildred ordered the early bird special, beans on toast. I plumped for Porridge on toast and Tamzin’s parents Mr and Mrs Lacy ordered the chef’s special; they took a courageous chance on this one as no-one was really sure what the Chefs special was. Tamzin my second best friend ordered the Carte De Jour, not too well done with Bearnaise sauce, asparagus and a bowl of chips. I blushed crimson, were Miss Pringle our French teacher present she would have had convulsions or even palpitations and wondered what was the purpose of teaching french to schoolgirls for years.

Tamzin does have her moments of pure genius however proved by her brave but brief foray into the beauty industry. It was an internet adventure where she hoped to rival the ‘House of Yves Saint Éclair’ in Paris. Her discovery was a beauty product for the removal of ladies unsightly moustaches and private hair. Most importantly what set it apart from the propriety brands was the user could actually harvest the base material for themselves needed for the hair removal…Tree Sap.

We agonized for days over a brand name; I suggested ‘Airs and Graces’, my  very  best friend Patience suggested ‘air on a G String'.  Finally it was Tamzin who came up with a corker, ‘Brazilian Scream’ She reasoned this was the interpretation of the sound she expected to hear from the user as one ripped off the Sap-impregnated Elastoplast from the offending hair. We all concurred. Even though we patented the product sadly the idea never found real favour with the general public.

Tamzin was keen to cement her mark in Rickmansworth and perhaps encourage the Rickmansworth Council to affix a blue commemorative plaque on a wall in the high street. We decided to move one step at a time on this one. Our first opportunity came when the Red Lion Pub held a ‘Rickmansworth Has Talent’ show. We decided even without a musical agent we could have a good chance of taking this one out. A name for our act was going to be a big problem. We eventually plumped for The Irish Rovers; plural you will note.

I was to play the washboard and sing; you see Tamzin has a lisp so she has to play the tin whistle. We were to give a special rendering of ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. I warned the organizer our version ran for 25 minutes but if they preferred a longer rendition we could accommodate them with a special version that ran for 1¼ hours, in that one I have a washboard break of about 20 minutes. He said as he had a dozen or so contestants to get through that they would go with the shortened version.

I thought it was going very well. It was only after about 15 minutes when the pub was almost empty the grumpy organizer walked up to the stage and ordered us to leave. When I asked why, his excuse was the patrons were fed up waiting for the ‘Daddy Oh’. Well that was their loss and Rickmansworth’s potential musical reputation down the drain.

While I have your attention I must recount one of Father’s many anecdotes. He had previously related this story to Lord and Lady Bêsant-Carter over a glass of port at one of our regular Bridge party’s held at our house, a story about a warship that was hit by a torpedo in the North Atlantic. As the ship was about to keel over into the icy waters the ships Pastor gathered everyone on deck and invited them to join him in the well-known Hymn ‘Abide with Me’

A small voice was heard to call out from the back of the assembled men. ‘What key are we in Jack?’ Personally I think it is an anecdote told in bad taste, and I did not hesitate to tell Mother so..

I must tell you about my friend Graham, I hastily add he is NOT my boy-friend. I met him at a First Aid refresher course. He partnered me in the mouth to mouth resuscitation. Twice I had to remonstrate with him for attempting to put his tongue in my mouth. I warned him in no uncertain terms that I valued my virginal disposition much more than crappy first aid merit badges and one more violation of my disadvantaged helpless position of being pinned to the floor I will "punch 'is lights out."

I told mother about Graham attempting to kiss me on the erm….escalator at the shopping centre. I told her I suspect Graham is experiencing his first sexual awakening. Mother said “Bridgette dear of course he is, he a 25 year old male for heaven’s sake”. She warned me if I continue to frolic with males of the opposite species on escalators in shopping centres I also run the real risk of coming home with child. I did not realize mother had a sense of humour; I know father does because he married her.

It was Mother that first accused me of being gullible and I believed her. Father must also think I am gullible. He recounted another one of his ‘untold stories’ concerning the Titanic of which he said few people are unaware of. He said when it was sinking and only a few passengers and crew remained on deck the Captain ordered the orchestra to lead the survivors in the Hymn ‘Eternal Father Strong to Save’...…or something like that.

At the end of the singing they were to observe one minutes silence in memory of all those still struggling in the water after which the orchestra would then segue straight into the Charleston, followed by musical chairs then the Hokey Pokey. Drinks would be served, fancy dress was optional. I asked Mother how long had Father indulged in bad taste.

Graham has just rung up and asked mother if I am free this evening. Mother exploded “free, FREE GRAHAM? She is not THAT cheap”.

I pointed out the advert to Mother. ‘WITCHCRAFT LESSONS’ to galvanize her interest I pointed out there were discounts for seniors.

She said I can forget my birthday present it is not going to happen. I think I will turn her into a frog.

Later I asked her to rethink her decision..... I pointed out to her it was a simple mistake the advert read STITCHCRAFT LESSONS.

I am afraid to sleep now because I might leave my earthly body and find myself on the outer edge of one of the universes as a bolt of pure energy …..and for all his faults I was beginning to like Graham.

Saturday, 17 September 2016

The Rickmansworth Nightmare, Escaping the Matrix.


The Rickmansworth Nightmare.

The  Escaping the Matrix.

You must read my article “The First  Awakening” to fully understand what is happening here. I appear to be slipping back and fore between dreams, but they are too real to be dreams. I am also beginning to have doubts about slipping though distortions in space and time or passing through Gateways and crossing dimensions, I suggest what this man has to say might be true.

He talks a lot about Perception, Conception and Holograms. I am being asked to believe his theory that we are living in a Matrix and the Matrix is shaped by frequencies sent out from Saturn’s rings and amplified by the Moon. He is suggesting what we experience as reality is not true reality but our perceptions are being influenced by intelligence from outside. But who controls the Matrix?


We are not who we think we are. He says Quote. ‘It is the “Queen Bee” (Saturn-Moon) that broadcasts the waveform information “hack”, and humans decode this into a world they think they see, and perceptions and behaviours they think is “them”. We can be completely controlled by the Matrix and be no more than human robots responding to data input. End of quote.


I really want to believe, but it is a big ask.


He must have his finger on the pulse. He travels the world giving lectures on his theory that we are living in a hologram. He can fill the Battersea town hall to the brim explaining with video presentations to people wanting to know more about this; his 10 hour lectures are the norm.


Maybe I did not slip through a distortion in space and time, or drawn into a Worm Hole maybe there was no Gateway, maybe this is the second time I have escaped the Matrix. It was only my perception that I am a middle aged male when in fact I am a female of the opposite species. So on re-awakening it was the real me and not who I thought I was? Does that make any sense?


I would like to regard this as my second and hopefully my final awakening; I prefer reality beyond the Matrix.


All this happened a while ago but to bring you up to speed Mother seemed to know of my arrival. As I was coming down the stairs she said “Oh so you’re back?” She had just come in from the garden and was holding a pot plant. It was though I had never left.


I inquired “what’s that?”


She replied “it’s a plant”


I said “I can see it’s a plant, but what’s it called?”


Briefly hesitating and ruefully looking at the plant she shook her head and admitted apologetically “I never gave it a name “


Exasperated I said “No, no what’s the plant called?”


“You mean like Nathan or Phyllis?


“No like Rose or Lily”


“Rose and Lily are both girls’ names, it’s just a plant in a pot; it’s called a Pot Plant”


It was early Saturday morning I knew I was not going to get a lot of sense out of her so I decided to quit while I was still behind.


From here on in and for the sake of anonymity and to protect mother’s identity I will refer to her as Mrs. Flugelhorn.


When Graham and I were a unit mother took him aside and said confidentially “Look Graham I would appreciate it if you did not associate with my daughter”


He answered “Mrs. Flugelhorn I love and respect your daughter and would never do anything to hurt her”


Mrs Flugelhorn’s brow furrowed “no, no you have missed the point completely, she is weird”


I first met Graham at a Country and Western show in Rickmansworth; he was dressed in a cowboy outfit. We talked for ages and ages about everything, friends, foibles (foibles?) family and hopes and fears for the future. I was amazed we had absolutely nothing in common, a firm foundation for a long and happy marriage.


They say love is blind likewise mother’s tattooed friend Rhonda, you can find her up at the Red Lion blind most Saturday evenings. On second thoughts blind is the wrong word; smashed is the word that escapes me.


It is death that stalks us all and it was a problem Uncle Crisis recently had to face. You see he has his father’s ashes but lacked a burial plot for them. He said he may be forced to lay the ashes on top of his mother, my Auntie Jekyll in the same grave. I asked him about an epitaph, he said it will read ‘In Death as In Life’ I suggested before they put chisel to marble perhaps he should re-think the epitaph.


Death? It reminds me of the sad story of poor Mr Humphries the widower up the road. His wife committed suicide you know. She did leave a note. It read your dinner is in the oven…….so am I.


Talking about Polar Bears reminds me of an incident concerning my friend Tamsin; actually Tamsin is my second best friend Patience is my very best friend. Miss Frenzi the teacher was explaining to the class that a Farrier re-shoes horse’s hooves as a shoe repairer repairs people’s shoes.


Tamsin stood up and shouted  out “that’s Cobblers miss”. Miss Frenzi scolded "Tamsin Lacy wash your mouth out and report to Miss Pringle’s office" adding “I will not tolerate foul language in my classroom”


The last I saw of Tamsin Lacy that day was when she poked her head round the door on leaving pleading “but miss, miss….”

Phaedra told me there was a ‘bad blood’ whatever that means, between Miss Frenzi and Tamsin. It started when Tamsin blacked out her two top front teeth for the School photograph. If that wasn’t enough she appeared twice in the photo after discovering the photographer was going to do a 10 second time exposure thus enabling her to run round the back of the students and appear for a second time in the photo, on the extreme right …again complete with blacked out teeth.


A few days later showing her the offending photograph Miss Frenzi said crossly “Your parents will think we have no discipline here, now we will have re-assemble the whole school and get the photographer back, it’s all time and money”. I can only surmise it is small transgressions like this that has caused this ‘bad blood’


Father is a bit Mutton Jeff; I was telling mother and Tamsin about Colonel Carter-Brown who lives at Ruthin Castle near Plaxtol Mill. I told them he organizes tours for Japanese tourists, shooting parties for the wealthy, arranges lovely afternoon tea parties on the lawn, hosts old time dancing and has exquisite balls; father cried out from the kitchen “wash yer mouth out Brigitte”.

Exasperated I looked at my mother and whispered forcefully “MOTHER, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” She closed her eyes, patted the back of my hand reassuringly saying “never mind pet, don't fret  it’s just your father”


I shall refuse to talk anymore when father is around after the last episode when I was telling Tamsin of a movie about a gigantic Octopus. I just happened to be describing its huge tentacles when father cried out “Bridgette I will not tell you again”. I tearfully pleaded “Mother for heavens sake make him wear a hearing aid”

Tamsin’s mother told my mother that Tamsin moans and cries out for Gandalf in her sleep. God ONLY knows what she gets up to in her dreams; that’s Tamsin not her Mother. I don’t like to pry as dreams are very personal and private things aren’t they? Trouble with Tamsin she is too trusting.


Her mother had to tell her not to do cart-wheels in front of the boys; she said all they want to do is look at your knickers. Tamsin said “I know that mother; I know thaaaaaat with emphasis on THAT,” that’s why I keep them in my bag”


To sum up, if this is the real me and if this is to be my permanent home I am going to have to establish some guidelines here, a new set of ground rules for Graham for a start.

http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/biggestsecret/esp_icke94.htm Moon Matrix Theory Explained


Wednesday, 14 September 2016

Celebrity Candour


Celebrity Candour.

Another person’s point of view

As far as I know Jeremy Clarkson is apolitical; he is NOT a member of a political group which in today’s Stalinist Britain is a very wise move? A friend in Florida sent me this rant by Clarkson. If Clarkson was not a celebrity and did not keep his politics to himself then publicly airing views like this there is a real risk of him being accused of Racism/Fascism and/or being a Narnsey/Bigot.

What he is doing is describing the contemporary Britain which he sees though HIS eyes. One does not make comments like this in the UK without the risk of being crucified by the State Controlled TV and print Media or at worst a frantic visit by the State Controlled Political Police investigating any number of possible charges listed as a ‘Hate crimes’ What he sees is similar to the scene a little boy witnessed when he realised the Emperor was not wearing any clothes, it is called stark reality.

You may observe it but you must not comment on it or you might be accused of any number of isms and phobias complied from the Governments little red book of “Words to use to terrify the people”.

This situation here is very similar to threats of intimidation and of arrest placed on people in Burma, China, Iran, Tibet, and North Korea for airing their political views. Dare you publicly complain about the social destruction of Great Britain or that our freedom of speech has been deliberately stifled and you might find yourself in jail quick smart.

If we accept as read that the three political parties have IDENTICALLY the same political philosophy and/or ideology why do they not then form a Socialist Alliance or Bloc similar the old USSR and stop playing silly games? They then could remain in power forever. Why not do it properly and elect a General Secretary to preside over a Socialist Central Committee. They already have a far left socialist political regime already in place as well as a loyal State Political Police Force to put down any political or social dissent by the unruly, smelly peasants. They could ride the gravy train forever.

We might be being ruled by a brand new form of pseudo-democracy paying only lip service to true democracy, in a country where Electoral ballots are as free from fraud as any festering third world country. So the people ponder why vote at all, the result will be the same, and the result is the people will end up again with the best government that money can possibly buy.

The enclosed article by Jeremy Clarkson was in the Sunday Times but was 'pulled' - probably by the subject of the article, Peter Mandelson, so much for free speech. But poor old Mandy fails to appreciate how the blogsphere works and in no time the article finds itself going viral round the world. Enjoy it and feel free to pass it on if you enjoyed it.


***Clarkson’s observations follow***
Jeremy Clarkson
Sunday Times 8/11/09

I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I’m afraid I’ve decided that it’s no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I’m afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn’t alive any more. He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country’s top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leap.

I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn’t bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he’s resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses.

There’s talk of emigration in the air. It’s everywhere I go. Parties, work, in the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can’t see the point because she won’t be going to university, because she doesn’t have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don’t live in America.

Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can’t stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can’t understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation’s capital. They can’t understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can’t understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it’s racist.

And they see Alistair Darling handing over another 30 Billion of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn’t understand because he’s a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”

It’s a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fair-trade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else, but where?

You can’t go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can’t go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don’t sweep your lawn properly, and you can’t go to Italy because you’ll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse’s head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for “organising” a plumber.

You can’t go to Australia because it’s full of things that will eat you, you can’t go to New Zealand because they don’t accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can’t go to Monte Carlo because they don’t accept anyone who has less than 40 million. And you can’t go to Spain because you’re not called Del and you weren’t involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can’t go to Germany ... because you just can’t.

The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you’ll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it’s okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can’t go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house, or dead.

Canada’s full of people pretending to be French, South Africa’s too risky, Russia’s worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn’t help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you’ll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.

I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it’s been for decades, but the lunatics who’ve made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a weasel looking twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.

So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it’s a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit. ********Ends.

Socialism, which is the ideology of the Labour Party, is but one step away from Communism and but two steps from Marxism. There are still some that witnessed the birth of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and there are many more that witnessed death of this Socialist monster. Their people too lost their freedom of speech and their press was state controlled.

Does this tale worry you? It should. It’s not just that we are sick to death of the slow, creeping, calculated destruction of OUR country. It is time for the frightened sheeple who only dare speak in hushed tones in the privacy of their homes to speak out as this brave Briton has done.

Since this article was published the enslaved British people have voted to leave the European occupied countries and have regained some semblance of freedom but still have a long way to go, but nevertheless the politicians still do not speak for the people only for their political party and for the security of their position.

Thursday, 8 September 2016

DEJA VU


DÉJA VU

AN ARTICLE FROM THE CAMPAIGN FOR AN INDEPENDENT BRITAIN.

As a foreword I would like to point out the BBC was always regarded as a highly revered broadcaster and still is. Its problem was and still is as being a government funded entity and thus has to follow the government political stand which is no different from any other government broadcaster anywhere in the world be it from Europe, South America, Asia or even North Korea. It broadcasts high quality drama, Natural history, but its bias and unbalance in reporting political events is glaringly obvious. Some might say legendary.

 It appears to have two separate departments one which broadcasts high quality TV entertainment and the other that transmits programmes such as News, Talks, Current Affairs those being vehicles of the propaganda arm of the government. Its panel style political programmes hosted by left leaning aging grey haired presenters use what appears to be carefully chosen panels and stacked audiences, this is very apparent in the type of programmes when there is Left and Right leaning political groups putting their viewpoint across. Of course it has been accused of being ‘Common Purpose’ influenced. It is certainly socialist influenced as our Government is Statist

The BBC’s style of broadcasting changed almost immediately after WW2 when the powers decided to form a New Europe. To do this Nationalist feelings or feelings of ethnic National identity had to be vilified as Narnsey-like and racist or a New Europe was NEVER going to work. The move to form a European community was the first hurdle and first tentative step towards a single Europe and the National Broadcaster was employed as a vehicle for propaganda to influence the people to embrace a single European entity, a European Government and its message has continued until its rejection at the recent Brexit referendum.

ARTICLE STARTS Peter Farrell, one of our supporters has kindly passed on a transcript of a programme broadcast on Radio 4 on Thursday 3rd February 2000, entitled “A Letter to the Times”. It is a shocking exposé of the underhand tactics used by a number of leading Europhiles in the run-up to our joining the EEC in 1973.

In December 1970, six months after Edward Heath’s unexpected election victory, an opinion poll showed that only 18% of the UK electorate supported him in his long-term dream of taking our country into the EEC. A massive 70% were opposed. While the decision on accession was to be taken by Parliament, it was apparent to Heath that he would never gain a parliamentary majority in the face of overwhelming public opposition.

While some of the tactics he used are well-known, notably disguising the political project as an economic project and not mentioning loss of sovereignty, other underhand tricks employed at this time have only come out into the open more recently.

The programme revealed one particularly successful tactic: a barrage of letters to the Times during the autumn of 1970 all apparently written by MPs who supported accession. In reality, these MPs only signed them; they were all produced by an ardently pro-European PA to the MP Sir Tufton Beamish.

But how were the rest of the population, who didn’t read the Times, to be converted? Equally clandestine methods were used.

Those of us of a certain age will remember the name Jack de Manio, who presented the Today programme from 1958 until 1971 and who was twice voted British Radio Personality of the Year. He was also strongly Eurosceptic. Geoffrey Tucker, who was closely linked to Heath and who organised breakfasts for supporters of accession, lobbied for his removal. The following year, the programme was reorganised to feature two presenters. De Manio was not happy with the new arrangement and resigned.

A coincidence? Whatever, by 1971, the BBC had been effectively “nobbled.” The managing director of BBC Radio, Ian Trethowan, was another friend of Edward Heath and was very willing to accede to the wishes of Geoffrey Tucker’s breakfast group to deal with any broadcasters perceived to be opposed to accession. Far from being an organ of impartiality, the BBC became the main propaganda vehicle used to shift public opinion in these crucial years.

However, the most disturbing revelation in this programme was the funding of the European Movement by the American CIA. Dr Richard Aldrich, a political historian, came across the archived documents of a CIA front organisation which poured millions of dollars into the UK. In typical CIA style, the audit trail had made it difficult to trace the source of the European Movement’s funding, but it seems that even the office cleaners ultimately were being paid by US intelligence!

Heath himself was interviewed in the documentary and he is heard expressing his regret that the job was never fully done. He described the subsequent rise of euro-scepticism within the Conservative Party as “the most devastating blow of all.” However, in view of the deceit he encouraged, such a man deserves no sympathy whatsoever.

The only person to come out at all well from the programme is Roy Hattersley. Although a pro-European, he was horrified by the tactics being used during this period. He attended one of Tucker’s breakfasts and was so appalled by what he heard that he never went again. In his opinion, the use of spin all those years ago, has prejudiced the argument ever since.

Telling words indeed and vital lessons for supporters of withdrawal as the referendum looms. Already, one has a sense of déja vu as one businessman after another is given air time on the BBC saying how disastrous it would be to leave the EU. Our opponents are not going to play fair, but we cannot allow them to get away with it this time ENDS.

Let me remind you of the treachery of our politicians………and it continues today with the possibility of WW3 and collapse of our export market if Brexit was successful

“There is NO question of eroding any national sovereignty; there is NO blueprint for a federal Europe. There are some in this country who fear that in going into Europe, we shall in some way sacrifice independence and sovereignty. These fears I need hardly say are completely unjustified"

Edward Heath, British Prime Minister 1972

"The aim was, and is... ever closer political union.
Edward Heath 1989
**********************************************
1990, in response to the question "Did you have in mind a United States of Europe in 1972?"

‘Of course, yes”



I have no words to describe how I feel about a person who would cause so much harm to his own country. His only defence he is a politician