planet of the jackanapes

 

"Maisie Baines has blood clots."

"Does she indeed. How would one go about getting those?"

"The doctors think..."

"Ah yes. Anything but the Flu virus vaccines, eh?"

"They've put her on Pfizer anti clotting medication."

"How marvellous for the Pfizer corporation. They sell us the stuff that causes the blood clots. And they sell us the stuff that's supposed to cure the blood clots. What a brilliant business model. Poison us then sell us the antidote. Marvellous. Who could quibble with that? And they make a fortune when our governments compel us to take their vaccines which cause strokes, blindness and death, for a Flu outbreak no less generated by Frankensteins at a Chinese Communist Party laboratory in Wuhan with funding from Doctor Anthony Fauci and the American National Institute of Health and with the collusion of the World Health Organisation as evidenced by the fact that the World Health Organisation has been instrumental in covering up the Fauci/Wuhan orgins of the Covid 19 Flu virus. Hoo baby. Whatever happens to us, Mr Pfizer just can't lose, eh."

"Er James. One other thing. Fr Thady at the Curate's Diary says in the September edition that those who oppose the vaccines may be under the influence of satan."

"Leave me laddie. Leave me. I would be alone with my swans and ducks."

irish high court judge tony hunt charged with murder

 

Judge Tony Hunt you are hereby charged that on dates in 2021 you deliberately and systematically with malice aforethought murdered the rule of law in the Republic of Ireland by releasing two Kinahan gang drug hoors both of whom had been providing sexual services to the same Kinahan scum gang banger (gang banger literally apparently) one as mistress, one as at some stage his "wife" (if such scum can ever be said to be married) while laundering the money he gave them from the proceeds of Kinahan gang drug dealing, people trafficking, child abuse and what are termed execution style murders. You Tony Hunt by releasing the two Kinahan gang molls because you said they weren't responsible for their money laundering actions since they were riding the Kinahan gang scum they were laundering money for, have made it possible and profitable for the Kinahan gang to continue to safely launder its proceeds from drug dealing, people trafficking, child abuse, and murder, simply by giving the money to their molls to hide. Hey Tony. Have you seen what Kinahan drugs do to people? Have you seen what the Kinahans do to the people they murder? Have you seen what the Kinahans and their fellow IRA Tinker gang the Hutches are doing to Ireland? I think we should be told.

battle beneath the planet of the jackanapes

 

Rooting around in a book shelf at the chateau I found an old newspaper.

The Daily Express from Monday 8th December 1997.

How on earth did this thing escape me?

It should have been budgie cage fodder decades ago.

I plucked it out and began to leaf through it.

There was an article on page two about new Prime Minister Tony Blair unveiling proposals to help Britain's poor.

There was an article on page three headlined: "Family Love Helped Pull Linda Through."

That article began: "Pop legend Sir Paul McCartney can finally smile again - after two desperate years his wife Linda is recovering from breast cancer."

There were feature articles by famed witterers Mary Kenny and Peter Hitchens, both of whom would soon resign from the Daily Express after the paper was taken over by porn baron Richard Desmond in the year 2000.

I won a bet at the time with my brother that Mary Kenny and Peter Hitchens would walk. I was a good judge of character even in those innocent far off days. I knew my witterers.

Incidentally the porn baron ran the Daily Express into the ground up until 2018 when he is supposed to have sold it to the owners of the Daily Mirror, yes, the Dsily Mirror, the newspaper that in 2012 in a vicious self promoting exercise with a front company television station styled ITV 4, framed deceased broadcaster Jimmy Saville using bribes to persuade criminals to trump up child abuse allegations against him.

So the Daily Express is currently owned by something worse than Richard Desmond.

You couldn't make it up.

Truly that newspaper was accursed.

But I digress.

I continued to turn the pages.

There was a seedy enough interview with an actress attempting to cash in on having been with the singer Michael Hutchence the night he died.

Richard Desmond would have been proud of that one.

There were other seedy articles, one with a cover promo that declared: "I Love My Babies But They Destroyed My Life see page 26 and 27," and on page 26 and 27 there was the relevant piece banner headlined "Twins Ruined Our Life," complete with a half page photo of two happy enough looking kids and two cosmically goonish lookng parents. The parents presumably had no conscience and really wanted to see themselves in a newspaper.

There was a sad soulless article appearing to advocate unnecessary and invasive cosmetic surgeries for women. Presumably the Express was getting back hander payments for carrying this sort of advertisement disguised as a news feature. I would suggest that similar payments would have applied to their regular ads disguised as feature articles advocating the use of any number of pharmaceutical products.

There was a hopelessly wrong minded campaigning article headlined "Fears For Saudi Nurse," about Deborah Parry the British born murderess (with her accomplice Lucille McLauchlin) of Australian Nurse Yvonne Gilford, who were being detained in Saudi Arabia the country where they'd murdered Yvonne. The fears the Express had were of course for the safety of the murderesses in Saudi jails. Anything else such as being afraid the Saudis wouldn't execute them or that worse, the Saudis might let the bitches go, would have been real journalism. (After the Express campaign and similar pressure from other wrong minded British media groups, the Saudis did indeed let the bitches go.)

On the centre spread of the newspaper there was a banner headline asking: "Will The Titanic Sink Again?"

A sub headline warns: "Two hundred million dollar voyage of love and disaster could sink at the box office."

The article is about James Cameron's movie Titanic which was just due for release when the Monday 8th December 1997 Daily Express hit the news stands.

Clearly the Daily Express had a talent for prognostication.

Reliably wrong about everything as I used to say about the late Robert Fisk.

I leafed backwars to the cover of that seminal publication.

Oddly enough I'd dived in without really looking at it.

And lo!

The cover had a banner headline filling three quarters of the written page.

The headline declared: "WORLD FACING KILLER FLU BUG."

A slightly smaller secondary headline added: "British Experts Called In To Head Off Epidemic."

The text of the article was attributed to Helene Feger and Ian Gallagher. (Where are they now?) It began: "British scientists have been drafted in to analyse a deadly flu virus amid fears of a global epidemic. They will look at samples of a virulent Type A strain that has put health teams around the world on full alert. One expert, Dr Georgia Duckworth said it was vital that the new strain is defined as quickly as possible so that a vaccine can be developed. The government has already put plans in place to protect the nation from the threat of an emerging lethal strain of flu. So far the virus is feared to have killed two people and to have infected two others in Hong Kong. But concern is mounting that it could escalate into the worst epidemic in 30 years."

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ho  ho, hee, hee, ha, ha, ha,  ha.

Hilarious no.

Well bold readers.

I had a Charlton Heston moment as I read the above Daily Express Ur flu virus rubbish.

Seeing the present day flu virus propaganda in vitro as it were.

I collapsed on the sand near a half buried Statue Of Liberty which adorns the parrot's room at the chateau and began groaning: "The fools! The fools! They blew it up. They blew up my world. They blew up our freedoms. They blew up the dignity of the human being. They blew up our beautiful ancient church. They blew up our sovereign paliaments. They blew up social living. They blew up our love for each other. With their panic and their manipulations and their orchestrations and their atheisms and their anti depressants, and their abortions, and their contraceptives and their easy divorce and their assisted suicide and their sex change operations for children and adults and their legalised drug use and their pharmaceutical companies and their freemasons and their satanists and their Hutch gangs, and their Kinahanes, and their IRAs and their Cosa Nostras and their gain of function research turning viruses we couldn't catch into viruses we could, and their lockdowns and their face masks, and their vaccines. The fools! The fools! They blew it all up. They blew up our world."

Ho hum.

They've been getting us ready for a long time, haven't they gentle friends.

the da vinci codswallop

James studied the parchment.
In the centre of it Sophie's dying father had scrawled three words:
'U Fuhn Cuhns'
Sophie peered over his shoulder.
"What does it mean?" she murmured. "Was my father trying to tell us who killed him?"
"No," said James, "I think he was just really annoyed about being stabbed."
Sophie sighed.
"Ever since Papa joined the Priory of Zion I knew there would be trouble," she said.
James sat bolt upright.
"What do you know about the Priory of Zion?" he demanded.
"Not much," she said thoughtfully stroking her adorable lustrous brown hair.
"When you're finished with that hair could I stroke it?" wondered James. "It's a really nice one."
Sophie didn't seem to hear him.
"Ze Priory of Zion," she mouthed, lapsing into stage French. " It is a secret society and it serves to protect a great secret. According to my fawzer it has existed for almost two thousand years. Like the best secret societies it is always led by very famous people in each era. To avoid attracting attention, you see. Sir Isaac Newton, Leonardo Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Titian, they were all Grand Masters of the Priory. And before them Charlemagne, Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, and Saint Augustine. Later still into the modern era came Chopin, Liszt, Beethoven, Elvis and the Beetles. Then, Gandhi, John F Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Robert Mugabe, Chairman Mao, Colombo..."
James sat bolt upright again.
"Cristofero Colombo?" interjected James. "You mean Christopher Columbus, the explorer?"
"No," said Sophie, "not him. It's ze one on ze television. You remember? With ze cigars. 'Pardon me Mam.' That Colombo."
"I think you're thinking of Winston Churchill," said James.
Sophie shushed him with a wave of her hair.
"After Colombo," she said, "came Barnaby Jones, Steve McGarrit, Mannix, Jim Rockford, Frank Cannon and Francois Mitterand. All the great TV detectives. All Grand Masters of the Priory of Zion. All sworn to protect its secret."
"What is the secret?" rapped out James bluntly, trying not to stare at her magnificent legs which she had just crossed magnificently.
Almost as an afterthought more in jest than in anger, he added: "Could you not find a longer skirt? I mean throw another log on the fire. Thunder Thighs."
"Are you saying my legs are like tree trunks?" she enquired, charmed by his directness in spite of herself.
James for his part was nonplussed by her aura of mystique, her quick wittedness, her magnificent silken clad thighs and her gazungas.
Sophie looked at him with a hint of challenge.
"Stop distracting me with you legs and whatever those other things are," James persisted firmly. "Just tell me the secret protected by the Priory of Zion."

"My fawzer died for the secret," she said with a sexy French pout. "I will never tell anyone. Never. Unless I'm really bored, or someone keeps badgering me, or for a cheap thrill"

"Tell me," cried James, seizing her arm, "I'm boring. And I'm grey as a badger. And I like cheap thrills. Oh and you can stop pouting now. You're scaring the parrot. And me to be honest."
"James the secret can never be told," she insisted, twisting away from him. "It would be a betrayal of my Fawzer."

"Tell me! Was he or was he not on the Muppet Show?"

"Who?"

"Your Fawzer."

"What do you mean?"

"Was he Fawzer ze Bear?"

"No."

"Then you mean Father," said James. "It's actually easier to say than Fawzer. F-a-a-a-ther. And 'the' is easier to say than 'ze' too, for your information and for the information of the entire French speaking population of the planet earth.."

"I will not reveal the secret," she said with a hint of desperation which only served to accentuate her vulnerability cum sexiness routine.

"Alright be like that," said James. "I think I know it anyway"
"You cannot know," whispered Sophie.
"I know," said James.
"How could you know?" she asked with a desperate plea in her eyes.
"Oh I know. It's quite easy to figure out once you get on the right track. Secret society. Famous leaders. Sum of the hypotenuse is equal to the other two sides. It was quite simple in the end. I know the secret, Sophie. Here I can prove it to you. We'll both take a piece of paper and write separately what we think the secret is. And then we'll compare the two. I know I'm right. But if I'm wrong I'll buy you dinner and stop talking about Donald Trump."
"You will never mention Donald Trump again?" said Sophie.
"Never," agreed James.
"No more interminable conversations about the dynamics of American politics?" persisted Sophie.
"Well I might talk politics but I won't mention Trump," hedged James, clearly unsure that solving a two thousand year old mystery was worth giving up his favourite conversational gambit.
"Okay," sighed Sophie.
She sighed a lot that girl.
They were very sensual sighs too.
It has been opined by learned professors that to the non French person every sound the French make seems sensual.
You should hear them fart.
James produced a notebook and tore out two pages. He passed one across the table.
"Have you got a pen?" said Sophie.
"Use the marker beside the sugar bowl," answered James.
Sophie scribbled busily.
James wrote with a little more deliberation.
The two pieces of paper were placed face down on the table.
"Put your hand on my page," said James.
Sophie did so.
"Now I place my hand on your page," continued James.
Simultaneously each one turned the other's page.
Sophie's read:
'The secret of the Priory of Zion is that the original Jesus was a tree hugging, feminist, vegan advocating goddess worship. He supported Amnesty International, Save The Whales and nuclear disarmament. He was also married to Mary Magdalene in a discrete ceremony attended only by close famiy and friends. Judas was best man. The children of Jesus and Mary Magdalen became the royal house of France. That is why we French are so superior to everyone else. The Catholic Church has been suppressing these facts for two thousand years using a squad of psychotic albino assassins disguised as an order of monks who've wiped out everyone who finds out the truth except Dan Brown and about a thousand employees of the Discovery Channel whom they seem to have missed.'

Sophie lifted her hand from the page James had given her.

On it she read:
'The secret of the Priory of Zion is I haven't a ****ing clue.'
There was a moment of stillness.
Sophie was struggling to understand the feelings welling in her ample bosoms.

The pieces of paper were a trick.

He had betrayed her trust.
Either she was in love with him or she despised him.
Which was it?

She didn't know but it didn't really matter since those two emotions are virtually indistinguishable for the French.
James was also struggling with a mounting tide of emotion.
"That's the most stupid ****ing thing I've ever heard," he exclaimed. "I've been gypped. I want my money back. A cult of ****ing albino assassins dressed as ****ing monks. For ****'s sake. That's an insult to the intelligence that is. What a load of old cobblers. Albino monk assassins. For ****'s sake!"
At the window, Silas the albino assassin slowly lowered his gun, pushed back the cowl on his monk's habit, and shed a lonely tear.

on the road of life

 

The person told me something that had happened.

Something had been said that would never go away.

I could see the pain.

With a grim ruefulness I realised I couldn't heal it.

"You have a wound," I said.

"I know," said the person.

"There are mystics," I said, "who claim to have seen the Lord in visions. Some of them say that even in immortal perfection, in heaven, in infinite glory, in his resurrected body he bears the wounds of his crucifixion. The wounds have become a part of his glory."

soylent green is people

 

A little old lady walks up to me in the street.

"I hear Berneys Pharmacy in Kilcullen is refusing to give out the vaccine," she whispers conspiratorially.

Enthused but momentarily speechless, I take a step back.

When I find my voice, I exclaim orgastically: "Yes Beavis. Yes, yes, yes. USA! USA! USA!"

"Your cousin owns it and you didn't know?" sez the somewhat surprised LOL who has no apparent objections to being addressed as Beavis.

"I knew there were some people on the staff who have an interest in the Lord but I didn't know it had gotten this far," I tell her.

"Your cousin says he hopes they don't take away his licence," murmurs the LOL.

"I think they'll try banning you and me from the supermarkets before they do that," I muse.

"There's a doctor in Naas refusing to give it out as well," says the LOL.

"The Resistance is spreading like a virus," I remark, grinning contagiously.