The Delusion of Electronic Harassment!

The Ordeal of Evelyn Waugh.

In 1957 Evelyn Waugh published a novella The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, In it he details his experience of the descent into drug induced psychosis and madness which takes place whilst on-board a long boat journey to Ceylon which he takes to return to health and break an apparently long period of writer’s block.

The following is an account from Wikipedia for the sake of convenience:

Early in 1954, Waugh's doctors, concerned by his physical deterioration, advised a change of scene. On 29 January, he took a ship bound for Ceylon, hoping that he would be able to finish his novel. Within a few days, he was writing home complaining of "other passengers whispering about me" and of hearing voices, including that of his recent BBC interlocutor, Stephen Black. He left the ship in Egypt and flew on to Colombo, but, he wrote to Laura, the voices followed him.[146] Alarmed, Laura sought help from her friend, Frances Donaldson, whose husband agreed to fly out to Ceylon and bring Waugh home. In fact, Waugh made his own way back, now believing that he was being possessed by devils. A brief medical examination indicated that Waugh was suffering from bromide poisoning from his drugs regimen. When his medication was changed, the voices and the other hallucinations quickly disappeared.[147] Waugh was delighted, informing all of his friends that he had been mad: "Clean off my onion!". The experience was fictionalised a few years later, in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold (1957).[148]

The story can be read here, and I can strongly recommend it. It isn’t too long and it gives a fascinating first hand account of the kind of thing those suffering from electronic harassment report and we can use this text which is composed in a methodical manner, as a valuable resource to identify the purpose and nature of these auditory hallucinations.

What is striking is the apparent intelligence behind these voices and the fact that they seem to operate from a different consciousness to that of Waugh’s own. It is therefore my belief that Waugh inadvertently, due to the use of several hypnotic and sedative drugs in combination, literally established contact with another non corporeal form of consciousness, commonly these are termed ‘demons’ due to their antagonism to human beings.

At this point in his life Evelyn Waugh had become very unhealthy and was experiencing problems sleeping and had become largely dependent on various prescribed chemicals. We are told that the character of Pinfold, as well as being prescribed some unidentified grey pills, was also taking chloral and bromide of potassium as a sedative and aid to sleep.

In order to discover more about these particular drugs. I did a rudimentary Google search and found the following from Daily Alta California dated Monday 22nd December 1884. This is period of time which significantly predates Waugh’s/Pinfold’s experiences, but gives an idea of the type of effect which may be expected from the ingestion of such drugs, particularly in combination with the unnamed grey pills. It is revealed at the end of the story that Pinfold’s/Waugh’s experiences are a result of combining the medication and not telling his doctor.

Chloral and Bromide of Potassium.
(From the London Lancet.)
Again we have to record with deep regret a sad proof that those who give or take chloral or bromide of potassium for sleeplessness are guilty of a deplorable error and do a grievous wrong. The narcotics which poison sleep also deprave the higher nerve centers, enfeeble the controlling powers of the will and leave the mind a prey to the depressing influence of a conscious loss of self respect and self-confidence. The cultured mind feels the ignominy of the intellectual and moral depreciation with great acuteness, and in the end succumbs to the sense of powerlessness to recover self-control and do right. The deprivation wrought is purely physical. The baneful influence of the lethal drug is, so to say, organic. The essential elements of the nerve tissues are blighted by the stupifying poison, as by alcohol in habitual drunkenness. In short, the recourse to chloral and bromide is precisely the same thing as recourse to alcohol. The man or woman sent to "sleep" — the mocking semblance of physiological rest — by a dose of either of these neurotizers is simply intoxicated. No wonder that habitual drunkenness of this class first impairs and then destroys the vitality of the mind organ, and places the subject of a miserable artifice at the mercy of his emotioned nature, and makes him the creature of his passions. When will the public awake to the recognition of facts with regard to these most pernicious of stupefacients? Persistence in recourse to them has no better excuse than unwillingness to search out the cause of the wakefulness which prevents natural sleep.

Pinfold’s symptoms take the form of auditory hallucinations. There are no visual hallucinations mentioned in the story and apart from his general poor health and hearing voices, Pinfold showed no other signs of mental illness. His delusions are focused around the use of various forms of technology being used to harass him and this delusion has its origins in two principal events which seem to have disturbed him somewhat prior to embarking on the sea voyage. One was what he considered a somewhat personally invasive and ill tempered radio interview he gave to the BBC at his home and the other was a strange pseudo scientific apparatus which seems to have had more in common with the occult than post-war technology.

Waugh writing about the BBC interview stated :"they tried to make a fool of me, and I don't think they entirely succeeded", while Peter Fleming of the Spectator described the interview as "the goading of a bull by matadors".

We do not know whether the strange occult box was a real element in Waugh’s experience, nevertheless he describes it in the following terms:

This Box was one of many operating in various parts of the country. It was installed, under the skeptical noses of Reginald Graves-Upton’s nephew and niece, at Upper Mewling. Mrs. Pinfold, who had been taken to see it, said it looked like a makeshift wireless-set. According to the Bruiser and other devotees The Box exercised diagnostic and therapeutic powers. Some part of a sick man or animal—a hair, a drop of blood preferably—was brought to The Box, whose guardian would then “tune in” to the “life-waves” of the patient, discern the origin of the malady and prescribe treatment.

Pinfold seems to have been receptive to the unusual ability of the magic-box to help and heal sickness but added that the device would be “An extremely dangerous device in the wrong hands,” and his weariness and credence in the possibility of such ‘technology’ having some effect is shown by his reluctance to tell his neighbor that he was ill for fear that he would use the box on him. This is a core theme of the story, and for me encapsulates the present issue within the conspiracy and truther community of supposed electronic harassment, which I believe is the error of giving an occult and spiritual phenomenon, the appearance of a technological one. 

This is kind of a sad symptom of human beings living in a world of technology they do not really understand and whose limits they have no way of measuring. If a man as astute and educated as Evelyn Waugh can have led himself to believe that his experiences on board the boat where caused by various disreputable people having access to exotic technology then it is all the more difficult for the rest of us, especially as we live in an age when such things are almost within the range of technological possibility. However, we have the example of Evelyn Waugh and his story ought to help clear up some of the misunderstandings of our present age, and it is my certain conviction that those misunderstanding and those who are promulgating them are doing a very great deal of harm. 

People such as Miles Johnson, UFO researcher also appeared on the Coast to Coast show a couple of years ago spreading more harmful delusions such as the idea that the electric power supply of a residential property can be used to mind control people and that the new energy saving light bulbs can also be used in mind control. The point is once you believe that your mind can be accessed by remote technology and you can do nothing about it then you are already under mind control. This idea IS the mind control and all of these people are perpetuating this like a deadly disease. He even claims that some people are being mind controlled by their radiators. This is a straight up schizophrenic delusion, the danger is when these ideas are presented on a national radio broadcast with a respected broadcaster like George Noory. This man is also perpetuating the myth of gray aliens as being behind this. These delusions are taken seriously and they reproduce in the minds of the listener. Miles Johnson also appears to be a friend of meddler and ruiner of many of the areas of UK activism, Belinda Mckenzie, a woman who seems to have had the strange power to ruin every activism movement she has forced her way into, and was apparently involving herself ‘in the background’ of the electronic harassment area.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bmPFMrapC8&t=13s

Basically these people are really no help to anyone trying to do serious research into the Illuminati since these people have already been sucked into Cain Consciousness and seem intent on spreading the dangerous mind-virus of the harmful delusion of electronic mind control.

It is also worth noting that the murdered British truth-seeker Max Spiers was a friend of Miles Johnson, and by extension probably Belinda McKenzie as well. I would consider therefore that the man whether knowingly or unknowingly was walking hand in hand with the security services and occult practitioners and came to grief as a result of not being more assiduous to the company he kept.

Possibly Miles Johnston is just an honest mad man and does not have any sinister connections to the security services, but I personally do not know how anyone can know Belinda McKenzie and not know she is a spook. Miles Johnston at one point skirts teasingly at self awareness with Occam's Razor only for a nanosecond and almost shaves himself loose of some nonsense when he says:

What they’re doing is saying it’s a bad bulb so they’ve been able to use that excuse, and it’s a fairly good excuse it’s a good point, it makes sense…because noone would ever consider that they would use the light bulb as a means of optically transmitting pulsed frequencies into your brain for nefarious purposes, who would ever thing of a thing like that? But the point is that’s what they’re doing.

I’m not quite sure how anyone can send mind control signals optically into someone’s brain and I don’t think Miles does.

Indeed, at one point in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, Pinfold even believes the voices are coming to him from an electric light:

Mr. Pinfold was hungry. He ordered coffee and fish and eggs and fruit. He was about to eat when, ping; the little, rose-shaded electric lamp which stood on the table before him came into action as a transmitter. The delinquent youths were awake and up on the air again, their vitality unimpaired by the excesses of the night. “Halloo-loo-loo-loo-loo. Hark-ark-ark-ark-ark,” they hallooed. “Loo in there. Fetch him out. Yoicks."

They began to give instructions for a place of meeting. “… D Deck, turn right. Got that? You’ll see some lockers. The next bulk-head. We’re waiting for you. Better come now and get it over. You’ve got to meet us some time, you know. We’ve got you, Gilbert. We’ve got you. There’s no escape. Better get it over…” Mr. Pinfold’s patience was exhausted. He must put a stop to this nonsense. Recalling some vague memories of signal procedure in the army, he drew the lamp towards him and spoke into it curtly: “Pinfold to Hooligans. Rendezvous Main Lounge 0930 hours. Out.” The lamp was not designed to be moved. His pull disconnected it in some way. The bulb went out and the voices abruptly ceased. At the same moment Glover came in to breakfast. “Hullo, something gone wrong with the light?”

Miles Johnston perhaps, is a man caught in his own ordeal, and like Gilbert Pinfold, is entirely mistaken about the source of the voices and comically fretting over light bulbs and electric lines as being a way for the voices to transmit and harass people. However Miles goes much further than Pinfold in some of his conclusions and one suspects his ordeal has lasted rather too long and the psychological damage may be irreparable at this stage since some of his conclusions seem not to have any grounding in any reality I can recognise:

They want this physical world and all its related kingdoms. Let’s make it absolutely clear, once the holographic focus of our so called holographic reality that we consider to exist…some people call it the holographic universe, if you change that focus so another form of life can physically manifest itself all forms of life which are connected to the original holographic focus will simply disappear into nothing. So this affects everything we know that is physical including all those other realms which exist in the sub-sets of that focus, some people would call it other dimensions, some people would call it the next world or whatever, all elements connected to that are at risk if this is allowed to continue…

Frankly what he is saying is not merely bad science but bad everything. Through a lack of self awareness and inability to genuinely face reality Miles has lost himself in wild chaotic seas of unreality. I honestly think Noory doesn’t really do his listenership any favours to take all this on board completely uncritically.

Much easier to say it’s the Jewish bankers working with Satan if you ask me, but perhaps that why these people are blathering on about holographic focus, grey aliens talking to you though your lightbulb, because it keeps people from thinking about fractional banking, Israel and the Freemasons.

Project Camelot, Simon Parks, all seem to be members of some kind of schizophrenic mutual support group and their delusions are wildly allowed full reign of expression much to the detriment of anyone trying to do real research.

Miles ends his interview with George Noory realizing he can pretty much say anything he likes at this point and Noory will just make an affirmative noise and wag his tail.

He could have ended the interview by saying the Moon is artificial and full of aliens, but someone else got there first with that delusion.

“,…., they are planning to LITERALLY to replace human beings as computer programmes and license those computer programmes as valid human beings.”

Riiiight....

The electronic nature of Pinfold’s harassment is first suggested to him by the things he noticed in his cabin:

The ceiling, at which Mr. Pinfold gazed, was spanned as though by a cottage beam by a white studded air-shaft and by a multiplicity of pipes and electric cable.” Along with what is described as “the continuous insect-hum of the ventilator.

Another area in this field is the so called ‘electronic voice’ phenomenon. This has led some very foolish people into seeking to open up contact with some discarnate beings which they possibly consider to be aliens or at least, ‘spiritual’. What is said to be necessary in order to open up contact is some kind of continuous background noise along which the discarnate voice can propagate itself and many people have done this in the naïve idea that they will be able to contact some kind of benign superior intelligence. In any case the intelligences are never benign and they soon come to completely dominate the lives of their poor victims.

As in the case of the electronic voice phenomenon, in Waugh’s account, it seems that the existence of It a background sound seems to act as a kind of propagation wave to the sounds of the hallucination.

…on reaching his cabin, he found added to its other noises the strains of a jazz band. Mr. Pinfold stood puzzled.

The sound of a jazz band is his first auditory hallucination and initially he believes it to be a gramophone record but later he finds that whatever the music is, it is live. In his cabin he picks up a book and tried to read, then apparently from the cabin below he hears a group of what he calls ‘bright young things’.

“Let’s try the Pocoputa Indian one,” said the young man who acted, without any great air of authority, as leader. “Oh not that. It’s so beastly,” said a girl. “I know,” said the leader. “It’s the three-eight rhythm. The Gestapo discovered it independently, you know. They used to play it in the cells. It drove the prisoners mad.” “Yes,” said another girl. “Thirty-six hours did for anyone. Twelve was enough for most. They could stand any torture but that.” “It drove them absolutely mad.” “Raving mad.” “Stark, staring mad.” “It was the worst torture of all.” “The Russians use it now.” The voices, some male, some female, all young and eager, came tumbling like puppies. “The Hungarians do it best.” “Good old three-eight.” “Good old Pocoputa Indians.” “They were mad.”

Pinfold then comes to the conclusion that what he is hearing must be a result of some kind of quirk of technology and his erroneous conclusion in this instance will be almost entirely echoed by the electronic harassment people.

For a long time, two hours perhaps, Mr. Pinfold lay in his bunk listening. He was able to hear quite distinctly not only what was said in his immediate vicinity, but elsewhere. He had the light on, now, in his cabin, and as he gazed at the complex of tubes and wires which ran across his ceiling, he realized that they must form some kind of general junction in the system of communication. Through some trick or fault or wartime survival everything spoken in the executive quarters of the ship was transmitted to him….That alone could explain the voices which now kept him informed of every stage of the incident.

All of this was an hallucination but at the time he didn’t know this. At the end of the book Waugh/Pinfold is told by his doctor that his mind had created all of this, but what would be the purpose of a mind deciding to torment itself and explicitly attempt to drive itself insane.

Later in the book he has established a two way form of mental communication:

"You’re driving me mad.” “No, no, Gilbert, you are mad already,” said the duty-officer. “We’re driving you insane.”

Now he was struck with real fear, something totally different from the superficial alarms he had once or twice known in moments of danger, something he had quite often read about and dismissed as over-writing. He was possessed from outside himself with atavistic panic. “O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven,” he cried.

And in that moment of agony there broke not far from him in the darkness peal upon rising peal of mocking laughter—Goneril’s, It was not an emollient sound. It was devoid of mirth, an obscene cacophony of pure hatred. But it fell on Mr. Pinfold’s ears at that moment like a nursery lullaby. “A hoax,” he said to himself. It was all a hoax on the part of the hooligans. He understood all. They had learned the secret of the defective wiring in his cabin. Somehow they had devised a means of controlling it, somehow they had staged this whole charade to tease him. It was spiteful and offensive, no doubt; it must not happen again. But Mr. Pinfold felt nothing but gratitude in his discovery. He might be unpopular; he might be ridiculous; but he was not mad.

Evelyn Waugh in the guise of Gilbert Pinfold, had failed to face reality at a critical juncture. Rather than face the possibility of being what he termed ‘mad’ he continued to support the improbably fantasy that some quirk of the ship’s electrics was allowing all of these unseen characters to communicate with him. But at the stage at which he starts directly communicating with these unseen voices there is an obvious question:

Then he pondered the new problem: how had Margaret heard his soundless words? That could not be explained on any theory of frayed and crossed wires. As he considered the matter Margaret briefly returned to say: “Not wires, darling. Wireless,” and then was gone again. That perhaps should have given him the clue he sought; should have dispelled the mystery that enveloped him. He would learn in good time; at that moment Mr. Pinfold was baffled, almost stupefied, by the occurrences of the morning and he went down to luncheon at the summons of the gong thinking vaguely in terms of telepathy, a subject on which he was ill-informed.

And ‘ill informed’ very aptly describes the growing legion of those being harassed by demonic voices in the real world at this time, and futilely misconstruing their experiences as being some kind of technology the rudiments about which they think they grasp bit like Pinfold, they are amateurs confusing themselves with half baked pseudo scientific ideas.

This tragic evasion from reality into a retreat of ready made delusion is nowhere more explicit than in parts of the homosexual community in parts of California who lately are reporting significant instances of ‘electronic harassment’.

There was a recent TV report on KMIR News which details the creation of a local community group of members reporting electronic harassment and gang stalking.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6dk0MCOur8&t=11s

The report focuses on three Valley residents who have reported hearing voices uttering derogatory sentences. Kevin Bond, moved to Palm Springs to escape from the gang stalking and another man, Bob Stansfield was a victim of vehicular stalking. All three of these gentlemen, as well as suffering from what they call electronic harassment are also homosexual which is often a sexual developmental abnormality as a result of child abuse. The gentlemen have also created a website areyoutargeted.com and have paid for billboards to be displayed in their area. In a typically American display of poor sense and intellectual impotence such a thing as a ‘Freedom House’ and the organisation Freedom from Covert and Electronic Harassment. Derrick Robinson. and another website freedomfchs.com which will only serve unfortunately to more deeply ingrain this electronic harassment Palm Springs resident believes he is being targeted because he is gay and for me this confirms my analysis perfectly that statistically most homosexuals were sexually abused as children and that child sexual abuse is the primary cause of the onset of schizophrenia. So this man has become schizophrenic, since hearing voices is by definition, a symptom of schizophrenia and is very much

Sadly this story is symptomatic of most people's, and particularly Americans' lack of good sense and their inability of self reflection and objective reality. It is much more comforting for a man who was abused a child to tell himself that the abuse was beneficial and reciprocal, and many gay men who have spoken on this subject such as Stephen Fry and Milo Yiannopoulos all appear to have constructed the same edifice of emotional self defence. Likewise if the mind is so used to the art of self delusion then how much easier it is to tell yourself that your schizophrenia is really a covert attack on you by some government agency merely because you are gay. The Gay lobby see themselves as eternal victims despite now having far more rights than heterosexual Christians, but this sense of victim-hood is a key element of a mind dealing with fear, paranoia and mental illness. From this I would suggest that mental illness is far more common in homosexuals than non-homosexuals. For me the tell-tale signs of a sense of victimhood, in whatever political domain, tell me that we are dealing with a broken disempowered mind. I wonder too, what percentage of feminists with their eternal media howling about their victimhood are also literally schizophrenic or at least dealing with bi-polar symptoms and pre-schizophrenia symptoms such as anxiety and panic-attacks.

Derrick Robinson also featured on Coast to Coast. He was in the US NAVY Naval Air Station and said he was targeted in the 80s with organized stalking. George Noory asks Derrick Robinson if he ever doubted himself and he answers that he didn’t, because he believed that this kind of technology was well within the technological abilities of the US Navy. This is the critical problem of a lack of self reflection. One should always have the humility and self awareness to ask ‘what if I’m wrong?’ even if you don’t think you are. At least the cognitive experiment in alternative views might provide some new insights and clarity about one’s problems. 

One of the biggest question people ask is ‘why am I being targeted?’ again, with a simple dose of self reflection the answer is simple, you are not being targeted, you are mentally ill. Derrick Robinson is also a homosexual. The interview becomes a little sad, almost pathetic in the sense that the irony and pathos comes on pretty thick when Derrick claims that many people are in ‘denial’ about their experience of electronic harassment. The irony of course is that the only denial is that these people will not face the reality that they are mentally ill.

The final delusion which Waugh/Pinfold constructs for himself to avoid the reality that he is mentally ill and his problems have a different cause, is eerily similar to the modern delusion the electronic harassment people have created amongst themselves:

Do you remember the tick with a beard who came to Lychpole from the B.B.C. He is on board with a team bound for Aden. They are going to make recordings of Arab dance music. The tick is called Angel. He has shaved his beard. That is why I didn’t spot him at first. He has some of his family with him—rather a nice sister—travelling I suppose for pleasure. They seem to be cousins of a lot of our neighbors. You might inquire. These B.B.C. people have made themselves a great nuisance to me on board. They have got a lot of apparatus with them, most of it new and experimental. They have something which is really a glorified form of Reggie Upton’s Box. I shall never laugh at the poor Bruiser again. There is a great deal in it. More in fact than he imagines. Angel’s Box is able to speak and to hear. In fact I spend most of my days and nights carrying on conversations with people I never see. They are trying to psycho-analyze me. I know this sounds absurd. The Germans at the end of the war were developing this Box for the examination of prisoners. The Russians have perfected it. They don’t need any of the old physical means of persuasion. They can see into the minds of the most obdurate. The Existentialists in Paris first started using it for psycho-analyzing people who would not voluntarily submit to treatment.

They first break the patient’s nerve by acting all sorts of violent scenes which he thinks are really happening. They confuse him until he doesn’t distinguish between natural sounds and those they induce. They make all kinds of preposterous accusations against him. Then when they get him in a receptive mood they start on their psycho-analysis. As you can imagine it’s a hellish invention in the wrong hands. Angel’s are very much the wrong hands. He’s an amateur and a conceited ass. That young man who came to the hotel with my tickets was there to measure my “life-waves.” I should have thought they could equally well have got them on board. Perhaps there is some particular gadget they have to get in London for each person. I don’t know. There is still a good deal about the whole business I don’t know. When I get back I will make inquiries. I’m not the first person they’ve tried it on. They drove an actor to suicide. I rather suspect they’ve been at work on poor Roger Stillingfleet. In fact I think we shall find a number of our friends who have behaved oddly lately have suffered from Angel. Anyway they have had no success with me. I’ve seen through them. All they have done is to stop my working. So I am leaving them. I shall go straight to the Galleface in Colombo and look round from there for a quiet place in the hills. I’ll telegraph when I arrive which should be about the time you get this letter.”

Kevin Bond observes that the prevalence of electronic voice harassment in Palm Springs occurs to 98 percent gay men and this he no doubt attributes to some weird kind of idea that the Illuminati are dedicating themselves to harassing gay men. In this instance we can shave a lot of nonsense from this whole affair with Occam’s Razor which suggests that logically, the simplest answer to a particular conundrum is usually the right one. In this instance we have a group apparently made up of 98 percent homosexuals all suffering from the symptoms of schizophrenia. We can therefore draw the safe conclusion therefore that schizophrenia seems to be prevalent in homosexuals. The other alternative that the government or some shadowy organization has created a special network of microwave based voice technology to harass homosexuals (for some reason) just doesn’t hold water, especially since the technology described doesn’t even need to exist because we already have something called schizophrenia.

If however, you want to discuss whether certain groups are trying to induce and encourage the development of schizophrenia (for some reason) then you would be much nearer the mark to what is really happening.

A man called John Turner became involved with this FFCHS and after speaking to board member Timothy White and Howard Thompson. According to the website exposinginfragard.com, shortly afterwards John Turner bought a gun and killed his girlfriend and a neighbor, before turning the gun on himself. No doubt he believed these people were covertly harassing him since his delusions had been fueled by the FFCHS. This of course is the very real danger of allowing schizophrenics to nurture their delusions and run with them right to the end. At the end is the point at which people start to get killed.

Another member of the FFCHS named Pam Anderson killed herself shortly after joining the board, she had apparently been a victim of MK Ultra most of her life. I would suggest that she killed herself because she had allowed herself to believe a delusion from which there can be no escape from the voice. Schizophrenia is a psycho-spiritual illness and there are spiritual and psychological approaches to this illness which can prove highly effective in diminish and even completely eliminating the symptoms. 

Zen meditation,  Orthomolecular medicine, prayer and a personal engagement with Jesus Christ will all prove much more effective means of preventing the voices. The very worst thing one can do in the grip of a delusion is to seek refuge deeper in the delusion and even join with others on the same path. This will lead to total estrangement from reality and, as we have seen, possibly a premature death by suicide or stress induced heart attack.

This is the danger and prison of delusion and it is most apt that in Waugh’s experience, it was only once he no longer believed in the delusion that he was either in communication with these people as a quirk of the ship’s electrical network of cables, and after that delusion had run its course, that it was something to do with the BBC people who had some reason for harassing him just as Waugh had felt harassed during the interview, only after these delusions had been exposed for what they were that he was finally free of the voices.

“I may as well tell you the truth,” said Angel. “We never were in that ship. We worked the whole thing from the studio in England.” “They must be working the whole thing from a studio in England,” said Mr. Pinfold. “My poor darling,” said Mrs. Pinfold, “no one’s “worked” anything. You’re imagining it all. Just to make sure I asked Father Westmacott as you suggested. He says the whole thing’s utterly impossible. There just isn’t any sort of invention by the Gestapo or the B.B.C. or the Existentialists or the psycho-analysts—nothing at all, the least like what you think.” “No Box?” “No Box.” “Don’t believe her. She’s lying. She’s lying,” said Goneril but with every word her voice dwindled as though a great distance was being put between them. Her last word was little more than the thin grating of a slate-pencil.

And finally once there was no more grounds to believe the voices had any reality or reason to access you. They disappear. So giving the voices an excuse as some people do, and playing the victim ‘it’s because I’m gay’ and believing there is a technological means to access your mind, will almost certainly guarantee that the poor victims will be hounded until the end of their lives.

Just say NO to electronic harassment and say NO to the self deluded ones and charlatans who want you to believes it’s real. These voices are demonic and can only access you with the power of your belief that they can do so. It’s a nasty trap to get caught in. Please be careful and if you are caught then contact me for details of how you can escape their clutches.

I found this excellent video which explains perfectly the true cause of electronic voice phenomenon:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybRJnvWpVSg&t=378s

Look Behind the Curtain.

The last time I saw heard from him he was in a mess. He had been arrested for assaulting someone in a restaurant and threatening to cut his fucking head off. I couldn’t believe it. First of all I thought he’d got into the drug scene or something, but where he was living there was no drug scene. He told me. He didn’t even drink anymore. Had gone straight. Maybe that’s what did him in.

The straight and narrow is a thin red line slap bang in the middle of the road. The gutter is sometimes a much safer place to be. There tends to be a lot more slack rolling around there. A lot more room to fuck up. Anyone who has known druggies will know this. They’re all in the same boat and they have no expectations. They don’t care if you’re not always perfectly prim and proper. Drug friends will stay your friends no matter what. You can try to kill them one minute then the next day go: ‘ahhh, sorry mate, that trip was deffing me out, it fucked my head in. One moment you were there talking to me and we were having a right laugh, the next instant you turned into a fucking lizard.I thought it was the Reptilian invasion, so I grabbed the first thing to hand, the Bluebird toffee hammer and tried to save Earth. Sorry 'bout that mate.’

“Man that is some FUNNY shit right there. I can’t believe you thought I was an alien. That acid was DA BOMB! Let’s get some more.”

Well, it happened to me anyway but this is the kind of thing that happens when drug people try to kill each other. As long as the shit was good and it wears off and no one is actually killed, then it’s usually possible to explain it within the mitigating circumstance of recreational drug use.

But when you’re on the straight and narrow, drug and alcohol free, and you attack someone and threatening to chop their fucking head off, people just don’t understand. And if you say it’s because you thought they were an alien it just makes it worse.

This is what happened to my friend. At least it’s the bits that made sense between the incoherent ravings that Tuesday hated him for some reason.

This is the message he sent me, I honestly haven’t embellished the style so it sounds like something from a Lovecraft or Poe story, it’s just the way he was I’m afraid. I was thinking of trimming the flourishes but then it wouldn’t be his words it would be mine and that wouldn’t be authentic.

Here it is:

It was a Tuesday when it all started, I’ve since learned that Tuesday’s hold special significance to me but I won’t go into it here.  Suffice it to say that 9-11 took place on a Tuesday. That’s what Tuesday is. It’s a bastard. Ask the Spanish and Greeks, they know what I’m talking about. But you know each day seems to have a special feeling? You know what I’m talking about right? How a Wednesday feels? How all the days are a bit different and how certain things only happen on certain days?

That’s because each day of the week is still owned by the Gods. Always has been. Wednesday is Wodin’s day. Thursday is Thor’s day. It’s interesting how in the ancient languages the same word for Sabbath and Seven are the same or at least related, but that’s because the seventh day was a day of rest for the lord. The lord who talks to me. But the funny thing is whenever I was on holiday I would always forget what day it was and sometimes would have to Google it. I think I just completely contradicted myself. I often do that. I blame reality, it’s too fluid. One moment something works and makes sense, the next moment the world does a 180 and spins you around and upside down. Like the law of diminishing returns, there’s something encoded in reality which ensures that nothing works or makes sense consistently. Like a trick to keep us all guessing so we never really manage to figure it all out.

I walked out the office onto the balcony where the rain had just started. The children below were having their break and they were jumping up and down and messing about in the rain. Kids always stayed indoors when it rained in England. Here they went nuts running outside. The rain was an answer to prayers, it was like God was talking to you and blessing you. Like he talked to me. Though the night before I had heard the low rumble of chemtrail planes furiously pumping the lower atmosphere full of barium salts. It’s what they do. No mystery to it. I read an article about it. The government here have spent millions on the weather modification program. Just like the Greek Cypriots, they paid the Russian military for their programme and they had plenty of rain while I was there. Until the EU decided to steal all the Russian Mafia’s dirty money parked in the Cyprus banks. They’ve had nothing but drought since then. It’s alright for the Turks in the north, they’ve got a water pipeline. They’re laughing. The poor buggers in the south aren’t laughing though. Still, they make some good wine.

I was walking downstairs with my hand in my pocket rooting for a minty sweet and I ended up with my hand all over my cheap but decent Lenovo smart phone.

I popped the sweet into my mouth and walked downstairs to the bathroom. As I was sat there at my ease, enjoying a bit of peace and my minty sweet, I heard this sound. It was a sort of squeaky sound, I dismissed it for a moment as just some random noise coming from outside, but it was strangely insistent and seemed to be coming at me from quite close quarters. It took me a minute to get my head around. It was coming from my pocket. I had a sudden moment of total fear as I realized that I has accidentally pocket dialed someone by the perverse power of mobile accessibility which seems to make it possible for a strong sneeze to quick dial someone completely at random. In a superlative state of sheer panic and horror I pulled the phone from my pocket as if it was a small jabbering beast with teeth. Something or rather more evidently ‘someone’ was speaking to me through the speakers, since people were generally not contacted by things. It was usually people. Well it was always people. Usually.

I held the phone in my hand while trying to maintain my balance since I was presently engaged with an Arabic lavatory which was after all, just a porcelain hole in the ground. I held the jabbering phone and looked at the number, it was someone I had once phoned for an apartment in Abu Dhabi. With a complete lack of guilt or social unease I disconnected the call with a sudden stamp of my thumb onto the red button. It was over. The fear and terror passed. I had been lucky. I had not inadvertently phoned someone, a woman, an old girlfriend, whose number I had taken with no intention of ever speaking to her again.

So I went outside to nip out and get some fuul from the Lebanese restaurant. I checked my phone. It was now 11:18 am. I had less than 12 minutes to get to the restaurant and place my order otherwise I would miss the breakfast window. What was worse was that after breakfast there were no lunch time sandwiches available until 12pm. The worst thing was to get there after 11:30 and be trapped in the food void between breakfast and lunch when there was nothing available. I couldn’t understand why this was the case but in order to beat the void I’d better move.

I picked up my pace, doing an Olympian walk through the playground and to the door which led through the reception area of the school and out into the car park. I got to the door. It was locked. Locked as an obstacle to prevent the Emirati students from escaping. The students were always trying to escape from the school. The doors were siege points and there had been a double door leading from the reception into the playground but this had proved a weak point for the senior school managers and was difficult to defend. 

Sometimes when there were so many students shouting at the students through the wireless microphone and lashing at them with the small canes they had, was ineffectual. The solution had been, in the best tradition of siege defense, to brick up this weak point and replace it with a strong wall which now no longer showed any indication of ever having been a set of doors.

I went to the side door like a cat wanting to come in, and pawed feebly at the locked door until I caught the eye of the security guard. He came over and unbolted the door. It was now 11.20 am.

I smiled and said thankyou and continued the Olympic walking event and almost bowled into Kemal’s father. I apologized and he shook my hands and we then became trapped in an Arabic exchange of pleasantries for two minutes. When I finally got away I was absolutely crest fallen. By the time I got into my car it was 11.23 am.

I took out my car keys and drove out of the school hoping not to get caught in the Lebanese restaurant’s uncanny mid-day food abyss. When I lived in Morocco I had been with this Moroccan girl who believed most of us went through the stations of the Kabbalah without even knowing it, on a daily basis. I thought about this, how now I was at Yesod, hungry and aiming for the transcendental Kether of the Lebanese’ restaurant’s delicious fuul sandwich.  

As I drove the car out of the carpark onto the road I could hear something, it sounded like a small trapped mouse. It was my damn phone again. I must have somehow dialed someone when I fumbled in my pocket for my keys. In the old days of telephone technology dialing a telephone was a comparatively strenuous business and was the kind of action you couldn’t repeat too many times without ending up with a sore index finger. I wonder what on Earth telephone marketers used to do in the old days of rotary dial telephones when obliged to dial number upon number, day after day. I think they had a special finger shield. A kind of plastic sock for the finger which would protect their finger from the repeated contact of the resistant plastic dial. But I might have made that up. I was pretty sure I’d seen such a thing. It was flesh coloured and covered in small nodules and turned the finger into something resembling an exotic looking alien marital aid. 

The little mouse was jabbering away in my pocket but I couldn’t do anything since I was driving.

By the time I got to the roundabout two minutes later it was somehow 11:26. I was fuming at this point. Not now time thief! Give me back my minutes you just stole! I was always having problems with the time thief, I’d taken my eyes off the clock for a second and let my mind drift and when I came back to myself he’d struck, stealing the minutes from right under my nose and thinking I wouldn’t notice. I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t care if I notice anymore, after all if I start saying that someone is stealing minutes from me when I’m not looking what will they think? It’s very hard to prove something like that, but I think if I had the appropriate equipment and laboratory conditions I could probably do it. I should have been a scientist. Curse you time thief, now I was sure to miss the fuul breakfast window and tumble into the prenoon Daath of no food. The abyss of hunger and pointless wasted effort.

When I got to the restaurant I didn’t even dare look at the time and I got out and made a dash for the counter, the clock I could see had a second hand which was now 11:29 and 30 seconds. There was someone in front of me collecting a takeaway and I saw the seconds of hope remaining me crushed with the mindless exchange of trifling metal pieces of small change.  I ordered the fuul with only seconds left to spare.

“I’m sorry, the breakfast is finished.”

“I’ve got five seconds left, look,” I protested showing her the clock.

“No, that time is wrong.”

“What do you mean it’s wrong? Why is it wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know? I repeated.” I was turning into a beast from the sheer force of hunger and the tedium of having to beg for a mere 4 dirham sandwich of cooked fava beans.

Then the manager came and I appealed to him for some fuul, he said he would go and check.

While I was waiting I checked my phone to see who the little mouse voice in my pocket had been. I had dialed my mum! My poor mum caught in my pocket talking to a pen top, a tissue and a strong mint. It’s no way to treat your mum. I felt very guilty.

I felt Gevurah admonishing me. My pocket dialing of my poor mum who no doubt must have felt some pleasure seeing that I was calling her, only to find herself speaking to a pocket full of rubbish and then hanging up whatever the literal equivalent thing is that you do to mobile phones. But then Chesod’s light shone upon me and the manager returned asking me how many I wanted.

“Just two. No make it three.” Then I thought for a moment, “Actually can I have eight.”

I decided to buy fuul sandwiches for all my colleagues and eight ought to be enough to go around.

A few moment later someone came back with a plastic bag containing eight delicious hot fuul sandwiches.

I’d done it. In spite of all the odds I had succeeded in getting some breakfast. I felt the crown of Kether descend upon me in my joy and satisfaction. I felt God had blessed me and in return I would bless the other English teachers with a hot and tasty breakfast wrap.

Just as I sat there I made a determined effort to do something about this tiresome business of pocket dialing. I found an app to prevent pocket dialing, downloaded it and installed it. That should do it I thought. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and was about to drive off when I heard that same squeaky trapped buzzy bee voice. It was annoying because I thought I’d solved the problem but sod it I thought and drove back while the fuul was hot.

As I drove the voice continued, I found it odd that they didn’t just give up and hang up. As I drove I found I could actually catch words they were saying in my pocket. At first it was just a sort of human buzz but then I heard words, random words coming out of my pocket. I wondered if it was my poor mum with the pen top and strong mint again, and for a second it sounded like her, but I heard words she wouldn’t use. Then the voice sounded male for a moment. It was hard to tell really, since I was also driving at the same time.

I wondered what on earth was going on and why the person on my phone was still speaking. It figured it was some kind of sales pitch or something, or a furious ex girlfriend delivering a lecture suddenly finding an opportunity to release or their long festered resentments composted down to the essential bitter nutrients. Just then I thought I recognized the sad pleading voice of my Turkish ex girlfriend.

“Jaymie Jan. Jaymie Jan. Oof ya.” I heard her repeat. Jan is the Turkish word life and putting ‘Jan’ after a person’s name is a term of endearment.  But I didn’t even have her number now so how could I have pocket dialed her? Besides our terms of endearment had long since come to terms and the last time I spoke to her she was still bitter and ranting about all the things she said I’d done wrong.

I tried to tune-in to the sound and just then something came through loud and  clear.

“Look  behind the curtain. We’re behind the curtain.”

I pulled the car over suddenly. This was too strange and specific a phrase, I had to find out who it was. I took out my phone to see who had called me. That phrase ‘we’re behind the curtain’ was weird. Who would say that? except a group of children who’d had enough of playing hide and seek. I knew plenty of children, but for the most part I tried to teach them English, hide and seek wasn’t even on the syllabus.

I looked to see who had called. No-one. There had been no phone call. There was no record of anything.

Obviously it was a bug with the new software. It hadn’t worked and also had the added effect of denying all knowledge of the fact that it  hadn’t worked by refusing to reveal who it was the software had failed to prevent you from finger dialing. It seemed to have software installed which covered up the fact it didn’t work.

Clearly I needed to uninstall it and try something else. Aware that the hot fuul was cooling down, but determined to end this tedious finger dialing charade NOW, I quickly uninstalled the software and downloaded and installed an alternative. It seemed that this was a very common problem and there were at least half a dozen possible software solutions to resolving it. It just appeared the some of them didn’t actually work.

I was starving so decided to waste no more time and got stuck into one of the fuul sandwiches which God had in his mercy, given to me and my friends. I unwrapped the sandwich while looking out across the beautiful Bay of the Two Jaws. Probably the most beautiful spot in the whole county and certainly somewhere in the top ten for the whole Arabian peninsula and pondered the beauty of this place while I ate. The fuul was delicious, perfectly seasoned, like how good baby food used to taste. An unctuous tasty salty pate with fresh chopped peppers and onions.

As I was eating for some reason a long forgotten memory came to me, of a time I had been cruel to my sister with a girl from down the road. A skinny girl with drab black hair in a tight pony tail, with scabs on her knees and a perpetually runny nose. A nasty girl who incited me to do mean things to my sister. The whole strange friendship lasted from summer to deep winter, there was no sense of attraction or anything like a ‘girlfriend’ at least not for me. She brought out a strange desire to be nasty. Some people seem to do that.

This dark period came to an end and I was returned to my usual peaceful and cruelty free solitude when I threw a snowball at her bay window, all in friendly jest and certainly within the spirit, I thought, of our friendship. Her parents didn’t see it like that and I almost thought for one childish moment that I would be hauled off to Borstall, such was the overreaction which greeted me at school the next day at assembly with the headmaster making an example of me to the whole school. The headmaster even got me in his office and jabbed me with his knuckled in his special deadly Taekwondo move which he liked to inflict on naughty boys. Well if she can’t take a joke, I thought. And I never spoke to her again. I think that snowball was a blessing and whatever spirit of infantile mischief impelled me to throw it was really doing me a big favour and removing from my life, some strange unsavoury associations. Even though they were kids. Kids are the worst, most of what happens in the tiny world they live in escapes the notice of the adults living in a world several orders of magnitude larger and operating on entirely different principles, and all under the delusions that kids are cute and harmless, never suspecting the animal hierarchical hell of cruelty they can inflict on each other.

I thought of my poor sister, her childish face, four years old, four years my junior. As Vicky and I amused ourselves by telling her to eat leaves because they were ‘secret garden candy’.

At that moment with that thought I bit my finger hard. Ouch! Another pattern. Whenever we berate ourselves with some past sin karma always looks for an immediate way to make itself felt. Biting a finger while eating a sandwich, stubbing a toe, burning a finger on a hot stove. There were a million ways for the demons employed by the Karmic collection agencies to extract instant payment. I should have been a scientist. I can spot patterns where none thought they existed. Never mind watching molecules and looking for atoms, why not work with the best reality raw material we could ever have? Our own psychological interactions with reality itself.

Damn I bit my finger really hard. You have to keep your wits about you whenever you think about something you’ve done wrong. Have no hot implements to hand, under no circumstances find yourself in a kitchen, and never attempt anything with fingers in the vicinity of hot, sharp, slippery burny things. I had been caught in the Karma kitchen many times in my life and have a collections of burn scars and small cuts to prove it. The demons of Karma could strike any moment as you mind slips into a million avenues of guilt. At that point you are an easy target for anything malevolent. Undefended by your own guilty conscience.

I looked at my finger. It had two teeth marks in the skin.

I tested the new app before I set out to drive. I decided to try to call someone, my mum, since there was no one else I would willingly speak to. Finding myself approaching middle-age with no burdens of my own family and long since having given up on women, I found history repeating itself and my strongest, best and indeed, aside from my sister, my only relationship of any kind with a woman, was with my mother. I didn’t feel inwardly embarrassed by this in the least. I wasn’t a forty year old virgin, I was a forty year old child. Slightly different. Everyone in the world was turning into stone, nothing but grey faced brittle idiots locked in an eternal pose. Same job everyday for ten years, same house, same people. You might as well be parked outside the fountain a grinning piece of rock covered in moss and pigeon shit. 

I hadn’t changed much since my first dim memories of preserved consciousness around the ages of two or three. I knew even then, or at least I was learning fast, that the world was not my friend and it was filled with endless horror. It took me forty years to understand that the world is only the friend to those ‘special people’, who have the ability to trick people, the sociopaths, politicians, crooks and charlatans. Those people generally do very well and are on very friendly terms with the world and its inhabitants. Open and honest people are destroyed or driven to despair. Since I realized that the world was managed in this way I determined that I would personally bring no more beautiful innocent souls here just in order to see them either slowly corrupted, or destroyed or driven to despair. This combined with my final realization that men and women had nothing in common and would be really better off keeping away from each other for as much of their time on Earth as they are able, set me on this course of doing just what the hell I wanted with my life and totally giving up on women, children and indeed, most relationships with other humans since no one really understood my perspective. 

They were just gaudy puppets, going through the motions. I felt I had broken free of the puppeteer, whoever or whatever it was, biological imperative, social conditioning, sense and sensibility.

I dialed the number and pressed the call button. To proceed with the call it was necessary to specifically swipe my finger, the one with the teeth marks in, across the screen to make the call. This ought to work.

I finished my wrap and reversed back onto the main road back to the school.

Nothing more to report on that day.

Two weeks later I was trying to escape from Dubai. I’d found it easy enough to slip quietly into the city, leaving Khor Fakkan and driving through the gaps blasted through the mountains. The wind, funneling down tight mountain valleys and occasionally jumping out into the road and howling at my car with such sudden terrifying force that my car was buffeted sideways. I gripped the wheel tighter, shocked and alarmed at the violence of this angry dry wind which jumped out at people. Perhaps it was a collection of djin who had lived quietly and undisturbed in these dry dead mountains for centuries, playing and shrieking unheard and unsuspected. Now their homes had been blasted open now the humans in their cars teemed all over their formerly pristine desolation. Every day, endless, all day and all night. There was no respite. Even in the heart of their desolation the drumming hum of aircraft or the buzzing splutter of the near infinite army of internal combustion engine machines, carefully detonating high octane hydrocarbons in order to visit their grandmother.

I knew that the wind was alive. There wasn’t any doubt about this. I had discovered this fact in Casablanca. It had quite startled me at the time, and for a moment there was a sight risk of a loss of sanity. I had felt it slipping. The onset of terror. The realization that all around you are the countless billions of dead souls of humans, animals and everything that ever lived on the planet, was still alive and angrily swirling and chasing around the whole Earth in a constant tempest, looking to cause mischief at any opportunity. Knocking things over, scattering rubbish, escalating to tempests hurricanes and tornadoes. Concentrated demonic fury. I thought to myself, how can one be safe? Also while I was thinking this I heard them howl all the louder, I heard disemobied hands, pushing at the side of my apartment with all the rage of the djin of the Atlantic ocean weather system.

My apartment was a penthouse, well it would have been, were it not for the fact that a landlord had built a rather shabby and barely habitable shed on top of it, in which two strangely demon possessed people seemed to occasionally visit. I was sure they were demon possessed because they could read my mind and also, during Ramadan, I would hear them in their barely habitable shed committing all sorts of noisy abominations. Ramadan was supposed to be a time when one didn’t cede to temptation and avoided anything haram, but these two instead doubled down, and were riotously drunk most evenings during the whole month of Ramadan, and these excesses would be punctuated by an alternating pattern of noisy sex and violent arguments.

My apartment stood high in the air, opposite the sea lashed Hassan II mosque, and directly opposite the surging fury of the ocean. In summer it was ideal because the sea air kept the excessive heat of Morocco at bay but in the winter it was a box to be rattled and wracked by the wind while the sea tried to endlessly reclaim the land, knowing that one day it would win its battle.

The wind that had assaulted me in the mountains on the way to Dubai was of a different character, dry and hot, like a fossil wind which had been roving lost in the same desert for tens of thousands of years. But the wind was like an egregor or group consciousness, except it displayed different abilities and strengths in different places. The desert wind was harmless except in as much as it could whip up a sand storm. The wind in Morocco no doubt reported on me to the wind here and this is why I was being victimized in this way, because I knew its secret.

Once I had slid out from the mountains and hit the orange sands of the Arabian desert the situation was greatly improved. The desert was just too open for any fury to really accumulate, so the mountain tempest became a dissipated desert breeze. However once I noticed a solitary desert djinn, spinning the desert sands into a maelstrom. I stopped the car and walked behind him as he made his scurrying spinning way. He behaved very much like a nervous cat which didn’t want to be stroked. I followed him and he kept moving away from me, until once I jumped right into him and felt his spinning confusion rush all around me.  Then he dashed off at an acute angle and since I can’t run diagonally through desert sand I abandoned the chase, got back into my car and continued to Dubai.

As I said, slipping into Dubai was easy. I parked at Rashida station and slipped into the city’s elegant steel and glass metro system, but getting out was a nightmare. Always the same story with cities. They suck you in and all roads lead to them. They breathe you into their circulatory systems through a thousand different routes and inviting motorway exits. But to escape requires a lesson in patience and good driving skills. Several times while trapped on the exit of the D89 and entry to the E311, a sort of motorway limbo between worlds, where civilisations could rise and fall on distant planets and you’d have moved less than four Earth feet. The particular difficulty of a traffic jam here is that there was no sense of order. Cars would continue to fly into the stationary line of idling cars, crow-baring themselves into the exit lane at the last possible moment. Big white dusty buses full of dusty Pakistanis and bus drivers brazenly forcing their wheezy battered buses between a three inch gap.

As I was stuck there, in a rising terror of urban claustrophobia, trying to resist the compulsion to get out of my rental car and just leave it and all the chaos behind while I ran into the peace and protection of the desert, I heard a sound. It sounded like a kind of high pitched whine, like a particularly loud mosquito. As I listened the sound seemed to take form and became a woman’s voice.

“Are you there? Are you there?”

I heard it say. Not my damn phone again. I hadn’t even touched it this time and it still rang.

Then the voice changed to a man’s voice and it said:

“Hold your breath, make a wish, count to three.” I did just as it suggested, I wished that the traffic would start to move and I would be able to get home. Then I heard some music come from somewhere….and then Gene Wilder’s voice singing the Willy Wonka song Pure Imagination. Then I heard the sound of a dozen cacophonous car horns behind me which told me that seemingly a line had opened in the traffic.

To be continued.... 

Four words that could have saved the world.....

What If I’m Wrong?

I write this as a bit of a belated curiosity or postscript to the human race and what could have been if every human being had had this idea drummed into them at an early age until it became an instant habit of thought.

I’m afraid this information is a little bit late, much too late to save Earth and the human race which seems to have piled error upon atrocity for thousands upon thousands of years until we the present occupants of this planet find ourselves no wiser than we did at the start. Sure we have mobile phones and air-conditioning but along with that we have an Earth which we have conspicuously stripped of much of its bio-diversity, as long as a list of human sins and horrors which no imagined hell beyond could equal. 

The Human race seems to have made the Earth its own private hell. Whether through the annals of the Romans, of the inquisition, of Communism or of depleted uranium and white phosphorous used on Iraqi children. Combine this with what I consider a likely extinction level event unfolding in Fukushima and we have an inevitable picture that humanity’s best days are behind it. 

But what if people had done things different? What if Hitler had been instilled with the habit: “What if I’m wrong?” He didn’t have to believe he was wrong, but at least the possibility of entertaining a doubt would certainly have possibly saved the world a great deal of trouble..

What if Tony Blair too had thought ‘what if I’m wrong?’ we would have been spared the Iraq war, deformed nuclear mutant babies and the growth of ISIS.

What if ISIS themselves had the thought ‘what if I’m wrong?’ mind controlled into them by some benign brain washing expert. What if we all had this idea ‘What if I’m wrong?’

But the funny thing is, for whatever reason of human psychology, this is the thought we all seem to experience least. 

Is it because something about animal nature is not about reflection but pure will and action?

Obviously if a cat catching a bird where to handicap itself by asking ‘what if I’m wrong’ about this jump to catch that bird, he would likely starve in due course, but then cats haven’t been given the same kind of leading role in directing the fate and future of a whole planet and all its inhabitants.

What if the Japanese government of the post war had just held back a moment before they decided to allow the Americans to build nuclear power plants along the coastline of a highly geologically unstable island?

What if they had asked ‘What if we’re wrong about this?’. The answer of course we now know, if you’re wrong then you will likely poison the whole Pacific ocean wiping out the largest biological domain on planet Earth, its primary source of oxygen and possibly destroying Earth itself as a life sustaining environment at some point in the future. This answer would probably have given them pause for thought and they would wisely have decided not to be such bloody muppets.

But they didn’t. And humans never do. They never stop for a moment and ask themselves whether they might be wrong and about to commit a major fuck up.

And this in essence, is the tragedy of the rather short story of the human race.

I wonder if the cats will make a better job of it.

As a writer I used to have this great hope that my small ideas and projects would one day come to fruition and be printed and bound and would form part of the great depository of human knowledge and human experience. Now I no longer see any future for humanity, there will be no books or anything in the future since books and knowledge require that the primary need of basic human survival are mastered and the way things are on Earth I rather fear that very soon the human race will be reduced to that condition of day to day survival in a toxic deadly environment where no food will grow and the fish will all be dead or radioactive.

But I could be wrong.

Feminist Gorgon Witches of the Apocalypse

Human Civilisation....what an old fashioned idea.

If it’s a war they want, they’ve got one. This particular writer is taking up arms…well, opening up MS Word, in defence of MEN and society as a whole against the straggly bedraggled feminist witches of the apocalypse.

Such creatures tend to be incubated in the golden summer days of a contented society with hope for the future and they are patronized and placated with university research grants which keeps them quiet and only able to pester and abuse the poor men who happen to enter their university domains and make the mistake, as I did, of studying English Literature and being at the mercy of an insane and over educated elite club of Marxist Feminist Witches.

Dianne Purkiss, Professor of Witchcraft at Keble College Oxford.

However now the golden summer days of human civilization seem to be at an end and to paraphrase the Protocols of Zion they have unleashed their long incubated army of feminists upon a culture in which men and women generally got on quite well, fell in love and hell, even got married and had babies and stuff.

Now, war is upon you, whether you want it or not. The massed ranks of unhygienic femi-witches who celebrate their independence by disdaining showers or shampoo are released from their academic holding pens and the obscurity of the lecture hall, to fall upon the world and prey upon society, draining human gender relationships of meaning or any chance of happiness.

If you are a man then you are in the sights merely for being a man and creating civilization. Everything you have done was always to oppress the wimins and now the reckoning is due. The witches are abroad, casting their spells in the press and assaulting reason and logic for  ‘foul is fair and fair is foul’ just like ‘Fat is beautiful and beautiful is male objectification.’ 

The hordes of broken women, recently empowered by feminism and heavily subsidized by the hidden hand which has waged war on Western civilization, are those whose ugliness and poor character, in a sane world would be rightfully disdained and probably relegated to gardening jobs where they can only inflict their bad dispositions on weeds and the slugs in their cabbages, but in our strange Back to the Future Alternate 1985 world where everything has suddenly all gone wrong, and they are now the new intellectual elite.

Where's the DeLorean? we need to fix this shit!

They have been given the keys to the kingdom of knowledge and they have burned down the house and instead erected an altar to their own unwashed vaginas and only those who have ritually castrated themselves with Marxist Social Theory will be allowed to enter.

An English Literature student at a UK University, or a male Guardian journalist.

One such eschewer of shampoo and reason is Joan Smith. Perhaps once, in Ms Smith’s family there was once a man who made something at a hot iron forge, perhaps horse shoes or perhaps the man mended a plough. Doubtless the man whose name was once Smith served a useful and constructive purpose to the world around him. 

But the fruit has fallen far from the tree and Ms Joan Smith is nothing but a very bad apple, all acid and bitterness. Something which ought to have fallen on stony ground and been allowed to rot quietly away into the mire. But now, she has been given a rich firmament and her bitterness has been watered with years and years of secret delusions.

Likely from the Frankfurt school who once gave her a nice stipend for writing an essay and she realized that being bitter and foul can be a good career move for someone with no discernible talent or ability to provide anything useful or constructive to society.

Ms Smith’s career is built on nurturing discord, discontent and destruction. Destruction of female happiness and the severing of the ancient human bond between men and women. Along with a fascination with witches, atheism and Marxism, an ideology which has so far cost up to 100,000,000 human lives. 

Now women under the spell of feminism have been rendered unhappy and those men who have realized that they no longer need to be sitting ducks for abuse can go their own way. The MGTOW men figure if women have all turned into mad feminists who want to castrate us mentally and literally then why not learn the guitar instead?

With the growth of the internet and the devious trickery of AMP (Accelerated Mobile Pages) which specifically harvests obscure stories from Marxist rags like the Guardian and The Independent which ought, due to the diminishing readership of print editions of these journals, be consigned to becoming  a wet patch in the rabbit hutch of some social worker’s house and his bearded partner who works in advertising, but alas, the internet has deviously brought up all this cat-litter journalism to be endless churned over and over by the power of the internet.

The Trump Show...... Men Love it.

So now whenever I want to check in on my favourite US soap opera: President Trump, I have to be exposed to the views of bedraggled harpies fresh from the blasted Heath assaulting my senses with their snarling misandry and lack of hair-care programme. I hate the Guardian and I hate Feminists, witches, Marxists and Atheists...but I am rather interested in the Trump Show, so why whenever I type Trump into my mobile Google search am I exposed to the views of Marxist Feminist Atheist witches with bad hair? I don't care about you. Leave me alone! Damn you AMP.

Poor hair care example from history.

Joan Smith: Gorgon.

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/feb/19/donald-trump-fragile-male-ego

Trump’s fragile male ego craves the dangerous drug of adulation

It is an alarming insight into how Trump (though, not just Trump) operates. Few politicians, no matter how thin-skinned, have displayed such neediness nor demanded such displays of unconditional love from their supporters. Neediness is not usually considered attractive in men who like to be thought of as tough, but Trump is rewriting the rulebook on masculinity.

 Joan Smith

What concerns me about Feminist Zombie witches of the Apocalypse with poor hair care, is not only that they pontificate on matter of femininity as if they own every woman's gender, but now it seems they are branching out and telling men about being a man, as well as engaging in tiresome gender based attacks of smearing Trump with some kind of sexist gender based attack.

When did you ever read a male writer having a go at a famous woman claiming she was suffering from 'fragile female ego problems' and then goes on to tell the woman what a woman should be?

You don't. You won't hear this, never. Because this man would be labeled a misogynist and not allowed anywhere near a newspaper. He might live in the internet and frequent websites like MGTOW.COM, but be assured that society would be duly mobilised to track such a man down and use any and all power if could to discredit and attack him.

I wonder to what extent literal extent the schizophrenic priestesses of the old mystery religion, attended by a priesthood of self castrated ‘males’ mewling and rolling around like neutered pussy cats, describes the paradigm of this particular author and her readership. History repeats itself, although admittedly, it tends to have a wardrobe change. So what were once the witches and priestess of the mysteries are now female journalists and academics, exhorting the degrees of their mystery, the outer portico or blue-lodge degrees of which are atheism, Feminism and a little bit of Marxism for good measure. Yet what lies beneath? What really happens in the minds of these people, because it's beginning to more and more resemble mental illness.

This is what the End of  Civilisation Looks Like.

Post Script:

http://www.breitbart.com/big-government/2017/02/24/witches-unite-cast-binding-spell-trump-followers/amp/

by THOMAS D. WILLIAMS, PH.D. 24 Feb 2017

A group of witches is attempting to use black magic to neutralize U.S. President Donald Trump by casting a “binding spell” to prevent him from governing.

The “mass spell to bind Donald Trump” will be performed at midnight on every waning crescent moon beginning Friday, February 24, “until Donald Trump is removed from office,” the group’s website states.

The mass ritual will allegedly be repeated again March 26, April 24, May 23, June 21 (the summer solstice), July 21, and August 19.

The spell also invokes evil on “those who abet” Trump, which would seem to appear to cover his staff and political nominees, and perhaps the millions who voted for him as well.

The spell involves such items as an unflattering photo of Trump, a tower tarot card, a tiny stub of an orange candle, a pin or small nail, water, salt, a feather and an ashtray.

“This binding spell is open source, and may be modified to fit your preferred spiritual practice or magical system,” the site explains. What is critical is “the simultaneity of the working” as well as “the mass energy of participants.”

“Some lodges/covens are doing a variation of this as a group working, while a number of solitary practitioners are planning to connect and livestream via Facebook, Twitter, and other social media,” the site explains.

In reaction, a number of Christian groups and individuals have promised to pray for Mr. Trump, asking God’s blessings on his work and on the nation.

The witches’ spell involves a lengthy incantation, calling on spirits and “demons of the infernal realms” to bind Donald J. Trump so that “he may fail utterly, that he may do no harm.”

Calling on the spirits to work the same harm on “all those who enable his wickedness and those whose mouths speak his poisonous lies,” the hex beseeches the spirits to “bind them in chains, bind their tongues, bind their works, bind their wickedness.”

The climax of the spell involves a crescendo “with increasing passion” ending by blowing out the orange candle while “visualizing Trump blowing apart into dust or ash.”