Will you just look at that, the Enola Gay’s cargo bay doors have opened! Incoming! This calls for a Fortnum & Mason hamper; this is serious tea!
Numerologically, these are the numbers for SPARE & HRH Prince Henry’s war with the Windsors. 10. 01. 2023 Tiger 1. 2. 9 = 3. The first royal memoir by a royal rather than a kiss-me-ass royal biography by one of these blasted sycophants who could never, unlike Harry’s memoir, have their specious drivel simultaneously launch in 16 languages.
1, energy body, this is a warrior soul with a score to settle. He is going to, like every mature soul and warrior soul, wage a campaign that is all about restoring his honour. Now that The Queen and his and Meghan’s entity mate has departed, he will feel positively no qualms about producing the receipts. 1 is in your face and brutally raw and uncompromisingly truthful. Like me, Henry has an attitude of scepticism; we are blunt, upfront, confrontational and will be unrelentingly vituperative at the drop of a hat. Harry is into this to protect his family and that means, defending his wife who was racially attacked by HRH Princess Michael of Kent with her unbelievable bold racially predatory, offensive blackamoor brooch worn for all the world’s media to see to The Queen’s 2017 Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace.
Mind of 2. This is someone that has much to say and will be most indefatigable in prosecuting his case! Not the least bit surprised should be anyone that Henry’s memoir runs past 400 pages. Also, a book that’s dropping on a day when the mind ruling it is two, this means that it is ruled by all that is rapid fire, quicksilver, brilliant. Most of all two is associated with artisan souls and there is no soul more nimble, strategic and clever than an artisan. Artisans input on 5 channels. Meghan is an artisan soul as was Diana, Princess of Wales. You will never win in a campaign against the intellect of an artisan. We may seems spacy but long before we head off to do battle, we have gone through plans A through Z where mere mortals simply will vet from plan A to D at most. Artisans are complex and are always misjudged, illegible.
Slaves and priest souls input on two channels. That would be the late Queen. The fact that she had seven in the second/mind position means that she read people with uncanny accuracy. Also, The Queen could see auras, the dead and all that beyond-the-veil arcana but she would never disclose this to any one save lifelong ladies-in-waiting and only a few of these persons. Warriors, Kings and Scholars input on one channel, this can leave such souls as coming off at times as thick but they are superior strategists and also more than passingly confrontational. Prince George is a King soul, which is most rare. Catherine, HM King Charles III, Prince Philip and Prince Henry are all warrior souls and all mature souls. I suspect that HRH Princess Anne Princess Royal may also be a warrior soul. Both William and Camilla, Queen Consort are scholar souls – I cannot stress enough how utterly arrogant and stubborn such persons can prove. Artisans are paired with Sage souls on the expression axis; however, sages input on three channels. This greatly facilitates live performance artists being able to channel through the creator’s vision by speech, song or dance. Creative artists are more often than not artisan souls; however, Pablo Picasso was a seventh young soul warrior.
Life path of 9, Harry’s memoir’s will be a campaign of high flying ideals and righting injustices, whether it is his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’s murder or his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s lynching as the most hated Black woman in history. Henry will be unsparing in defence of his high ideals. Lastly, with a destiny of 3, the number which rules media, publishing and the written word, quite remarkably, Henry’s memoir will go down to be just as revolutionary as HM King Henry VIII creating the Church of England rather than being at the mercy of the Church of Rome. Henry’s memoir is going to, for the first time, cause the public to turn on the tabloid media which has been predatorily harvesting off the royals and no single royal earns the tabloids more money than his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. They make billions in inciting anti-Black racism towards Meghan and at no time do any of these entities, tabloids and alleged royal experts ever mention the racism to which Meghan was subjected. If you think for one nanosecond that HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch incident was a singular, isolated incident then you truly believe that that blasted anti-Semitic idiot actually walked on water rather than on a Plexiglas runway an inch below the lake’s surface.
This campaign is masterful. No royals. No alleged royal experts, no tabloids. No one, all of whom are the Sussexes’ detractors, and sworn enemies as that vile Jewish anti-Black racist, Tom Bower recently admitted, “It’s Meghan I’m after!” know what Harry delivers in his memoir ahead of the general public. SPARE will callously lay bare the hideous underpinnings of the British monarchy: tabloids, courtiers, household staffers, royals and their need to prey on others whilst turning a blind eye to the antics of other royals. Cutting the Sussexes loose after the contents of Harry’s memoir become global headline news, will only further expose their duplicity. The tabloids will be exposed for what they are: the trolling, lynching, race-baiting agents of the BRF.
Here’s to the Sussexes as they go forward from strength to strength. After SPARE, let’s hope the British tabloids would stay in their provincial backwaters and focus their attention on the real tea, as there is no “there” there for them to truthfully report on with regards the Montecito ducal family. Go on, report on Catherine and Sir Ben Ainslie and could little Damian be their love child as William has his own love child with the Chatelaine of Houghton Hall. And what of Charles and his teddsie wedsie, what does he suck on when cuddling with his teddy whilst Camilla broods at Ray Mill and his equerry keeps him stiff with drink, warmth and jousting that stirs the birds in the topiary close by. Indeed, who pegs whom and is it reciprocated… now no longer at Anmer Hall clearly it continues but definitely not at Adelaide Cottage. Think of the billions you could be making for merely telling the truth rather than inciting anti-Black racism as you have fiendishly engaged the past six years of lynching season. For everything there is a season and sooner or later the truth reigns above it all.
Continued success to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex on her Spotify podcast, Archetypes. It is a beautiful exposition of a superior intellect. Too, congratulations on the nomination at this year’s People’s Choice Awards.
Never mind Q’uoontifah & that lost anti-Semitic idiot, I damn well love being Black every moment whether lucidly awake in dreams or when awake!
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
These utterly stunning dream experiences occurred on Thursday, February 16, 1989, whilst the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house.
I was on a street and just beyond the other side of the street was the edge of a cliff; it looked down into a distant valley. It was very sunny out. I was seated in front of a house.On my right was a man who had come home from work in a car. He looked very Italian except that he seemed to be very hirsute – as though he had quite dark skin.However, on closer inspection, he turned out to be rather hirsute. A little later on, he came outside again. His neighbours were looking at him, kind of strangely, like they weren’t already accustomed to looking or reacting to him in a strange manner.
He sat down next to me outside, on the neighbouring bench to my right, both of us with backs to the neighbours. He turned and looked at me and his face was rather ape-like.It was the colour black and his hair was quite different. This man had a long widow’s peak and his face was literally the colour black. It was quite ape-like. He said nothing. More than that, he seemed rather friendly and nice.Along that street, there were kids when a car had pulled up. They were very teenage kids – all boys. A boy came out further along and returned to join one of his companions.
Then it turned out that his companion was in a car that was black and seemed to move, as it were, on air-cushioned rubber wheels. This black car of his was rather aerodynamic.After his friend took off, he then – this is the little blond timid guy – went over towards the cliff. Directly in front of the hirsute ape-like man, who was seated to my right, the blond guy went into the bushes.The young guy turned out to have been his brother – that guy who looked like a twin of his or resembled a brother. They hung out together and then he went moving on.
As he passed me, going from right to left, a friend of his was coming down the road. The road had a curve in it and went steeply up a hill. The hill, in fact, looked like the hill at Toronto’s Prospect Cemetery on the south side of Kitchener Street. His friend came down and he was wearing a helmet because he had been on some sort of vehicle. He removed the helmet, carrying it in his right hand, as they greeted each other.Strangely, they greeted by grabbing each other around the hips and rubbed their crotches together, joked and laughed. In essence, they engaged in clothed frottage.
I thought it interesting that two males would engage in open sexual play, however, this seemed the natural standard way of greeting in this culture. Clearly, this was a sign that this was not exactly Kansas.I had the distinct impression that the twin blonds had gone into the gorge to do drugs. As they were blissing out, only the crown of their golden mops was visible.They were using the very intense lushness of the rolling hills, in the valley way below, as a stimulant. Everything here was so pronouncedly healthy, even the star that shined seemed more intense and pure than Sol.I carefully looked at some of the trees and realised that they were bonsai, furry, mossy centuries-old plants that seemed to hum at a frequency higher than their arboreal counterparts on Earth.
I was able to zoom into the plants in the valley way below and experience them in intimate close-up. Of course, this I accomplished whilst remaining seated on the bench where to my right on another sat the über-poilu, intensely warm, handsome ape-like man.The helmet was the same black, light, metal-plastic alloy material as the car. It seemed to have the ability to absorb the intense sunlight, which was not scorching, and cool the interior.The blond who greeted his Italian-looking helmeted friend – they were all, incidentally, the same hirsute ape-like stock as the jet-black man seated to my right – had patted the car as he moved around its rear into the road to meet his dark-haired friend.He had patted the car much like one would a trusted horse. At that, the car had hissed and lurched to the road from its hovering stationary position a foot off the ground.
Later on, in the second dream, I was still on the same street. There were all these little kids. They were on skateboards. They came down about four, five, six, of them – little guys. One of them was Black. He was quite light-skinned. They were from a high social class. They were very friendly and nice and I warmly interacted with them.However, they were quite reserved and it wasn’t as though they weren’t friendly. As I was a stranger, for that reason, they kept me at bay.On the lower part of the street, where I was with them, it was clearly a cemetery. As far as cemeteries go, it was quite different an arrangement. It had quite large tombstones in it – monuments.
There was one woman there in black who was seemingly Italian. She was carrying on; she was grieving by this one monument. It had on it a very interesting design and some of the graves were fresh.I explained to them, the little boys, that this was where one went. However, then one came back from there and was able to live a life again like they were now living.I explained to them in those terms, however, I did not force them to look at funerals. People’s focus on funerals as the end and fear of death was the trap, I explained to them.
In this the third dream, I was under these hugely tall trees and was working at the time. Clearly, I had been working for someone like Pete Wilkens or someone like him.I had left a shovel around. The shovel had been left about and from a long, long time ago. This was on the grounds of a park-like setting where there were lots of skeletons about. The skeletons were covered with a whole bunch of ants. It was strange because it seemed as though the bones were the remnants of lunch and had just been eaten.They seemed like the skeletons for fish except that the head bone of the fish – skull – was quite flat.
The head had three sides to it and the skeleton was again a narrow filament that had two identical spines that trailed the unusual-looking skull.The skeletons were quite white and were flexible like the white cartilage of a chicken breast. There was a bunch of ants all over them.I might also add that these flexible, double-spined, fish-like skeletons were covered with ants that were quite feathery and lumpy. These ants were almost like miniature tarantulas because they were so bulky, dark, rich and, in a way, nice to look at.
There was a shovel sitting about and I realised that I had left it there, when I worked last time which was some time ago, last season. However, nobody had actually moved it because it meant that it was my responsibility to have moved it.So I ended up moving a couple of rakes – they were, in fact, more like pole saws. When trying to clear the space, I took them from one area to the next.I must say that I was quite struck by the face of that particular man that I did see, whilst he sat on the neighbouring bench to my right, in the initial dream. Even here in another dream entirely, I kept seeing him in my mind’s eye.
The fourth dream found me going back to an apartment where Merlin and I were living together. There were ants all about the apartment.I told him,“You have to get out and go away for a while so I can clean away the ants.”I then went about disinfecting the place and got rid of the ants. I was even disinfecting beneath the floorboards… everywhere.Owing to his being full-blown with AIDS, I did not want Merlin being exposed to the harmful chemicals in the disinfectants. That, certainly, could have resulted in horrific consequences on his vastly compromised immune system.
With the fifth dream, I was in a large department store. There, I saw Isis da Braga who was there to buy a scarf. At the time, I was with two males; it was a Gay situation.Owen Hawksmoor was talking to someone who had a very large nose. The man to whom Owen spoke was Black. He seemed like we vaguely knew each other. He seemed, in fact, like Don Baxter.However, the face on this man was black and had hues of red in it. Not the colour black but as Black people look. More than that, such that it looked like the nose of an animal’s would like an aardvark or some such, the nose on this man was more like a snout.He wore white; both he and Owen did. There was some function, that one had to go to, for which Owen had complimentary tickets.
These two people, whom Owen and I had encountered, were saying that they did not know where their complimentary tickets were. I said that I knew I had mine. Anyway, Owen left them and went back up a flight of steps.It was quite light out, up the staircase, as though there was a skylight hung high overhead. Owen moved on and I went in search of Isis who had passed by. She was quite embarrassed, in fact, at seeing me with my arm about a Gay person.She went in and picked up a scarf and the scarf was worth 52$, I think, because she was putting down the balance of the money – the other half – 26$. She was there shopping.It was a black scarf and it had beautiful… the borders were red and green designs. It really was quite nice. I came and leaned on the counter and said hello to my sister.
She was reserved, cool and detached. She turned to me and was beautifully made up and looked very young with beautiful, flawless, flawless skin.She spoke about the fact that she did not go shopping with me anymore. She insisted that my accusation that she did not go shopping with me anymore because I was with men was not true.She was wearing a beautiful mustard-coloured jacket and a scarf about her neck. Indeed, she was quite well-off.
*The thing about these unusually droopy noses is that they looked as though this was a race of extra-humans (extra-terrestrials) which had evolved from simian mammals who were descended from proboscis monkey stock rather than not. It is a race of primates native to Borneo and the faces of those simians are rather human.This is how this man and others in this dream would appear. However, it was more than that look. END.
In the sixth dream, I was in an office that was like an indoor greenhouse. If you like, it was a mausoleum rather than greenhouse. It was sky-lit and there were a lot of caskets about. Some of them had flowers and some of them did not.When you came in, you went down some stairs and into a more open area. There you saw a burial crypt. It was an indoor burial crypt. There was a man about as well as a grand piano.Whenever the employees of the place came in, there was a woman standing about and she would excitedly say,“We have to go out, we have to go out.”I was with those little children, from the earlier dream, who were skateboarding and whom I had instructed earlier about the whole idea of reincarnation. These children were mostly White. We were also being hustled out of the place.
The woman then said,“What is he doing? There is not another service. Why is he trying to start up that piano?”The man at the piano was large and bent over and he looked somewhat out of place being there. Before we could be ushered out of the place, I managed to run up and put some flowers – some yellow flowers, on one of the brown caskets that was there.
*He was inordinately tall and hence drooped over a lot. Whilst seated at the grand piano, his towering height made it look as though an adult seated at a dollhouse piano. Too, he was inordinately pale… END.
As we were going out, the procession was coming in and people were being hustled in. It was quite a fast procession. I stuck around and tried to see the place and see why there was so much hustling.There and then, it turned out that I saw the casket. It was very flat and plain and I thought,‘Well why is it being hustled out? If it’s a funeral why would the relations be so ecstatic?’However, it turned out that because the burial box was so flat I thought it was going to be cremated. It turned out, however, that it was for the office. There was going to be a surprise party.
It was actually a cake. It was covered up in wonderful, colourful wrapping paper. There was going to be a celebration and those were all the workers from the company. The atmosphere was quite nice and friendly.
In this the seventh dream, I was in a very, very large and busy restaurant where I ordered myself a bowl of soup. I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom but I had my bowl of soup in my hand.It was very Gothic-styled. It seemed, in fact, like the inside of a château. It was in the Gothic style except that the walls were rose granite – rose-coloured granite. It was, however, rather smooth-surfaced.I then accidentally spilled my bowl of soup. The waitress who had come to my aid was dark-haired – short, dark hair. She looked like a dancer who danced with the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers when I was living in Winnipeg – the one who was Lebanese and had had a back injury.
Anyway, this waitress went off and I was waiting there being quite embarrassed. I was trying to rush to the toilet. I asked someone where the toilet was and they said,“No, no, not upstairs.”It turned out that the washrooms were, in fact, to the rear. So off I went to the bathroom and I was quite embarrassed. I tidied up myself and I came back out and my white cotton pants – nice, beautiful trousers; they were baggy but they came in tight and folded in a pleat at the end at the hem – were quite stained by the soup.It was a dark sort of pea soup. A dark brownish fare, like a lentil soup, it was. However, it was not like a lentil soup because it was red.
I was trying to ask this man to move, in order to get by him, en route to the washrooms. There was a couple behind a man and they were very lovey-dovey.The man had to ask them to get up to let me get to the bathroom. He did not want to get up or anything like that but he finally realised he had to get up. So he basically moved and he was quite unusually blond.Everybody in this place was very unusual-looking. They had extraordinary features about them. They were excessively good-looking but they had an outstanding feature that made them seem Thothesque.Again, noses here were very long, droopy and bent over. Their noses were almost beaklike in that sense. That was the extraordinary thing about that jet-black skinned man, in the initial dream, as well as this blond man who had the same feature.
These persons were all exceptionally tall. They were each on the other side of seven-plus feet. Also, they were so über-poilu, it made it look like they were either jet-black when Black or yellow-white for being blond.Finally, he did move and when I was leaving, I looked at him. He was looking down at me because I was out of sorts, out of place, being there. Standing before him, he really did tower over me.Clearly, these persons were EHs – extra-humans or ETs.Another person had come by and tidied me up. He busily got me back to where I was seated. Then he had mumbled something like, “Why don’t you get out of here real fast?”
So I went out into the vestibule and I was waiting and waiting for the waitress to come by because I wanted to pay her for my bowl of soup. I think it was going to be $3 or something like that.Isis just said,“Why don’t we just get out of here?”We were waiting out front and it was busy so I finally got out. However, I was arguing and said,“That’s not the point of it.” I strongly felt that I should be paying my way. So I thought to just go back and put down my money on a table somewhere – I would feel better.However, I did finally leave, after having been more or less harassed by Isis without having paid. She was asking, “If you can save the money, why not save it?” that was her attitude.
When we were leaving there was a tall, enormously tall, man. He was White. Again, he had the same beaklike nose and there was something about his face that I found immediately sexual. His face was intensely sexualised.I was going to indulge and not leave because I so wanted to explore this man. However, Isis hustled me out of there.
Dream eight found me in the streets. I was walking with a baby – a little Black baby who was light-skinned. I carried the baby on my shoulders.It was rather nice. This time, out on the street, it was dark out and it was night time. This place we went to, that was quite busy, was bustling with lots of wonderful, wonderful people. It was very cosmopolitan here. A brief dream it was too.
I next found myself in a ninth dream experience that had a great deal of uproar and tumult to it. There were figures in black who were part of some sort of religious sect. These persons were just alarmingly fanatical.They were terrorists and they wore black. They had some sort of insignia on their bodies. As a matter of fact, they were looking for me; there was no mistaking that fact.I was in what would be Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s yard. I was trying to hide out there. There were, somehow, attempts to get me out.Then there was this truck which the people who were like security guards used. I was told where to find them and where they weren’t.
So I went into this yard and it seemed like part of Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s property and the neighbourhood in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. However, it was differently set up here.There was an Indian-looking girl – Amerindian-looking and not Dravidian. She, too, had a beaklike nose and I tried to explain to her,“Well look, you know I’m being pursued…”
“Oh yes!” further, she made reference to the fact, “Oh yes, you’re the one who killed Bob… or somebody.”Up on the roof was like Bob’s brother, whoever Bob was, but it wasn’t a name that I recognised. His name was Bob, however; it was Patrice Wellesley, of all people, who was keeping a lookout.He was supposed to notify the guard-like people. I intuitively knew that on the far side of the wall, of the place where I was hiding out, was a guy and a girl. She had very long black hair and was quite militant. They were looking out for me and talking.
I was telling the Amerindian-looking girl with the Thothesque nose, who was talking to me and dropping pieces of information, to just shut up and calm down, “You don’t need to say everything and carry on and on.”However, she still kept on blabbing away.I then managed to go around the side of the house. She was with her sister and they were playing some sort of game. So I thought to actually go around, to the front of the house, to ask her who her sister was.I then went around to the front of the house and there was her sister who seemed like Diana Nottingham – with whom I modelled at OCAD and did that pose with her at OCAD that Olaf Nordstrom had painted.
Anyway, she was quite wonderfully made up in whiteface. As though she were a Kabuki actor/actress, she wore white pancake makeup. She was, in fact, an actress. She was waiting to go on and perform a role of hers.It was quite interesting because she was, in fact, filling me in on what was going on,“In point of fact Arvin, you know, basically someone died because in self-defence in a rumble with them… it was just a lazy man about town, an idler and a drifter.”He apparently ended up dying because, during some sort of attack on me, as I was defending myself he was accidentally killed. As a result, I was on the run and there was a plot – the militant group was out to get me.
She told me that what I could do was go behind the Methodist Church in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. The place, however, was set out as if a mélange of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts and elsewhere.So she told me to go across the railroad tracks. On coming around, I would be able to come home free to my home in Crab Hill. However, she pointed out that all along the route there were the same guards – militant fanatics.However, I just had to play it safe. She confidently assured me that they could be headed off. I was grateful for her advice and took her directives to heart.Well, low and behold, the girl – the militant sibling – came around the yard and caught me. When she caught me, I fled in escape. I went and hid behind the wall.I am not referring to Diana or one of the two sisters who had been around the backyard but there were two other sisters. These other two sisters were part of the militant group that was on the hunt for me.
The girl pulled out a weapon and it had a little blade on it. It was quite deadly and I kept hiding myself trying to extricate myself out of the place. I did so by holding up one of the sisters, in front of me, as a hostage.Someone got spliced in the left hand. I don’t recall that it was me or if it was me, I simply did not feel any pain when attacked. The vicious-looking wound had self-healed right away. I had focussed my light energies on the wound and caused it to instantaneously self-heal.Anyway, I was able to push the sister onto them. I then made my way around to the back of the house. By this time, the brother was coming around the house from the other direction.
When I say I went around to the back of the house, it was where I had originally encountered the two militant sisters. By that point, she had already called for help from the guardsman. He was somewhat ecstatic as he came around. However, this was my chance to flee. So I climbed over the fence and immediately there was a lot of plastic on and all over everything. When I climbed over the wall it was, clearly, what in the waking state would be the very back end of the Methodist Church estate.It was covered with a heavy plastic and there was a lot of wood. There was scaffolding everywhere. I climbed along the wood and the sister – the white-faced, actor of the two sisters – had told me that I could get immunity by saying that I was coming to work on the grounds or some such.
Next, I crawled along the scaffolding and looked to my left. However, this being a dream, it had semblances to being Sandy Point but it wasn’t really Sandy Point either.I realised that there were apartments, tiny apartments, which were glass-enclosed. They were all quite in disarray. People lived there but nobody seemed to be home.Here I was trying to make my escape and if anybody had seen me, of course, I would be squealed on. Then I finally jumped down, out of the ceiling-like area, because there were crates and boxes and a straw-stuffed bed under me directly below the window.I came down to an open area and there I saw a much darker version of Artemis da Braga, my niece. She was sitting wrapped with a telephone cord about her as she played with the phone.I greeted her but I did not want to get her excited because I wanted to flee the area.
Next, in dream ten, I came out of this beautiful house and came out into a wonderful backyard. Immediately, whilst there, I saw another of those vans. There had also been a van in the earlier dream that showed how these people, the militant people, worked.They had a van and it had another little van on the inside when it opened up claw-like. It appeared that the top and the bottom, the back rather, could open up. Inside it revealed another vehicle that was covered in a brownish greasy goop. The most interesting feature of this entire affair was that, although they looked human enough, the militiamen were not human. They were extra-human. So too was the machine which, from its goopy fluids, was sentient.It was an EH species which they were using to capture and feed one to. It seemed that the machine-like EHs were, in fact, in control of the militia-type EHs rather than the reverse.
It seemed more creature than a vehicle and, somehow, this was what I was supposed to be put in when captured. These two Black men, who were guarding the house and who let me know that they were guarding the house, were saying,“Aha! Now we’ve caught you.”You know, I thought about it and there was just no way that I was going to let them capture me.‘I’ve got to get away,’ I thought.At the time, one of them was taking a pee – both these men were Black. They were quite casual about having caught me. They apparently were going to get their supervisor who would take care of me.
The supervisor came and he looked like the guy from Trinidad who had worked as a chef at the Underground Railroad Restaurant when, long ago, I worked there. He did, at least, seem like that man.This man, who was their supervisor, was also Black. He had the semblance, the air about him, of that chef but he did not so much look a great deal like him. He was rotund and fairly light-complected.He lived in the house. Rather, he did not live in the house but he was staying in the house as a caretaker. I thought,‘I’m not going to be captured. I’m not going to be caught. I can disguise myself.’
I immediately started accelerating my energies and, as a result, I was able to transform myself. As I upped my frequency, I heard an increase in the universal hum.I looked down at the backs of both my outstretched hands, keenly observing the intense sunlight react to my skin in a glowing sizzling manner, until my aura intensified and became visible about my body.My aura’s light grew brighter as my skin actually glowed with increasing intensity. It continued until the skin, throughout my entire body, was indistinguishable from the rest of the intense morning sunlight. When they went down the hill and came back with the guy, I was standing there right in front of the house. It was this particular, large wooden house.
It wasn’t large, for being a bungalow, but the door was large. This house was definitely not part of the landscape in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. As I looked on, the guards came bearing the portly gentleman.I was aware from the way he – the supervisor, Zen sage – was talking that he was aware that I was there. Perhaps, he could see me but the other two – the militant guardsmen – couldn’t see me.I realised what I had done: I had made myself light so that I blended in with the landscape and couldn’t be seen. I had rendered myself invisible!
I then decided that I could further transform myself. Next, I made myself into this little white piece of what seemed like string. However, it was more like nylon. It was like shiny waxed dental floss.Such that half way there was a loop in it, it was tied in a knot. It was doubled on itself so that it was, I would guess, three to five inches long at the most.I obviously was astrally projected to another world where, rather lucidly, I was dreaming and interacting with extra-humans. The dental floss-like string was the cord of light which keeps one’s astral body connected, to the waking state body, when astral-projected during sleep.
Immediately, the caretaker guy took the cord – the wax-like cord – which was my transformed-dreamer self in his hand. It was my astral body’s cord which was left rendered visible whilst I remained invisible.He began giving the two guardsmen a walk-through of the house in which only he should have been. It was a house that was no longer lived in. It was wooden all about and very organic.It was a house that allowed for natural light to pour in. There was a skylight. The house was low in the sense that it was dug in. The house was built such that it was somewhat half-buried below the surface. In that way, it was kept cool because it was partly below-ground. All about, on either side, as you walked in every part of this beautiful, sprawling bungalow were every manner of cactus.
These were cacti that were shaped like trees that had leaves. Absolutely stunning and incredible, they enlivened the house throughout.He gave me a tour of the place with the two guardsmen, who could not see me, in tow. As he walked them back to the front door he said,“So you see, he really couldn’t be here. You go off and look for him.”He tossed me or what was my representation – the wax-looking string or my astral body’s umbilical-like cord of light – from his right hand sending it through a doorway of the house. He then went about his business and showed them to the door and got rid of them.At this point, I rematerialised back to my regular dreamer self in this dream and I was able to let on to him that I knew that he knew of my being invisible. So I called him, on another phone in the house, and I remained absolutely silent.I then telepathically shared my thoughts with him. I inferred that I knew that he was aware that I was present in the house though invisible to most. Of course, he knew that I was there but he was just not going to acknowledge my being friendly with him.The fact is that he knew that I was in trouble. He was just trying, out of the goodness of his heart, to help me out. However, he wasn’t going to befriend me or anything like that.
So anyway, on my own I began exploring this beautiful, beautiful labyrinth-like bungalow. The walls of it were wooden. It was a reddish wood like redwoods normally look. It had a shiny hue to it because it was polished.I was talking about it to someone, later on in the dream, and it was in fact the same guy – the caretaker – who had accompanied me at one point. I said it seemed like it was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and he said,“No. Not really…”It seemed like it but it was a different style altogether; however, it was more or less like Frank Lloyd Wright. Seriously though, it was a totally different style.So I went about exploring the place. I went in this one room that was clearly a bedroom. I opened the door and went in – it was a glass door. I went in and on the left were shelves.
There were tiny, tiny, little cacti in pots and some of them were large and some of them were blooming. They were heliotropically craning over to one side.This place had been abandoned for quite some time. However, all the cacti in the place had managed to grow quite large. They were big, bulbous, beautiful and wonderfully lifelike.The spread to the bed was turned down and discarded. It had been left just as when last used by the owner. There was a bulldog; it was not a live one but a statue of a bulldog.This person had a great deal of style and was quite successful. I realised that the owner, the former occupant, was Black. I saw the face and I can’t say that I can recall the face but, somehow, I got the impression that the face was a face of mine if you like.
It was interesting because when I saw the face that is basically the information that I got from looking at the face in the photo. There was a tiny time-faded photograph of a face. It was of a Black man.This was the sense that I got from it, that it was me, in fact.There were beautiful trousers about. As well, there was a large armoire with tons and tons of beautiful, silk robes that I had worn in that life.They were worn around the house by the former occupant. There were, on the bed, some clothes. Too, there was a table beside the bed.Everything in this bungalow was very organic: the bed was very organic, the desk was and even the fixtures were very organic. As well, the cloth was very organic – by organic, I mean that it wasn’t inanimate.
It was organic because it was lifelike. More than that, it was organic because it was breathing. That’s why it had lived so long because it was quite some time since last occupied by the owner.However, it was very much so still alive. The sheet and bedding, on the bed, were woollen and greyish-coloured.The only reason why I had entered the room, in the first place, was I wanted to roam – to see if there were any signs of underwear… there was. There was tons of underwear on the shelves behind me.I wanted to check and sniff his underwear, to see if he had masturbated.
Anyway, when I got into the room, that little adventure had totally evaporated. For having seen the photograph, if you like I was quite interested in exploring the place and getting to refamiliarise myself with the place.The bedroom was just absolutely beautiful. Off to the left, rather behind the shelves and straight ahead, was the closet and the bed was to the right of the door.
Down this long hallway that was sky-lit were the tables and tables of clothing. There was a door past the shelves, on the left, and it looked into more and more clothes.I then came out of there and I went about exploring all over. This time, I went to explore all the cacti in the place. There were tons and tons of them.Shortly thereafter, I was joined by Carl Leroiderien, Merlin and someone else who seemed like Mario of Paris – Mario D’Agostino, however, it wasn’t him.I had a sense of Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny being about and Carl Leroiderien had seemed like a custodian of the place. Carl was a caretaker or curator of the sprawling bungalow which now seemed like an historic site.When he was excitedly walking everyone through the place, to show them the place, he was referring to the owner. I was there but, again, none of these people had any awareness that I was there – not even Merlin.
He was sort of filling them in on who the owner was. From what I could see, Carl was doing a good job of it.There were cacti that were tall. There were also red ones. There was one cactus that was tall and it had needles on it. It had large, large leaves and two or three leaves like those of a royal palm’s.Most of it was like a palm tree but it was like a breadfruit leaf or some sort of leaf like a maple leaf – albeit an extra large maple leaf. It was, however, cactus.Everywhere there were plants on either side of the skylight hallways. The bungalow was a series of long halls that were all connected and veered off in different directions.
However, it was a house that had basically become a living garden such that it was organic. The cacti truly were the lungs of the house. The air was really nice and it was cool.The humans were able to live with the cacti because it was a totally self-sustainable dwelling. As the light came in heliotropically sustaining the various cacti species, it added breath, depth and dimension to the space thereby making it equally organic.Too, because it was partially submerged belowground, there was a lot of moisture from underground that kept these plants alive. The cacti were quite happy and they had grown so beautifully.It was as if they were bonsai cacti. It was quite incredible how they were all over the place throughout the house.
Then I went down some steps to another open area of the bungalow. Again, there were more cacti. We moved off and came to an area where Carl said,“Oh let’s go downstairs, I can show you the basement. You can see all these wonderful things.”When you looked out the skylight area, it was of the street, the pathway into what would seem Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. So I immediately was afraid to be seen yet I was assured by Carl as he stilled my nerves telepathically saying,‘Oh, it’s okay… it’s okay.’I was concerned about the people, who lived across the street, reporting me to the militia-types. There was bamboo, organic bamboo if you like, that was made into a fence.It seemed like the backyard of what was the neighbour’s house and they weren’t there. I was told it was quite safe that it was okay. The neighbours weren’t there to squeal on me.
Before you went down the steps, into this other area, there were all these beautiful, beautiful organic works that are quite common in the Orient. For example there were many objets d’art.These were objets d’art which were beautiful temples and totems. They were all made from the ivory of elephants’ tusks. It was all beautifully detailed and in miniature – all the miniature designs were made of ivory.That was the sort of stuff. This particular objet d’art was large. It was square-shaped so that it wasn’t like an elephant’s tusk. More like an obelisk, if you like, it was.They were more so little temples. They were shrines and Greek temples if you like. What was truly fascinating was how incredibly detailed they were though scaled down versions of the real architectural gems.
We moved on and now we came to an area that had nothing but wares. There were lots of baskets everywhere because this was where the ornaments were kept. They were all stored therein.Carl was the caretaker of these things. He was quite familiar with every item and, again, there were bamboo basket-like wares and objets d’art.I was told that this was, in fact, like a wine cooler. It was so delicately and intricately made. Also, the item was collapsible. It could open. The objet d’art was like a valise and it could open up.Merlin went and opened it and was prying into it. It had two African skulls or heads on it and it was quite beautifully detailed as a matter of fact.
We then moved on and came into the downstairs area. This place was like a cellar. Somehow, copious rays of sunlight made it to this part of the sprawling, multi-levelled bungalow.Even though we were further underground yet, somehow, the sunlight came in. However, I soon realised that it wasn’t sunlight. It was just this light that was white and somewhat diffuse.It was quite soft and nice to the touch. Among the many stored wares, there was something that had a white bamboo-like coil. This thing had a piece of string attached to it with two yellow sticks or shoots like chopsticks.
You could insert it and it was, in fact, quite sexual. The Mario D’Agostino character immediately grabbed it up. Whilst simulating sexual play, he was playing around with it.He was making noises filled with sexual innuendo and then said,“Umm, get undressed and put it on your cock because that’s what it’s made for.”Oh he was so happy to perform and went off to try on the item.
*Here now, some further comments set in the dream in the beautiful house. Here, the atmosphere in this house was one of serenity and it was a reflection of that particular life that one had led whence the proprietor was Black.Tall and very erudite, he seemed a man of the world. He was well-travelled. He loved beautiful music and he had a collection of things in his bedroom that were totems from his travels.He was obviously tall because there were lots of khaki and white summer pants which all gave a sense of his height. When I had first entered into the room, there was also a rack that I had bumped into.I hadn’t noticed it because it was suspended from the ceiling. It was racked with leather suspenders and an enormous collection of belts: broad belts, narrow belts, as well, skinny belts.
There were all kinds of beautiful belts. They were very expensive and they were also very organic and ancient. They weren’t brand new any of them.It was all a reflection of the person’s spirit. You never met the person but you knew the person through the house. It was beautiful and wonderfully planned out.The sprawling, organic bungalow was so multidimensional; it went off in all these directions and avenues because that was who this person was in that lifetime. In a box to call home, he was not contained or restrained.The organic house constantly veered off. It had many apartments and veered off and had many cul de sacs. There were areas where he could go and be removed from all the other areas yet be surrounded by plants.
At all times, he was surrounded by life itself and it was healthy… quite nice.Whilst at the restaurant having the lentil-looking soup, the reason for the extra-tall, obvious extra-human being impatient with me was more subtle than one may assume. With their sophisticated proboscis, it is safe to assume that smell was the most developed of this extra-human race’s senses rather than sight as is the case for we humans.Likely, there was something very off-putting to my pheromone makeup which left the seated extra-human uncomfortable. I don’t think that it was a matter of my race, Black, but my species, Earthly human, which made the über-poilu, blond extra-human uncomfortable.
As I was in his home world, he naturally felt put upon for having the unfavourable aspects of my pheromones anywhere near him. At the end of the day, he was an incarnate ensouled fragment who is one of seven soul types and with the same selection of overleaves as any Earthly human. Any Earthly human would have similarly responded to having someone of outré pheromone and species in their midst.
A very serene dream it remarkablywas. END.
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
For 70 years Queen Elizabeth II has ruled with an iron fist and bullied her family’s every generation. The only persons not so bullied are the third generation after her. She bullied her sister, simply because women are programmed to bully, mistrust and go to war against each other. Most of all, Elizabeth now gratefully departed, can no longer be feared and the truth of who she has always been: insecure, vengeful, manipulative, can, with callous candour, be discussed.
HRH Princess Margaret, Countess Snowdon was infinitely more talented and beautiful than her. In the second Elizabethan age women fared miserably once in the orbit of this insecure, compromised Queen. Every woman who came within her orbit at the Court of St. James, was rapaciously preyed on and rendered spent… ravaged… spayed. Margaret was more talented and more beautiful and why should be able to take her lover, Captain Peter Townsend? For openly, intimately touching Captain Townsend at HM The Queen’s coronation, ‘her,’ coronation was enough to cause the young Queen Elizabeth II to canter and overrun Margaret until she was captured and fully spayed. Margaret would never be allowed to have her true love after that. She was left to live a life of debauchery and very slow immolation of spirit, thanks to a mere woman having offended Queen Elizabeth II, the Victorian misogynist.
Elizabeth’s stubbornness was forged by a domineering mother, HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother and paternal grandmother, HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort, who was even more intransigent in her steely, stubbornness. Queen Elizabeth II was brought up, nurtured by a mother who had been groomed by Queen Mary, whose psyche was that of the 19th century European royalty, who saw themselves god-anointed to rule over the world’s inferior, unsightly masses. Elizabeth was groomed by Queen Mary, who died less than three months before Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation on June 2, 1953.
More than anything, after the disaster of King Edward VIII’s abdication, all that mattered to both HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort and HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Consort was that HM King George VI’s heir was groomed to be as unwaveringly conservative as possible. HM King George VI was a weak man whom his mother and wife readily manipulated. The cannibalising monster that HM Queen Elizabeth II became was forged in the manipulations and 19th century perspectives of HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort and HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Consort.
Exotic and glamorous, Wallis apart from being a divorcée was also an American. Unlike aristocratic English families from the colonial eras, the Windsors did not to have this American marry in when they were wealthiest of all in the land. However, a threat she most certainly was. Groomed was HRH Princess Elizabeth of York to loathe Wallis and she was keenly instructed in the way Wallis had to be treated if the Royals were to retain their exclusivity and air of thorough Britishness, sensitive as they already were of their German heritage. Both HM Queen Mary, King Mother and Elizabeth, HRH Duchess of York deeply resented Wallis Simpson and saw her as nothing more than a loose woman, who could never be Queen Consort. That is why on becoming HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Consort, both Queens saw to it that Wallis and Edward VIII were banished from the kingdom; they used the compromised HM King George VI to send Wallis and her shadow off to Bahamas as Governor. Of course, as they were permanently banned, long after HM Queen Mary, King Mother died in 1953, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother and Queen Elizabeth II saw to it that Edward VIII and Wallis stayed ostracised, slowly withering away in France To the very end, Edward VIII (1972) & Wallis (1986) remained ever spayed and neutered by the Victorian misogynists: HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother and Queen Elizabeth II.
Of course, it does go without saying that intergenerational troika, this Victorian hydra sat atop the slithering head of the original misogynist, HM Queen Victoria. She was too consumed with empire and ruling, subjugating the heathen peoples of the Dark Continent and beyond, enslaved or otherwise. She really had little time to plot and scheme as her descendant troika whose intergenerational bond cemented the Victorian misogynist ethos, which became perfectly and skilfully realised in Queen Elizabeth II. HM Queen Victoria had no connections to HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother and Queen Elizabeth II but they were ably groomed by HM Queen Mary, King Mother who, of course, knew and had far better relations with HM Queen Victoria than HM Queen Alexandra, Queen Consort of HM King Edward VII.
HM Queen Alexandra had little time or use for HM Queen Victoria. She would have found Queen Victoria maudlin and to be avoided at all costs. With an energy body of 1, HM Queen Alexandra had more than enough to handle with the Prince of Wales, her husband, the future HM King Edward VII. Too, it was a cultural divide that could never be bridged. For her part, Alexandra knew to stay clear of HM Queen Victoria as she would have found her mother-in-law’s energy body of 6 a energy sap. To that end, she busied herself with horses, which HM Victoria protested – all the more reason to ride to the hounds, her burgeoning brood and a husband who was a womanising handful. HM Queen Mary like HM Queen Victoria was a Rabbit and thus would have avoided Queen Alexandra as much as the latter avoided Queen Victoria. To that end, Queen Mary found favour in Queen Victoria and toadied up and morphed into Victoria’s favoured. Where she did not have good relations with Mary, she was comforted in her senior years of having Mary’s constancy and doting to count on. Mary modelled herself on Queen Victoria and therein were rooted the Victorian misogynist.
Of course, with King Edward VII’s womanising, came Alice Keppel whose more successful courtesan descendant would cannibalise her competition, Diana, Princess of Wales, to eventually be crowned HM Camilla, Queen Consort. HM Queen Mary wanted to purge the monarchy of the licentiousness that had flowered for almost a decade after HM Queen Victoria’s death. If anyone was capable of righting the moral compass of the Victoria Age, it was HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort. The 15 years left to HM Queen Alexandra, King Mother’s life were passed being shunned and eclipsed by HM Queen Mary knew her to have been disfavoured by HM Queen Victoria. Also, HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort had not time for HM Queen Alexandra, King Mother as the latter was physically incapacity as a result of one of her pregnancies and this HM Queen Mary born in the year of the Rabbit would have shunned and found decidedly unroyal.
Though HM Queen Mary may well have been no reanimation of Queen Victoria’s persona, she certainly modelled herself after Victoria in her bid to remove all semblance of the libertine decade brought on by HM King Edward VII’s reign. HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Consort was thoroughly groomed by Queen Mary and as such, HM Queen Elizabeth II was groomed by both her mum and paternal grandmother.
Though this may be the start of the second Carolean age, it still is chiefly the continuation of the Second Victorian Age, begun by HM Queen Mary, Queen Consort, through her devotees, HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Consort, through Queen Elizabeth II and her son HM King Charles III, who in turn had been well-groomed by HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother.
There certainly are perks to being king. From the beefy equerry to the convenient living arrangements.
Talk about Diana’s revenge. Why share a home with that when you have got the finest cut in the land? It is, indeed, good to be King.
Having thoroughly dispensed with HM Queen Alexandra King Mother, HM Queen Mary King Mother, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother and Queen Elizabeth II for almost the next century would rule the second Victorian age with just about every woman who joined or were on the periphery of the Court of St. James, fast becoming yet another spayed Windsor wife. HM Queen Alexandra, Wallis, Duchess of Windsor, HRH Princess Margaret, Countess Snowdon in true Victorian fashion, denied having her true love close at hand with Captain Peter Townsend shipped off to Belgium. Diana, Princess of Wales would not conform; she was expected to be the corseted ideal conformist Princess of Wales of the second Victorian age. She couldn’t… she wouldn’t and it came at a price to her. Thus she was literally cannibalised by the Victorian misogynists embodied by HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother and her daughter, much favoured by HM Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth II.
Diana, Princess of Wales, of course, was disruptive. The role she played in the second Victorian age, was to be the deluge which would so disrupt the status quo that she would end up breaking the dam and unleash the flooding tide of the Age of Aquarius as we move violently away from the Age of Capricorn, which the United Kingdom more embodied than any other nation. Diana, Princess of Wales was the very antithesis of the second Victorian age woman; Queen Mary would never have approved. She was too headstrong, too much indeed, like HM Queen Alexandra, King Mother.
For that troika of Victorian misogynists, HM Queen Mary, King Mother, HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother and Queen Elizabeth II, Diana, Princess of Wales was easily preyed on. She was not a starchy Capricornian icon; she was filled with wanderlust, adventure, compassion and possessed of that most bizarre quality for the Victorian misogynist, idealism. The EIIR was ruthlessly pragmatic and a consummate realist. She did not care nor give a damn about the little people; however, she knew history and she knew that she had to have them eating out of the palms of her hand rather than telling them to go eat cake. With that hat, bag, shoes, brooch, gloves and the right beguiling smile, her persona was in place and out the doors she went to keep the little people in their place, fawningly obedient and worshipful. Modern, easy, breezy, Aquarian Icon, Diana, Princess of Wales was a threat of the highest order to the cossetted, fixity of the Second Victorian Age ruled over by the Capricornian misogynist that troika of Queens who ruled over weak, compromised men and strong women whom they readily hunted, preyed and destroyed if they so much as betrayed signs of modernity, openness and change.
They knew Camilla Shand was a mistress and though she had been with child, she was therefore readily malleable, easily controlled and used as they saw fit. You give up the lovechild and in time, if you keep your damn yap shut, you will be handsomely provided for. Well, can you imagine the old camera-scorned’s luck, Diana, Princess of Wales conveniently meets a violent end and voilà before you can wipe arse, there is she, sans doily mind you, being fawned over, though, the slithering Carolean rat keeps her locked away at Ray Mill. How’s that for revenge; certainly not for Diana, Princess of Wales. Truthfully for Diana, Princess of Wales’ supporters focussed here and now, it is divine justice that HM Camilla Queen Consort never gets her lover in the end. This is a life expired and put to rest, about which Diana, Princess of Wales’ soul could care less.
Just look at this woman in action; how she managed not to have been devoured by HM Queen Elizabeth II and the men in suits (courtiers) is a testament of her power over them with the seismic secret and power she levelled over their heads. Just imagine if Meghan, Duchess of Sussex were to have behaved like that when touring a commonwealth nation and openly ridiculed its culture?
If that were not bad enough, after having flown from London, HM King Charles III and HM Camilla, Queen Consort were met by dignitaries at Edinburgh airport. HM King Charles III deplaned first, followed seconds later by Camilla. HM King Charles III spent little time interacting with Scottish First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, who when she tried engaging Camilla overlong, the Queen Consort simply abandoned the welcoming party and took to sit in the Rolls Royce where she remained for over a minutes, whilst Charles continued greeting the dignitaries. It was a rude affair and on taking to the car, HM King Charles III simply walked past Camilla, sat and exchanged words with her. Never mind Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales would never in a million years have done that, regardless how much she hisses at HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales in public.
Born a blood princess, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal naturally escapes all hyper-scrutiny and is never tossed to the Fleet Street abattoirs. I would not be surprised if this woman were not a warrior soul. The monarchy is at the apex of a military complex. Anne as a Tiger woman, like her late mother Queen Elizabeth II is squarely focussed in her duty to the crown, which is supported and protected by the military in its every manifestation. She is solid and all about defending the flame.
The evolution of Catherine has been unique and thus most interesting to observe. I never thought that she should have ever worn her hair down, which she did at the start of her duties as a senior royal, to all three military occasions on the calendar: St. Patrick’s Day and distributing shamrocks and the photo call with the Irish Guards, trooping the colour and Remembrance’s Parade at the Cenotaph in White Hall. On becoming mother, and future King Mother, Catherine’s style changed dramatically and thereafter, it was always hair gathered up at those three important rites in the military calendar.
What Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales should never ever once have done, was given ammunition to her detractors, who are a real power faction, the courtiers. Her open intimacy with Ben Ainslie, her open perpetual rowing with HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales, her husband, have been serious misjudgements on her part. Should the day ever dawn that William, regrettably, decides he has had enough and asks for a divorce, the most aggressive attack on Catherine will come from courtiers. No matter what, the Sovereign is to whom the courtiers are in service and the thousands of royal householders and courtiers will viciously commence a feeding frenzy on Catherine; being broadsided like that would be a most rude awakening for her. At such an eventuality, she would be as irrelevant to them as Diana, Princess of Wales proved on her divorce from HM King Charles III. They do not care; their jobs are more important than who is the Sovereign or heir’s wife – that Diana, Princess of Wales’ expulsion made perfectly clear. Sadly, Catherine did not reflect on this and realise that she could suffer a similar fate for giving her dormant detractors, the courtiers, ample ammunition with which to work.
In due course, when it pleases both William and the courtiers/persons in grey, Catherine will find herself being fed on as if by famished piranhas; they will be vicious and merciless – that is, in the event of an eventual separation and divorce of two Princes and Princesses of Wales in say 50 years. The Queen certainly kept a trained eye on all Windsor wives just as keenly as she did her gee-gees; she never dare touch Catherine as she is William’s task companion with infinitely more powerful Michael Overleaves than either Queen Elizabeth II or HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales.
I always remember that Christmas at Sandringham when attending church, Sarah, Duchess of York wore a blue turban with a crown-less broad-brimmed, grey-white hat. As seen on TV, she was larking about and displaying behaviour that is not within the tenets of the the second Victorian age’s misogynists. At the time, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother was still alive and of course, the Queen and her decisions are both decisive and merciless. Sarah’s numbers can be summed up by the song sung at the end of the musical, Spamalot “Always look on the bright side of life.” Just keep chipperly plugging away and somewhere over the next hill will be Valhalla. Spayed, where the hell was Sarah to run off to? Besides, as we now know, they wanted her kept within the grounds of Windsor Castle because they knew damn well that she was controlled there than being off to America, running her damn mouth.
What an absolute crock of shit. An utter sham at trying to boldly lie before the world. Perhaps, the idiots of the island kingdom will buy it but no one else is either obliged or have to tolerate this insult to intellect. Queen Elizabeth II is damn well storming out of a meeting, in which a blasted American commoner told her to remove her garter gown. Of course, anyone conversant with the layout of Windsor Castle would know that she was not headed to the photo shoot but storming from the photo sitting to her quarters. “How dare she damn well speak to me like that?” Human civilisation does not comprise over 8 thousand worlds scattered across 5, 863 star systems; rather, it is but one world in one star system. There are no damn secrets and there are two things that never lie: facts and a camera. I know someone who lived and worked for years in London as a commonwealth diplomat, who on numerous occasions met with The Queen. Over dinner one night, this diplomat dismissed The Queen as “crass, cheap and absolutely nobody.” This person, based on social status in their commonwealth country, only ever callously speaks the truth.
In a mere twenty-four hours, The Queen had the narrative changed and was obsequiously afforded grovelling apologies. Just imagine, The Queen has always had the ability to call off the dogs, whether it is with Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex or Sarah, Duchess of York. What that episode with Annie Liebowitz reveals, is that The Queen willingly allowed the Fleet Street abattoirs to feed on female members, chiefly wives, of the monarchy to maintain control over and abuse of these women, the wives of Windsor. It is the most insidious form of misogyny imaginable; these women for not being in the Victorian mould were possibly recruited so that the misogyny and abuse of strong independent women could be engaged and fostered. Indeed, it is as if a history of ritual abuse of women was actively engaged in across the span of the second Victorian age.
Just like that, a simple silhouette, no royal pearl necklace. No jewellery… nothing. Just her effortless elegance, that foundation of African melanin and numerology, which attest to the fact that the camera is more besotted with her than anyone else in the Windsor dynasty. Just by being there, she was the most photographed and best dressed. Most of all, just by being there, she had won. Meghan, truth be told, was pissing on old pepper mouth’s grave. Meghan proved the one strong woman who was not felled by the Victorian misogynist, Queen Elizabeth II. Though HM The Queen and the courtiers have succeeded in perpetuating the racist notion, via the Fleet Street abattoirs, that Meghan is the angry Black woman until the day that they address the blackamoor brooch incident who really cares?
Do not for a nanosecond buy into the lie that The Queen and the rest of the Court of St. James would have you believe, Diana, Princess of Wales was not crazy. Diana, Princess of Wales was one of the shrewdest women to have wedded into the House of Windsor. She was feared and most of all, they knew that she knew her power. That Victorian misogynist, Queen Elizabeth II, empowered by her mother HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother, made the smothering spaying of Diana, once she had performed her royal duty as child-bearer, their number one objective. There is positively no way that The Queen was going to give Diana, Princess of Wales a divorce settlement that would allow her to live a comfortable life. She was being fed to the dogs and told to go make your way, after all, Jacqueline Kennedy did it. Go find yourself a billionaire! Smarter than the lot of them, Diana went out and got herself a Muslim with whom she would start a rival dynasty after having converted in due course. Trust an artisan soul (Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex) to take the fight to her enemies.
What chance in hell did Meghan, Duchess of Sussex have, when already the Court of St. James had dealt with her kind before, in the form of Diana, Princess of Wales, and convincingly dispensed with her with vulgar finality? Just look at the way TRH Prince & Princess of Wales are looking at Meghan as though she were easy prey. Throughout, Meghan looked on edge, utterly uncomfortable. This was all for the Waleses’ benefit and no one else, of that Meghan was fully aware. To be fair, HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales did pick up the phone and call his brother, Prince Harry inviting him and his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex to join him and Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales on the walkabout at Windsor Castle’s long walk. William did not need HM King Charles III’s permission and he certainly did not care what the courtiers would possibly think.
Now HM King Charles III has decided that if TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are good little banished problems then he just might afford their children royal titles, which is their birth right. What in essence the King is implying, is that there is a strong likelihood that the Sussex children will not be afforded titles. So though they are legitimately royal born children, just like Alexandre Grimaldi-Coste, Prince Albert II of Monaco’s lovechild, the fact that Alexandre has a Black mother was reason to decree that Alexandre would never be in the line of succession or be afforded royal titles.
Louis Ducruet, Princess Stephanie’s son and Alexandre’s cousin, on the eve of the former’s wedding with Alexandre’s step-sister, Jazmin Grimaldi, who is also of illegitimate birth by a Caucasian American. You are not good enough to be royal or engage in royal engagements because you are born of a Black woman that it all it means. Of course, the Belgian royals fully accepted as one of their own, an illegitimate daughter who was found to be genetically one of their prince’s children.
Prince Albert II of Monaco with his South African-born wife, Princess Charlene, who clearly sticks around to collect her $10m annually before having her lawyers announce divorce proceedings, is a keen reminder of how racism saturates all of European society. Clearly, Princess Charlene cannot abide being trapped a nanosecond longer than is possible. What sweet revenge for Diana, Princess of Wales not only is HM Camilla, Queen Consort having to sleep alone at Ray Mill whilst King Charles III is at Highgrove, most definitely not alone – seriously, do you really think that Ivar Mountbatten is the only queer in the House of Windsor?
As the final photograph of The Queen callously betrays, at the end of the day, she had become without her hat, handbag, brooch, pearl necklace, gloves and that perfected self-deprecating smile a study of the spent Victorian misogynist. Stripped, she was as if the Wizard of Oz exposed. She spent her life projecting the image of the great unifier, building a legacy of commonwealth inclusivity and togetherness with her willing to bet £35m on the creation of the Sussexes, an interracial couple whom as BBC’s Anita Rani stated on their wedding day, ‘we like her as she can look a little bit Indian…”
As these two episodes with HM King Charles III illustrate, this is not someone who gives a damn about what Americans or Blacks think. They all know that HRH Princess Michael of Kent was being racially harassing of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex by wearing the blackamoor brooch, yet they dug in their heels and had a hissy fit about these ‘stinking’ Americans, ‘stinking’ Black-Americans being so ridiculously obsessed with race. Meghan and Harry complaining about Princess Blackamoor’s racist attack, HM King Charles III, HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales, HRH Philip, Duke of Edinburgh and The Queen would have reacted precisely as Charles behaved about a mere pen, its placement and or functionality.
That blasted flat-arsed racist woman, Princess Blackamoor ought never to have set foot within spitting distance of the Sussexes at their wedding; however, as a form of protest, there was sat her fetid flat arse at St. George’s Chapel on May 19, 2018. After the platinum jubilee coup where Princess Blackamoor was sat even better than the Wessexes, now that The Queen has crawled into her casket, sans crown, shadow and spitefully malignant ego, that racist, Eurotrash, reptilian hybrid was no where to be found sat ahead of the Sussexes at The Queen’s funeral at Westminster Abbey or St. George’s Chapel Windsor.
One evening when living in Cabbagetown, Merlin had friends over for dinner; they were a smart professional couple from the U. S. west coast – they thankfully were not theatre folk. He was a banker and she, formerly an actor, was now a psychoanalyst. I always remember her talk on fame based on her professional observations. Fame said she, was worse than being a drug addict or alcoholic. Her perceptions were revolutionary. According to her, once famous one was straitjacketed into a life of fixity where the known and accepted persona could little change. Regardless how the famous person’s persona actually resembled one’s true nature or not, you were relegated to living a life that ultimately as you aged, you would grow to resent. She used the example of famous film actors being unable to stay in the game as the camera’s vulgarity dispensed with them.
I remember at the time, she used HM The Queen as a prime example of someone who was locked into being ‘the queen’ and that’s that. Well as her cancer consumed her from within, there were signs that all the years of being the penultimate Victorian misogynist, were exacting its toll on her. Indeed, such persons said Merlin’s actor friend turned psychoanalyst were always the most embittered towards the end of their lives as they, in essence, had never been free. Even when at Balmoral being one of the people as the locals eulogised The Queen, it was still never her true self. That’s a lot of energy, a lot of Maya. All that spaying of royal women who threatened the Victorian misogynist’s beau idéal and all of them: Princess Margaret, Queen Alexandra, HM Camilla Queen Consort, Sarah, Duchess of York, Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex were fed to the Fleet Street abattoirs and excruciatingly spayed. Yet, Diana, Princess of Wales, Sarah, Duchess of York and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex fought back. HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex was neutered, his military honours stripped because The Queen was being vindictive in the extreme. For that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex fought back and relocated away from the kingdom without the Victorian misogynist having any access to their children.
Why indeed should Archie and Lilibet be subjected to racism from the royals or courtiers when The Queen, HM King Charles III and HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales made it perfectly clear that they are not a racist family? Indeed, Prince William may well be right but the courtiers are another matter. They rule and they do by way of leaking everything and targeting those they do not approve of; from Diana, Princess of Wales, Sarah, Duchess of York to most definitely Harry and Meghan. All that Victorian misogyny for having lived long enough, was with karma’s irreverence undone. Courtiers are ruled by the number 9. They are archly conservative, discriminating, scheming, dangerous and the very heart of deception, betrayal and intrigues. These people will be the first to start squawking on the death of The Queen, the second Victorian age’s misogynist.
They will character assassinate the Sussexes far and wide but never once will they be heard to discuss the blackamoor brooch incident. Truth is, they would have been wildly celebratory at the blackamoor brooch incident. Courtiers are advisers and as such, senior palace/royal household staffers with long seniority. They are also minor royals and the relations/descendants of minor royals from prior sovereigns’ reigns. They are not going anywhere. The leaks come from them and they would have been given license to racially harass Meghan, Duchess of Sussex once newly engaged Meghan joined the family. There has not been and never will be an investigation into the racial harassment that Meghan suffered at the hands of Princess Blackamoor and all the other courtiers scattered across all royal households.
Never will these royal sycophants divulge the dirt they know about the Sovereign or its direct heirs; this is why HM King Charles III and his equerry, William and Rose and Catherine and Ben will never be discussed or leaked to the Fleet Street abattoirs.
What these courtiers do not realise is that they reveal themselves in the post funeral attack on Meghan as having been the ones referred to by Meghan, Duchess of Sussex during the Oprah interview in 2021 as denying her doing anything or affording her the help that she sought when struggling during her mental crisis. Do keep in mind that Catherine may well have made Meghan cry because at the time, William had been having an affair with Rose Rocksavage during Catherine’s pregnancy with HRH Prince Louis of Wales.
Indeed, what the courtiers do not realise, is what a horrible, racist light in which they present the House of Windsor. It it extremely important to keep in mind that senior members of the House of Windsor may very well themselves not be anti-Black racists but certainly, Princess Blackamoor and her open racist attack has thusly tarred and feathered them. That is damage which has precipitated many predominantly Black commonwealth nations to begin the process of removing the Sovereign as their head of state.
All the pain and abuse that Victorian misogynist The Queen had inflicted was returned her way. As she tried to spay an American, a Black American, along came another American, Virginia Giuffre, holding her to ransom, in essence, because she – though the Governor of the Church of England – had a lovechild, HRH Prince Andrew Duke of York, with Lord Porchester. Indeed, Diana vanquished for having been felled by the last of the Victorian misogynists, was ultimately avenged as Harry accepted the £35m wedding then left the kingdom with Black American bride, Meghan Duchess of Sussex, thereby putting an end to The Queen’s disingenuous bid at sustaining her commonwealth legacy with the Brown and Black peoples throughout the commonwealth. How fitting that the last photograph of The Queen had her standing, broken, aided by a walking stick whilst a roaring fire triumphantly danced to her rear.
What does it really matter? HM King Charles III may or may not issue letters patent, thereby affording Archie and Lilibet the titles of Prince and Princess. Honest to god, the Sussexes are doing just fine. Conveniently, the Victorian misogynist, The Queen, consumed herself after a decades-long campaign of spaying and even murdering Windsor wives. How can anyone lay blame at Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s door when Sarah, Duchess of York and Diana, Princess of Wales had been equally spayed and ravaged? One of the reasons why it has been especially hard for Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, is that for having lived a life of ‘passing’ she radically transitioned overnight to being the most racially preyed on Black woman in history and that cannot be easy. Obviously, The Queen cannot be said to have had no part in any of these campaigns, especially so when each Windsor wife was subjected to campaigns that were alarmingly similar in tone and execution.
The Sussexes got fabulous material for the Netflix docuseries with the death and state funeral of The Queen. The Sussexes don’t need the Windsors, just look at them, HM King Charles masquerading with that beard of his, who seems blissfully unaware that sporting invisible doilies does not, in the slightest, lessen the fright. Now, HM King Charles III no more desires her than he did Diana, Princess of Wales at the start of their wedding; too busy him spending quality time with his equerry.
Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales, bless her, was the only one who escaped the Victorian misogynist archetype’s rapacious talons, which reigned for near a century through three queens. Though she certainly displayed that misogyny with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, it certainly would be good if she were to lay to rest that voracious misogynist archetype that has plagued the Queens of Windsor and terrorised the wives of Windsor. Only time will tell. In the meantime, she will go on being headstrong and holding her own against pugnaciously stubborn HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales. Theirs will be the gap generation reign where either the second Victorian age ruled by the misogynist archetype finally concludes and the House of Windsor moves into the age of Aquarius or it does not and that would be regrettable. Then again, if not Catherine, HRH Prince George of Wales does possess a fourth number of 5, which looks to be one part libertine and nine parts scandals all around – that auspiciously is an Aquarian archetype if ever there was one.
History is a respecter of no one. History, indeed, will not be kind to Queen Elizabeth II. She embodied the Victorian misogynist to perfection. This was an approach that was fostered by HM Queen Mary, King Mother, who then groomed both her impressionable daughter-in-law, HM Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother and her favoured granddaughter, Queen Elizabeth II. The second Victorian age will hopefully be well and truly concluded with the passing of Queen Elizabeth II. The emotional and mental wreckage that this Queen effected in the lives of the wives of Windsor can not be overstated. Truth be told, she was, in the true Victorian sense, the anti-feminist Queen. Women who were not in direct line of succession to the throne, simply did not matter to MLK Queen Elizabeth II. As a matter of fact, I would even go so far as to state that not since the reign of HM King Henry VIII did royal wives, Tudor wives, fare so badly as the wives of Windsor. HRH Princess Margaret, Countess Snowdon, Camilla Shand-Parker-Bowles, HM Queen Consort, Diana, Princess of Wales, Sarah, Duchess of York and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. They were all bullied, abused and even murdered, forced out by divorce or banishment by way of the Fleet Street abattoirs with the tacit consent and machinations of the courtiers and Queen Elizabeth II herself.
With her passing, the end of the saturnian, militarised, warring age of Capricorn passes within the British monarchy; though the transition will be chaotic, here’s hoping that the transition to the age of Aquarius within the British monarchy well and truly marks the end of the misogynistic second Victorian age.
Mere days after having relocated to Vancouver on a job transfer, I bumped into Ken, very late at night at the Club Vancouver bathhouse. Our spirits purred on rekindling positive past-life associations. Of course, he wanted to know if I would like to join him at his place, his lover was there, and thus began a magical relationship with two very beautiful souls. The drive through Stanley Park lazily drifted from bucolic and then into what proved the most magical journey to the top of Sentinel Hill. There their glass-walled living area, for sitting highest on the hill, gave a commanding view of Stanley Park beyond Lion’s Gate Bridge, the West End and the rest of Vancouver. At the time, I was staying at the funky Niagara Hotel a block away on the same street as the Club Vancouver on West Pender Street.
Readily, I accepted their offer, after a night of wanton passion and exquisite pleasure. I was having very bad luck in scoring a place that I wanted. I would call up and make appointments and finally on presenting, not having sounded a thing like I looked, Black, the place had just suddenly been rented out. I wanted to live in the West End and nowhere else. Finally, Les, Ken’s remarkably handsome of spirit lover found me a place when posing as my partner and getting the place into which we would be living, chiefly myself. The things one has to do at times to get by in what is supposed to be a civilised world. In the meantime, I spent almost three weeks living with them and it was both memorable and pleasurable.
Though they wanted me to live with them and take over their basement, which was the back of the house on the slope that made it anything but a basement, I declined the offer. I had moved out to Vancouver with my art collection and had had my home in storage since months after Merlin’s passing in November, 1989. I needed to breathe, to grow, to have my own space and walk about in open capes, naked in a pair of six-inch, black patent leather stilettos whilst listening and singing along to either Jazz or opera. Though, I moved out, I spent most free weekends with them, going for long hikes in North Vancouver’s foothills, walking around the seawall in Stanley Park, making dinners together and most of all, having great threesomes to the most glorious music.
Where Ken was soft, warm and laid back, Les was though diminutive, a towering force of nature. His was laughter that I had never nor since encountered. It was truly operatic and like great music, it was possessed of positively no bile or hostility. Les’s laughter was a pure, unfiltered distillation of his beauty of spirit. Learned and fluent in multiple languages, apart from being the chief librarian at UBC, University of British Columbia, he was also of note in Vancouver’s choral societies. Always there was great music, creating the just-so magical ambiance in their divine home. Nowhere in the universe was more harmoniously zen than a dinner party at Les and Ken’s Sentinel Hill home in November, when it had been raining almost imperceptibly for the last 3 to 6 days as is often the case in autumn. At such times, there would be mist rising off the crowns of Stanley Park’s stately Sitkas as autumn set in and winter was never going to be no less than 10 degrees Celsius.
Les knew a wealth of persons and many from Vancouver’s well-heeled Gay community; they were all music lovers. On Sunday mornings, after we had been in bed a tangle of arms, tongues and legs doing what wanton sinners do best, we would go for a hike in North Vancouver’s foothills. Ken and Les always said hello to everyone encountered on their walks. This one Sunday morning, there was a very handsome, dark-haired man, taller than Ken and me, who was ruggedly handsome in spades. As it was obvious that the attraction was mutual, he leaned in and kissed me then invited himself to dinner later; nothing is ever more sexy than confidence.
Pedro became a casual sexual partner; for one thing, he was legendarily hung like the famed Rubirosa if not more so and the girth on that bad boy… Lord Jesus. We saw each other whenever he happened to be in town. He had expat South Africans from Cape town, who lived on the Sunshine Coast to the west of West Vancouver whom he visited from time to time and another couple who lived in the British Properties; most definitely, that meant that I was neither invited along nor could give two fucks about being in the presence of such blasted dreck.
As I was then living in my own apartment in the West End, we would get together whenever he was in town and phoned wanting hot mansex as he liked calling it. His watch was the first time that I had seen a Panerai and loved it and he always smelled good; dark piercing eyes were free of guile as he forged into his late 50s with a sexual stamina foreign to most men 30 years his junior. Once after intense fucking, we talked afterwards and remarking about aspects of his colouring, I asked him how many people ever asked or even knew that he was of Black blood. According to him, no one ever had before though he shared that his maternal grandfather was light-skinned Black Brazilian with one of the many names that attest to Brazilian colourism.
That grandfather had been the result of a love affair of a local doctor and the family had gone to great lengths to protect his Black heritage and it was facilitated by his having been an only child. The fact that I had broached the subject had left him always calling whenever he was in town. He also found it widely fascinating that each time that he slept over that I awoke, grabbed a tape-recorder and began bringing forth my dreams; Pedro shared that it was a gift that his mother had and was always convinced that it came from her maternal grandfather’s bloodlines.
In late July, 1997, I was packing up my West End home with days to spare before moving to Montréal. At the time, Pedro and I sat around on the floor, propped up against boxes and trucks, looking at CNN as the funeral and all the circus around Gianni Versace’s murder unfolded over a couple of weeks. Pedro was talking about how dangerous persons like Andrew Cunanan, Gianni’s murderer, were. He thought that it was bad news to not stick within a tight circle of known and trusted friends and lovers. In any event, at the time, we were watching reports of Gianni’s funeral when Pedro began speaking of Diana, Princess of Wales. According to him, she was secretly seeing a very wealthy Arab and Muslim and it was likely that they would marry. The only thing, at the time, I remember about the names that he mentioned, was Khashoggi; apparently, whoever Diana was seeing, was the nephew of Adnan Khashoggi’s and his father was an obvious billionaire. Pedro said that not only would they be married but Diana, would definitely convert to Islam and bare him children as a way to get back at the royal family. Said he, they had deliberately given her a divorce settlement that was way less than she ought to have received. He said it was because The Queen was both cheap and spiteful.
This left Diana, Princess of Wales in a position, much like Jacqueline Kennedy, Pedro stated, of having to marry for money to maintain the lifetime to which she ought to be kept, much as Jacqueline marrying Aristotle Onassis. Pedro thought that The Queen was a vile, nasty person. Then Pedro said, sadly for Diana, they will never let her get away with it and definitely not twice. When asked what he meant by twice, said he, Diana realising that Charles did not love her and was with Camilla, had an affair with the King of Spain and it resulted in her firstborn not being fathered by Charles. They will sooner kill her than have her marry a Muslim, convert to Islam and set up a rival dynasty. Diana is daring enough… but also stupid enough, said he.
Exactly a week later, after watching the funeral with Pedro in my Haro Street, West End apartment, I was on a plane flying to Montréal and almost spat out my tea when the clown behind me requested of the attendant, “de thé, s’il te plait?” The male attended curtly shot back, “du thé, Madame…” Four years later, I was returned to Vancouver, chiefly to buy Haida art, attend pow wows, see Ken and Les and of course my oldest friend, who lives in Victoria and who in an illustrious past life was the painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck. It goes without saying, there were long nights of reckless abandon spent in Stanley Park, the world’s largest bathhouse au bois, getting lewdly carnal – as I had with Pedro; many were the times I found him there, not realising that he was in town. After having made some good art purchases, I spent time with Ken: Les was away at the time of my visit. When we dined one evening as I spent three days at their new North Vancouver condo and I mentioned how strange it was that just about everything that Pedro had said about Diana, Princess of Wales a month before her passing, was eerily almost prescient.
Ken told me that was because Pedro was the lovechild of a Spanish duke with a South American actress and he had also, for years, been the lover of another Spanish duke. Ken assured me if anyone would know high society gossip, it would most definitely be Pedro; also, said Ken, Pedro knows and always speaks the truth of high society goings on. Ken confirmed that Pedro had shared that Prince William was not fathered by Charles but King Juan Carlos, adding if anyone ought to know, it would be the very well-placed lover of a relative of the King’s. As we dined on a cold soup and the most exquisitely prepared salmon, Ken was a sublime cook, Ken said, ‘Of course, she was murdered. Diana, did not take her enemies as seriously as obviously they took the threat of her. Nothing will ever come of it. She was put down by The Queen and who is going to prosecute The Queen. “Precisely,” I replied. Ken, of course, I would learn from his lover, Les, when we first met was of Polish nobility and it showed in spades. Ken was not a snob but he was well-bred as West Indians say; more than that, after dinner Ken and I took to bed and he performed magic better than most. Holding his head in place, I writhed facedown in the pillow as Ken’s tongue feverishly kept pace with my twerking, pleasured arse.
Actions filmed betray the truth, every time… Just look at that blasted clueless man! There is not a sage soul who has ever incarnated, who would not have gotten into that carriage and stood there, open his chest, raise his chin and gallantly extend his gloved hand to his new bride and duchess, future Queen Consort, future King Mother then sit after she was sat. Instead, we get blissfully self-absorbed, selfish, totally unaware and conceited as all fuck, Bastard Bourbon Billy, sitting with his back to the horses, then not only does he completely ignore his new bride and sit, barely helping her in, but he keeps pushing her dress off his uniform when she was finally sat. Never once did he think to stand up and assist, welcome his wife into the carriage. And just remember, he is sixth mature, all persons living sixth mature lives are ever bereft of drama all of their own creation thanks to their self-karmic issues for one.
Just look at this woman, born with coalmining soot lining her lungs, which explains her addiction to cigarette-smoking, openly shunning a Black woman. This occurred during her first royal tour to a predominantly Black commonwealth nation, the first in her nearly twelve years of marriage. Lord only knows, it would not have happened if she and her racially predatory husband had not driven his brother and his Black wife out of the monarchy; they would have been tasked to undertake those utterly detestable tours to the wretched, overpopulated dirty people regions of the commonwealth. She recoils by flicking her hair and standing back when the Jamaican minister of sport reaches out to take her hand. She then defensively holds her hands together and actually pulls back her hands rather than take the cabinet minister’s hand. Catherine then reluctantly saves face, and still holds her fingers together, thereby allowing the forthright minister to take her left forearm. Next, she shoves her held left forearm at the cabinet minister when wrestling her arm away from the otiose, undesirable, Black thing’s sullied hand. None of this racist bigotry, as you can well imagine, was once mentioned, discussed, and afforded multiple articles by the vile British tabloid press.
Numbers never ever lie. Catherine’s energy body is 9. She would not be her bigoted self if she had not reacted that way to the Black Jamaican cabinet minister. Protocol my arse! You do not see her behaving that way towards Jews and she certainly didn’t stand there at the Buckingham Palace garden party and hold on to her umbrella with both hands whilst grinning her disingenuous, fuck you, fake-as-all-hell smile at ‘them.’
Just look at these blasted ninny goats; how quickly they fall into line and like the media hacks in North Korea, whatever BBB (Bastard Bourbon Billy) decrees when going nuclear, they readily change tune and do as commanded. His reign will be a nasty business, scandal-saturated to the gills, what with that fourth number of 5. If that woman, who seems incapable of reading the room and sensibly taken leave with Philip, were to live to be 106 years, which is not impossible, by then Charles will have long passed without having acceded and at age 50, you can damn well bet Bastard Bourbon Billy would gladly eliminate her and justify it as revenge for his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, having been murdered by her. It is what royals do, what royals have always done. Needless to say, the somnambulant of the island realm would never question the obvious, as most definitely they did not at Diana’s assassination; instead they audaciously claimed that Prince Philip and the MI6 were the ones who had Diana murdered and not HM The Queen.
Just look at them: Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan, speaking truth about Princess Michael of Kent, at the announcement of Harry and Meghan’s engagement in November, 2017, which would come to pass as she stepped out wearing the blackamoor brooch the following month, yet there was no investigation into allegations of racism within the royal family or royal households.
Princess Michael of Kent wearing the blackamoor brooch is no less racist than if she had turned up that Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace in blackface. Somehow, these fools the world over would like you to believe that there was nothing racist about the brooch and once again, Blacks are being overly sensitive and paranoid. When it pleases HM The Queen to act that she does, as when she tore her arse in the kingdom’s face and insisted that her lovechild, Andrew, escort her into Westminster Abbey at the service of thanksgiving for the life of the Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh.
So in a bid to kill the hot rumour of Billy going next-door for the real honey pot, the same blasted media sycophants who sang Meghan’s praises on the announcement of the engagement in 2017, Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan and others, course-corrected and were let loose on Meghan, Princess Henry of Wales by none other than William with the tacit agreement of HM The Queen. Naturally, The Queen would go along with the media smear of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as all Sovereigns are above reproach and should never ever be sullied by British tabloid media; besides, HM The Queen had her own reasons.
Well off to the pound with you, BBB (Bastard Bourbon Billy) for raiding the Savage Rock chick inn. And wouldn’t you know it, just like his Bourbon father, Billy goes off and breeds with another man’s wife. That precisely is why he has been made to relocate to Adelaide ‘Dog Pound’ Cottage with only one of his two daughters in tow. Some consolation that; Bastard Bourbon Billy was not allowed to ditch the family embarrassment, Damien, for the Bastard Princess of Norfolk.
Who pray tell the fuck are you, to go pulling away from the hand of the Jamaican Minister of Sport and you think there is nothing for it? Soot-lunged arriviste! At the end of the day, we all shit and piss and crawl into a casket, by whatever means ours or someone’s doing. That said, you don’t like Black please, please go lie your tired arse on a beach somewhere in the Sun, get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket. Ever, I will be most fuck-all indefatigable in my support and defence of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and her family: Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Archie Harrison, Lilibet-Diana and Doria Ragland.
Not that she could give a rat’s arse, for there she was for all the world to see, being Big Ben Ainslie’s yacht girl. Whether being a goddamn bigot with the Jamaican minister of sport or openly flirting with the knighted yachtsman, she knows damn well that just like with Meghan, she will never be held to task for her conduct. After all, Meghan has been reduced to the most ridiculed, reviled, hated fugitive from justice for having had the temerity for marrying Diana, Princess of Wales’ son. To illuminate Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s words as she articulated during her interview with Orpah: if you love Catherine, you don’t have to hate me and if you love me, you don’t have to hate her. Well, sadly, that is not how the White tribe’s collective psyche works. There always must be a threat to defend oneself against and there is always an evil in the world, which never ever could be oneself, regardless what the empirical evidence indicates.
To paraphrase Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, if you love Diana, Princess of Wales, you don’t have to hate William and Catherine; conversely, if you truly love Diana, Princess of Wales, you don’t have to hate Harry and Meghan.
Meghan has now emerged as the most reviled, hated and lied about woman in human history. The fact that she is Black is no coincidence and certainly, the fact that she had the audacity to call Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a liar on Oprah, along with all her other enablers, was the declaration of war. Thus far, myopic British media have no awareness that their reach is not total in America and at the end of the day, when Meghan does speak her truth, very few Americans are going to want to countenance a royal family and Britons whom they damn well dispensed with 246 years ago.
Every day, there is another story, in which these venal arse-wipes… every single last one of them, go on bleating on and on about Meghan, telling every lie imaginable and inciting anti-Black racism, go on and on and blasted motherfucking on, making a liar, failure, clown of both Meghan and Harry. Fuck every last one of you. The easiest thing to do on this planet, is to tell a lie on someone Black. As ever, one will be believed and there will most certainly never be any repercussions for doing so. If there was ever a single possibility of finding oneself “Rushied,” every one of these snake-bellied bigots would never once move their hideous lizard lips to say a single word against Meghan… and Harry.
Honest to fucking god, what is little flat-arsed, soot-lunged, adulterer going to say that she is not racist and she never made Meghan cry? Yeah, right… just like she never refused to shake hands with some blasted bipedal simian bitch in Jamaica. Sooner or later, every dog will not only lick itself but will also eat its vomit and never ever, should you be either shocked or surprised by that. It is in the nature of dogs to do so, just as it is in the nature of far too many Whites to hate, lie and vilify Blacks for positively no fucking reason. Of course, they will ever say they have nothing to do with slavery and may even glibly apologise in their best insincere “fuck you, get over it” banter as when William did just that in Jamaica and again at the unveiling of the Windrush sculpture at Waterloo Station. It means absolutely nothing when you know that this is the same dolt who had the temerity to protest, the day after the Oprah interview aired, claiming, “We are very much not a racist family.” Seriously, were it not for the subjugation of Chinese and Indians and the gross enslavement of Black Africans, Britons today would be no better off that miserably poor-as-fuck Albanians.
A strong woman walks and does more than survive, she damn-well thrives. Most definitely, she does not keep breeding, to keep an adulterous man and thereby end up with superfreak numero un, Damien, that’s who. That’s right, Karma does not lie. You no more want to be near the ailing Queen by moving to Adelaide Cottage, than does The Queen want your fake arse anywhere near her. You are both equally treacherous and despise each other in equal measure, the world has long seen this and even before Meghan appeared on the scene.
As that blasted island kingdom is clearly overrun by semi-feral hyenas en chaleur, it has long become evident to anyone not obsequiously rimming the royals’ collective arse that the predators have moved from fox hunting to nigger hunting with fever-pitched intensity; when is being racially predatory not sport for Whites who choose to be so focussed and engaged? Everyone of these pretentious boors are ever ready to gnarl and bark at Meghan. Just look at that god fugly oxygen thief, talking shit about why give them (Meghan and Harry) oxygen? How about you crawl the fuck in your casket. People talk and all she ever was for many a Hollywood moon, was just another casting couch whore. Don’t recall her having received an Oscar. She has been more jizzed on than a urinal cake in Penn Station during cruisy evening rush hour. Let’s make it perfectly fucking clear, any jackass and his shadow is ever ready to openly hate Blacks, please know that we are not all prepared to sit by idly and suffer your hideous arse or bullshit. If for a nanosecond people do not think that this constant open animus against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is not racially motivated and, more importantly, that it does not affect the lives of Blacks going about their daily business, you are truly not focussed in this reality. Rimming Warren Beatty like a drunken manwhore at a bathhouse and where pray tell the fuck were you in Shampoo or Heaven Can Wait That’s right, just another cumrag at a Hollywood circle jerk. All that pouting and vamping for just as many decades as Liz and it never got you a blasted Oscar. Just like Princess Blackamoor, both raising your rabid rear right leg and whizzing par-fucking-tout. Please just stop with the BS about Diana told you when exiting Harry’s Bar that she just had lunch with the most boring king in Europe; either you know bugger all or it was another attempt at throwing shade. Either way, what does it matter, your you-know-what smells like a crate of rotten oranges and your shadow is beyond bored, having to suffer you being a fugitive from your casket 1.5 decades and counting. Go on, take a clue from Lilibet, stop stealing oxygen and crawl the fuck in your casket. Not a single goddamn acting award because there are no awards for casting couch whores and a damn Golden Globe has as much cache as a frigging BAFTA.
This woman got her arse booted from an American talk-show where all she ever did was cuss off Meghan in her typically racially predatory, poseur Toff British bully persona. Just won’t do. For one, one of her co-hosts was Julie Chen Moonvez, whose husband, Les Moonvez was the CEO of CBS. These things matter and the whole culture of Americans associated with showbiz, though both Moonvez were no longer associated with the show and network by the time of Osborne’s departure, it still had an impact. The fact is, Sharon and Ozzy became social pariahs as Americans simply have no countenance for Britons playing holier than thou and treating Americans like crap.
Yet another displaced otiose Briton, Cara Delevingne squatting in America as though either welcome and doing nothing more than taking jobs from Americans. Just look at this blasted crack whore and you can bet your bottom dollar for not being Black, she has managed never to have had a run in with the local constabulary.
I began writing this blog as the 25th anniversary of Diana, Princess of Wales assassination approached and because it had me revisit that time leading up to her death, when I was relocating from Vancouver to Montréal in late July, 1997. I also wanted to address the unrelenting, racially predatory hunt of Meghan from all quarters and watching Vanessa Feltz that smug sow, who seems so pleased as muddied swine that she was getting Black cock that she just couldn’t help turning her racial hatred in Meghan’s direction. First of all, no honey, fucking a nigger makes you a goddamn nigger; in case you’ve not noticed niggers and Blacks have nothing in common but what would you know? As if? There is not enough money on this planet to pay a Black man to piss on you… blasted sow. Thankfully, Holly Willoughby took her to task as she sat her fat, flat arse all over Meghan’s name. Her mea culpa of sorts occurred days later as she broke into the most transparent display of crocodile tears as she announced on-air the passing of HM The Queen. Nigger please! The other trigger was that washed up casting cough whore spewing off; how ungrateful are this ever burgeoning ghetto of Brits in Hollywood that one then has to be reminded of their stinking racial animus towards Blacks when the casket fugitive mouths off.
Here’s is the link to a dream of HM The Queen’s passing on the eve of HM King Charles III’s birthday in 2021. With The Queen’s passing, especially so after HM King Charles III’s speech to the kingdom, you could sense that there was a deep vibrational shift begun within the realm.
With The Queen’s long overdue departure, things can now open up and with Catherine and William now becoming Prince and Princess of Wales, they don’t need any longer to feel the gross insecurity and prejudice that saw them run to the Fleet Street abattoirs and have Meghan slaughtered at the tabloid altars. Some strange white voodoo that… but it damn well works that’s for frigging sure.
The Grand Canal With Santa Maria della Salute Looking East Towards the Bacino
Oil on Canvas
50 x 80
Provenance: Royal Collection Trust, St. James’s Palace
Will you just get a load of that Canaletto in St. James’s Palace throne room? Phenomenal!
As HM King Charles III made it clear, Harry and Meghan are focussed overseas. So please by all means, now that you are Prince and Princess of Wales with just as fractious a marriage as Charles and Diana’s were, please do shine and show the world what megastars you are as you are, after all, royal rather than celebrities. Get out there and show the world your uneclipsed love; maturing into expected titles is not a sign of a successful marriage. William will always cheat and as Diana and her adultery were outed in a get-back by Charles, don’t expect Catherine’s whoring with Ben to be touched with a titanium javelin anytime soon. That’s the really sad part because thanks to the iron-fisted reign of Elizabeth over the family rather than firm, Windsor men sadly are all castrati in varying degrees.
I do believe that had HM The Queen exited the stage long ago, likely before Meghan’s arrival on the scene, ‘Megxit’ would have turned out differently or simply not have eventualised. As it is, yet again, here was another example of The Queen turning her back and not giving a damn, stubbornly she even dug in her heels as if to protest the claim of racism against Princess Michael of Kent by deliberately having her attend the Sussexes wedding and this after having Angela Kelly, snubbing Meghan for a tiara fitting. Then on their return to court for the Jubilee celebrations, Princess Blackamoor was sat close to the former Prince and Princess of Wales (Charles & Camilla) and the current Prince and Princess of Wales, (William and Catherine). Go on, go run up and down the planet, grinning your best “fuck you, die” smile with HM King Charles III, serving as new peace envoy.
As the seating at St. Paul’s Cathedral during the Platinum Jubilee revealed, it was all about HM The Queen’s stubbornness. She saw nothing wrong in what HRH Princess Michael of Kent did in wearing the blackamoor brooch to her Christmas lunch in December, 2017. As far as The Queen saw it, Meghan was offensively ungrateful. £35m spent on the Sussexes’ wedding and an expectation of conducting the overseas commonwealth tours that the then Cambridges had no desire of undertaking. Look at Catherine, HRH Princess of Wales in the preceding video. She turns around, sees where the Sussexes are sat and says wow, which was a comment on the stern impertinence of HM The Queen.
Do not ever underestimate the power of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and her astute awareness of her power. Her appearance on Oprah was all strategy. Meghan plays the long game. When she mentioned the threat of the slimmed down monarchy and Archie and Lilibet not being afforded their HRH status when The Queen passes and the Prince of Wales becomes HM King Charles III, it was an implicit threat. Meghan at any time has the right and can and will reveal what really went down that precipitated their departure and this the monarchy fears more than anything else. As long as the tabloid media keep braying and vilifying her and Harry, only steels her resolves.
Meghan had to mention that as it was a threat to the family and Sovereign. If HM The Queen were to pass after Charles, which has not transpired, Meghan was making it clear that she fully expected William would never afford her children this honour. Also, should Charles survive his mother, there was no way that he would want the devastation of Meghan going nuclear with her truth and not the lies proffered by the media on the HM The Queen and Cambridges’ behalf. Well, Charles is king and her children are now HRH Prince Archie of Sussex and HRH Princess Lilibet Diana of Sussex, the first royal princess of the UK born in America.
So just as I was wrapping up this blog as it is well into September, the car pulled up at the Cambridge Gates at Windsor Castle and out stepped TRH Prince & Princess of Wales accompanied by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex. Naturally, Camilla Tominey who broke the story back in November, 2018 of Meghan having made Catherine cry, which began the white-hot opening of Nigger hunting season, was called on by News 9, Australia to comment on the Wales, Sussex Windsor Castle, long walk walkabout.
HM The Queen has died and now a new era, a course correction is begun.
I rather love this commentary by ITV’s Chris Ship and company. They have always been deferential and professional in their coverage of the Sussexes.
At the end of the day, this reunion and public display of entente cordiale could not have occurred whilst HM The Queen lived because she was damn set on avenging herself of Meghan, whom she perceived as truly ungrateful. Meghan took a stance and was right to have done so. There is positively no way that royal householders were not being racially predatory towards Meghan as Princess Blackamoor gave them license to be openly racist towards Meghan. Fact of the matter is, when you have wronged someone, it bears heavily on your conscience and it is never the wronged person who makes an overture seeking resolution and restitution of your integrity, which had been violated. William texted Harry because William and his team fed the Sussexes to the Fleet Street abattoirs to protect the former Cambridges’ marital scandals. It was a betrayal and has mightily upset Harry as much as it has because he was wronged. She is an American. She is Black and they will all of them, household staffers, be rude towards here. Even Angela Kelly was in no way reprimanded by HM The Queen when she did not show for a tiara fitting with Meghan during build-up to royal wedding in May, 2018.
This is HM The Queen rudely dismissing the then Duke & Duchess of Cambridge because she damn well felt like it. Obviously, neither the then, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales could have acted as they wished, along with the then Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, with regards to the Sussexes, as long as The Queen was being punishingly cruel towards the Sussexes. I always thought it odd how, despite outward appearances both Harry & Meghan spoke rather highly of The Queen. Whatever HM The Queen was during her prime, at the time of Meghan’s marriage into the family/firm, The Queen was older, stubborn and likely already sick with bone cancer as has been disclosed on her passing. And please don’t blame Meghan for fuck-all anything. When The Queen turned 90 in 2016, she suddenly developed a large sore on one of her shins; it was a going concern for just about everyone. That clearly was an early sign of her cancer, which was long before Meghan appeared on the scene.
This Lucian Freud oil on canvas perfectly encapsulates HM The Queen. All the world’s a stage and the longer you stay onstage without properly reading the room, you soon turn Icarus and lose altitude. Soon or later, if you stay too long in any game, you end up looking like Wayne Newton and just as clueless. Old, grasping and cancerous, Elizabeth was less patient to keep up the façade of the sweet, little old lady with the heart of gold – I never bought it. Nonetheless, when you are damn cheap as all hell, look what pittance Diana, Princess of Wales was afforded in her divorce settlement, you are going to be really pissed when you spend £35m on a goddamn bride only to have her runaway within two years. Indeed, you are going to be pretty damn pissed, and feed her to the Fleet Street abattoirs, you damn well will. Truth be told, in the parlance of the deposed, buffoon Semite, Meghan proved the most expensive prize paid for a slave, who then turned around and ran away in under two years. Goddamn it, that kind of money, Elizabeth can justify spending on the gee-gees but damn well not a bloody slave. Meghan was bought to work the Pickaninny circuit of the predominantly Black commonwealth nations – heaven only knows the 9-centric former Cambridges now Waleses were intent on doing no such thing.
The Queen racked with cancer then showed her hand by having Princess Blackamoor sat close to Charles & Camilla, William & Catherine and ahead of the former Wessexes now Duke & Duchess of Edinburgh. Indeed, there were the Duke & Duchess of Sussex sat directly ahead of Major Jonathan Thompson, The Queen’s equerry as spy or whatever, who temptingly kilted is now HM King Charles’s equerry – oh what savoury tea this. Just look at the racial predatory hyena in the blue pillbox hat, ain’t nothing like the height of Nigger hunting season… vraiment.
Not only were the Sussexes booed at St. Paul’s Cathedral in June, 2022 but it was tough watching Meghan being denied by the locals along the long walk at Windsor Castle on September 10, 2022; they refused to either acknowledge her or shake her hand. Then the most incredible thing occurred, Amelka asked Meghan for a hug and stated after to media that she wanted the Duchess to know that she was welcome in the United Kingdom.
Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s parting so long to his Commander-in-Chief.
Well Darling Elizabeth, look at that, you proved human after all and crawl into your casket you most damn well have. Well, guess what, you already conceded defeat by the spiteful seating and walk of shame at St. Paul’s Cathedral at the Platinum Jubilee thanksgiving service, which cancer and or cowardice had you miss out on, as Harry and Meghan were sat as they were and that was that… all that over £35m. Of well, guess what, Meghan won and will be sat at Westminster Abbey, on Monday, September 19, 2022, alive and thriving.
Well, you fail to adapt and move with the times and before you know it, audience admiration fast turns to ridicule. No! It was not just a damn brooch, for crying out loud, it was a racist attack. To have done nothing, was to have condoned both Princess Blackamoor’s actions and that of the royal householders. Where was the investigation into racism from minor royals and royal household staffers?As is obvious, Rihanna was not amused by the blackamoor scandal and the way it was unsatisfactorily addressed and just like that, you, Elizabeth were removed as constitutional monarch of Barbados. Indeed, you were not the only Queen.
Gerald Clayton in Concert July, 2021
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Here we have an artisan soul, bringing the light and fabulousness. There is likely a good dash of priest soul energy somewhere in his casting. I was delighted to have discovered this rare beauteous soul. Definitely, he gets my vote for best-dressed male at Met Gala, 2022 – number one of ten.
The executive looks especially refined in a white halter, topped with clipped, ruffled floor-length skirt by Azzedine Alaia.
August, inordinately handsome couple of notable heritage.
Kaia looks and seems like a warrior soul – mature soul cycle possibly.
Understated and dignified. Madam First Lady’s jewel-toned gown is elegant and unfussy.
Ms. Lee’s gown is perfect; her legs are revealed yet partially concealed and without a slit, there is no chance of her feet being photographed sickled in.
This is a very beautiful dress; very elegant and tastefully executed. The dress must make the most beautiful music as she glides along. Wonderful.
Camila’s matte gold sheath is a complex design. What is especially winning is the pair of flesh-toned gloves.
Like Precious Lee, Chloe Bailey has thick thighs; however, Precious was styled to perfection. Nothing about her look aesthetically misses the mark.
From the highs of being Bridgerton’s heartthrob to disappearing into the oblivion of TV car commercials.
90s American model, looking effortlessly chic in golden vintage Azzaro.
Smartly attired rapper; I love the lapel detailing. With legs on show, it would have been more appropriate to have worn a kilt or male skirt.
No idea of this artist’s range. I do, though, know that his attire is by no stretch of the gilded age.
Formerly of NASA, the dashing renaissance man also has impeccable tastes. Definitely one of the top 3 best-dressed men at the Met Gala, 2022. Without doubt, he has my vote as the third best-dressed.
Naomi Campbell remains the most dominant, dignified supermodel. The ingenuity of the Burberry logo incorporated into the gown works beautifully.
Bella’s bejewelled left ankle seems as though a foot still planted in the gilded age. The lace and leather bustier are a modern interpretation on the gilded age.
In her on-air interview with La La Anthony, who along with Vanessa Hudgens and Hamish Bowles hosted Vogue’s streaming red carpet arrivals, this performer proved embarrassingly unaware among other things.
As with Naomi’s gown, Lila’s sheer gown is also bejewelled with Burberry’s horse logo.
Supermodel mum, Kate with daughter Lila whose modelling has successfully launched.
The other Queen to be dressed by Burberry, Wagon’s still got it as the song proclaims and as is plainly obvious. Stunning.
I don’t know about the gilded age but if you are going to be bound and stuffed into a gilded cage, your every fantasy would be realised on having leather-clad Irina Shayk predatorily stride in, famished and ready to have her way with you…
Looking like a bearded reanimation of Frida Kahlo, as my musical tastes do not stray beyond Jazz and classical, I have no idea the state of his music.
Coming on strong is young Mr. Jacob Elodi; he is central casting’s bid to cash in on the millions of screaming little Beliebers as they grew away for the Canadian pop star. Tall, dark and handsome.
Conventionally, he is the best dressed; however, he comes in number two, as Frederik Robertsson visionary presentation/performance was unsurpassed. Everything about Stormzy and his debonair style has winner written all over. White on white on white complements his beautiful complexion.
The hair swept up, elongating the neck, the jewellery, the clutch, the appropriately placed roses and that lovely smile. Indeed, the lady graciously captures the gilded age.
The lovely Tessa Thompson is a vision of soft cherry blossom pinks in a delightful ode to the gilded age. Incidentally, as pitting women against each other is one of the many insidious ways that sexism thrives within the culture, unlike the men, I will elect not to declare a best dressed female.
The gold touches and opera glasses are winning odes to the gilded age… to be sure.
Feathery wisps below the knees, though evocative of the Jazz age, we will nonetheless take it. Beautiful colour combination.
Light, airy, delicate and a modern ode to the gilded age wonderfully executed.
Dame Anna Wintour, November 3, 1949, year of the Ox. 3.5.1 = 9. When you take into account Dame Wintour’s pedigree, an earl and duchess among them, here is someone who has used their numbers not only masterfully but in their most positive expression. 9 in the fourth position is that of the gatekeeper – her aristocratic heritage affords her a confidence that would escape a self-made individual. No one else, save Dame Wintour could have masterfully run Vogue, held it together and been in such an esteemed position of power and for so long save Dame Wintour. 3 in the first position; she thinks before opening her mouth and her word carries much weight; 3 governs the world of intellect, books, publishing and refinement of expression. She is of hybrid heritage as suggested by her mindset, 5, thereby allowing her to be more open to the ‘other’ than say someone who was not of multicultural heritage. Lifepath of 1 simply means that she was born to lead and has staying power of Wellingtonian scope much as the 1st Duke of Wellington. This is a human who is living a life in full and with the greatest mastery of their numbers rather than being ruled by those numbers and thereby expressing the negative manifestations of those numbers. Anyone else wearing a tiara to the Met Gala would be readily dismissed as pretentious, not so Dame Wintour. As ever, her ensemble is understated and elegant.
Sleek, understated as a Chanel man of worth would be.
Always funny and always keeping it real and casually of the gilded age.
A quartet of cool ladies’ interpretation of the gilded age with the help of the house of Chloe.
Like Caroline Trentini, Venus Williams is pitch perfect. Tall, long lean lines; she is perfectly elegant, understated, confident.
Look at that statuesque lady. This Sudanese goddess is in a rarefied class all by herself. She does for that Christian Lacroix dress what no one else could. Stunning!
Ravishing, Alexa is at all times über raffinée. Those shoes are everything.
Normani ought to have worn lacquered, fire-engine red lipstick to set off the outfit; it would make her complexion pop against the monochromatic ensemble.
It’s been a minute since we’ve seen Caroline but she has served up a winning point with this rich maya blue cape.
Sarah Jessica Parker
Sarah’s look proved both historic and as such an homage to the trailblazing work and life of Elizabeth Hobbs Ketchley, whose life did straddle the gilded age. She was a slave who transitioned to working at the White House where she served as a dressmaker to Madam First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of President Abraham Lincoln.
Without doubt, I must acquire this book.
Perhaps, this is how the Harkonnens dressed during the latest gilded age on Giedi Prime in the year 10, 125.
As a large-bodied professional model, Paloma has thorough awareness of the aesthetics of looking good on camera. The bustier gives a flattering presentation of her form and she knows well, as does Precious Lee, that one does not expose thick thighs by way of a side or front slit. Her look is handsomely august.
That neck, that waistline and the hoop skirt create the bustle-like look of the gilded age. Caroline and her performance truly capture the style of Martin Scorsese’s masterful film, Age of Innocence.
Commanding. Handsome and theatrical which is welcome in the gilded age or any other for that matter.
Clean, simple, elegant, though, her hair ought to have been gathered. Clearly, her hair was worn down as a way of detracting from her cleavage.
Look sweetheart, just because your grandmother was the official fart sniffer and second-hand smoke filter for HM The Queen’s notoriously uncouth sister, The Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon, does not give you the right to come pissing all over the Yanks and their perceived quaint culture. No American actor, if that’s what you’re comparably supposed to be, would ever dear show up at the annual Serpentine Summer Party thusly attired. We all know on that frightfully frigid, racist isle of yours, a damn Yank would be ejected from the gathering at once. Nobody wants to be acquainted with your lopsided quail egg boobs. You are fucking ridiculous. Go home. Stay gone and pluck that inbred-looking unibrow; you blasted desperate, no-talent attention whore.
Beautiful feet, lovely smile, great dress and without doubt, unlike the racist Poundland aristo’s, the nacre her pearls are of the highest quality.
Sneakers and a Dior smoking… the gilded age revisited.
Soft, delicate and fluid with beautiful complement of colours and textures. I especially love the shoes; this young man’s is a very elegant, beautiful look.
He would only be better dressed if carrying white gloves and a cane. Handsome in every way; got the memo and dialled it in. This earns Mr. Doherty the fifth spot on the best-dressed list.
Ms. Chen could not look any more lovely or elegant. The lined gloves are ingenious and she’s got great feet.
Can you feel the music that he radiates? Can you feel the love? I sure do. Beautiful human.
A gentleman always wears his white gloves. Very elegantly handsome indeed. Tails, white shoes and tie but, of course, Mr. Elgort clocks in at the tenth position on the best-dressed list.
Classic Fendi highlighted by the hat, bracelet and the most smashing shoes. Handsome and an eclectic winner!
White on white, beautiful. If only one had a good look at the double strand necklace. The mermaid and off-the-shoulder accents beautifully set off by the elegant gloves.
Red feathers delicately perched never looked so good. Beautiful creation.
There is a lot going on here but it all remarkably comes together beneath that beauteous high forehead.
As can be expected, everything is sheer perfection. Not a soft pink feather is out of place.
Coming through, looking like a Na’vi goddess just returned from Pandora; I know truly fierce makeup when I see it.
Great gown and she has sure got moxie.
That is a very elegant brown suit; his vibe is wonderfully laidback.
Beautiful. Stunning as is her personality.
There is so much happening here that her dress seems as though a runaway vine that’s consuming her and everything close by.
Lace catsuit with a dripping effect created beads partout. Very cool.
Sexy. Stylish. Beautiful. Stunning and the outfit only heightens her beauty.
The beautiful, charismatic, palpably in love thespian couple.
He’s definitely got a vibe and it is seriously infectious.
His look is rather 19th century – the beard the defining signature. His style and the ensemble are rather fluid, elegant and decidedly musical.
Why they did not throughout hold hands and passionately French kiss, is a true mystery; to have not done so, made the whole getup flat-footed and insipid.
Silver, black, mauve, metallic and matte; there is a lot going on with this exquisitely elegant dress. The gloves really makes this outfit both a classic and winner. Lovely.
Handsome. Refined. I love a man in a cape and all that monochromatic white on white on white is breathtakingly elegant.
HEAD OF STATE
Like true African royalty, she carries a blond fly whisk. Love the overall effect.
Gilded age, catamite or castrato… take your pick.
Though the colours work beautifully for not being a sculptural creation, this van Herpen comes off as merely conventional.
Classic van Herpen design. Clean architectural lines.
The creative genius in one of her angelic designs. Truly, her designs are uplifting works of art.
21st century human male – spiritually focussed and spreading love and the light fantastic. Top of the list it is, indeed. #bestdresedmale Met Gala 2022.
This is a very beautifully complex design. Remarkably, Phoebe looks like a young Helen Mirren.
Positively love the riot of beautiful blooms on the marvellous cape’s interior. Beautiful hands handsomely framed by frilled sleeves.
By far, this was one of the most beautiful, understated elegant designs at the Met Gala 2022. The gloves like the head scarf and train are touches that come together beautifully, creating one of the evening’s most memorable looks.
Claire Danes & Hugh Dancy
Gilded age or not, this is pure romanticism and glamour. The facial adornment is parfait. Lovely, elegant couple.
Gilded age, Jazz age or Great Gatsby, take your pick. A very beautiful man, wonderfully dressed and love the tie. To all this fluidity and one can only raise a glass and say, ‘Bottoms up!’ Patrick is ninth on the best-dressed list.
One of three hosts of Vogue’s live stream of the Met Gala, 2022 red carpet arrivals, La La’s outfit was strange. One does not wear a fascinator to an evening event. Ladies with thick thighs should always wear a column or mermaid gown, failing that extra wide pants would be wisest. Her exposed hips makes it look as though she is wearing a bath sheet as a wrap with train. I can appreciate her wanting to support a black designer but if I were her and this item showed up, I would have hightailed it to an appropriate boutique and rented a Balmain outfit.Even knee-high boots would have saved the outfit. No way to high heaven was Hamish Bowles going to co-host with Ms. Anthony looking as she was.
Elegant and refined; he is a winner through and through.
Simple and unpretentious. Great legs and lovely feet; her look is ever kaleidoscopic.
African royals’ take on the gilded age set in Zulu territory.
Chole Grace’s look, especially the eyes, bare so distinct a connection to Brooklyn Beckham’s that it would be surprising if they did not have a soul connection.
Lovely skirt, though, I rather suspect that so much midriff would not have been on display during the gilded age.
A pearl choker would handsomely have anchored Phoebe’s look in the gilded age.
Her top is interest, if modern; more than all that, those feet are everything and are nicely set off by the stretch leathery-looking pants.
Absolutely every detail of Ms. Jung’s outfit and élan is pitch perfect. Her stance… everything is utterly flawless.
Unless anticipating immient sea level rise, this hemline missed the gilded age timeline by inches. Truly unbecoming of Ms. Chan to have gotten it so wrong.
Mr. Ghesquière is creative director at Louis Vuitton under whose stewardship, the future looks uneclipsed.
Perhaps because she is expectant; however, little thought seemed to have factored into abiding by the gilded age theme.
Mr. Cooper is way too big a star to be on the best-dressed list. I have always warmed towards this human vibrationally.
Even more details appear in Emma Stone’s chic Louis Vuitton dress as she walks the carpet to this utterly intriguing man’s rear.
And in exciting news, spring follows winter…
Here’s to the many who truly own and enjoy being a woman. Go ahead Eiza!
Sweet, gorgeous, beautiful light and a lady to boot. A truly remarkable gown.
And this is how you own the gilded age!
Beautiful lady, beautiful dress.
One would never expect a professional model to not own it. Stunning woman wearing a stunning outfit.
This glamourous lady always gets it right each time she graces a red carpet.
This may as well be gold leaf, it looks just as magically delicate.
Ever she will be the ageless, fearless, Ripley.
He’s got the best showmanship energy. Wonderful.
Beautiful gold dress with contrasting black detailing. This precisely is what La La Anthony ought to have worn. Just imagine crawling to the top of those stairs then met by the sight of what the Vogue live streaming host was wearing.
Teal to pine-green either way, this is an outstanding costume. I especially love the matching lace up boots. I suspect that the designs on the train are more spectacular in person than they photograph.
Lace and beading on an elegant column dress; nicely dignified young lady; I especially favour the choker.
Got up like that, she may as well be six inches tall. Next!
Mature, elegant and spot-on august. This is a truly ladylike human as she presents for the gilded age. Monochromatic sophistication from head to toe, gloves to clutch. Brilliant.
Soft. Delicate, though, I don’t know how well the flaccid-looking bell sleeves work.
Monochromatic mess. She should be wearing large costume rings on her gloves ruby, emerald, sapphire; further as the dress is one piece in the back, the separate bra serves no point.
Lovely dress but the raccoon eye makeup is too distracting. Lovely blue tonalities.
One of the three Vogue red carpet live stream hosts, Vanessa’s dress is perfection; her legs are on display but discreetly as is appropriate. Hair up and lots of rings as is the current vogue. She is sensational.
Megan Thee Stallion
Don’t call her stallion for nothing. Here is one exception to the don’t wear a side slit dress if you’ve got thick thighs. Megan is next level sexy and she knows it. All that gold to match all that attitude and sex appeal. A hands down winner.
No complaints here… Madam is looking next-level perfect.
Simone’s style is much too casual for the occasion; definitely, not of the gilded age.
Pearls, bustle, pearl choker and plenty of sex appeal for the gilded age or any other.
The newly minted best supporting Oscar winner is as charming as she is eloquent. A winner, to be sure, in any age, gilded or otherwise.
Hands down, sixth best-dressed male. A man in lace leaves me utterly besotted.
Tycoon Jenner decides to give two effs and do as she pleases. Honestly, a baseball cap turned back-to-front? The flouncing skirt is beautiful.
Beautifully stunning man, impeccably dressed; when is velvet not elegant? I do, though, think that the different leg styles do not work; perhaps, it were in a lighter colour. He’s still a winner either way.
Mama sure made some profitable lemonade out of the fin de siècle lemon that was O. J. Simpson… and a sex tape, of course. When is an Oscar de la Renta not exquisitely chic? Certainly, this dress brings back memories of the icon of Olympic proportions, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.
Clean, elegant and understated. Super cool and elegant. Beautiful.
Like Miranda Kerr, Katy has a child with super cool Buddhist actor, Orlando Bloom. That aside, this is the most conventional costume she has worn to the Met Gala. Layered, it is elegant and marginally risqué.
A true amazon in a very big beautiful gown. And what a gorgeous blue dress it is.
Boom! What a joyously vibrant dress. This, without doubt, is one of the most memorable dresses at the Met Gala 2022.
Beautifully golden; however, I do think that this should have been a one-piece outfit.
This woman is too short for all the chaos going on with this gown and that shoelace-looking effect at the bust does not work.
The rather stylish Ashley is beautifully put together. The train works, the feathered skirt with front rather than side slit does work and she also knows how to present her feet – sickled/winged out rather than gauche/pigeon-toed. The bows work and the jewels are beautifully displayed. The white feathers add elegance and pull the eyes from being exclusively focussed on the upper body.
Beautiful sublime wonderfully adorned princess. This is a truly wonderful gown worn by a gorgeous lady.
Denée’s jewellery are exquisite and the dress beautiful. From afar, the wraparound bustle (what is it really) seems not to work; however, up close you discover the blooms in varying degrees of bloom and then the wraparound bustle make sense. For this to have truly worked, the blooms out to have been white – carnations, peonies or roses. Red on red simply does not work.
Everything about this is just wrong. The blooms placed as they are shrink her already short neck. Her thighs too thick for a side slit – the camera adds weight and volume where undesired. Hems too long and precludes walking comfortably. The split train at the shoulders further accentuates the fact that she’s neither tall nor lean – they should be at mid-back to waist; that way, it would elongate the line of the torso. Most of all, apart from the sickled in feet, the colour is too pale, making her appear darker and her eyes more recessed than not. Darker fabric would have had a desirably slimming effect.
The grand dame has arrived. Same designer as Camilla and Mindy but just look at the difference. Again, the shoulders are bare and the train begins at mid-back; it also allows for her jewellery to be best displayed. The colour is warm, enveloping and embraces more when she smiles. A heavy fabric, it also has enough flair at the feet, allowing to kick-step as one does in such gowns. Most of all, it covers up that most important feature, the feet; you can never tell if they are turned out or sickled in, which matters immensely. Just look at the elongation of the lines when Hoyeong Jung poses with her booted working leg extended and turned out. Straight away, the line is long, perfected…. aesthetic.
Now, we come to the statuesque Kiki doing her return turn in a beautiful rose gown, same designer of course. Like Mindy, hers is not an especially long neck but her afro creates a crown-like halo effect thereby creating no umbra to the neckline. Here too, as with Mindy’s, there are blooms; however, here are placed at the gloves and at or below the bosom. With the placement of the blooms on Mindy’s gown, it makes it appear as though her head is submerging into her shoulders. Kiki’s gown has a fluted, thereby allowing her to kick-step and confidently stride. Jewellery is kept to a minimum, allowing both Kiki and the design to shine. As with Mindy, we have no idea if her feet are large and sickle in. You get done up to look your best not to have your great grandkids wonder, ‘what were they thinking?’
The designer, Prabal Gurung, with two smartly dressed clients, Philip Lim & Michelle Yeoh.
Gloved and she even had a large fan which she used to dramatic effect… Delightful to have watched her work the red carpet.
I rather admire this family; here you have six strong powerful women who have made their mark. They could have chosen to be reborn male and been successful; instead, they used the spotlight of the O. J. Simpson trial to step centre stage and took off like greased lightning. They have served as admirable role models in the age of female empowerment. They are all anchored by Kim Kardashian who has master numbers of 11; never under estimate the power of persons with master numbers.
Beautiful beading and wonderful train. Lovely dress.
Talk about survivor; this woman is phenomenally resourceful with incredible staying power. She is truly inspirational.
Feel the love; look at this adorable creative soul weave his magic. The shoes, the cape, the beading and that very alluringly kiss-inducing sternocleidomastoid…
There are conflicting reports which design house this man is wearing. Ether way, it is trop gauche to be stuffing non-straight leg trousers into books.
I can’t see this man playing Elvis Presley; however, Baz Luhrmann certainly thinks so. Incidentally, Elvis is a young soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s as for that matter are Robin Williams and James Baldwin – all three entity mates’ Michael overleaves will be shared at the end of this commentary. .
My, but he has the most beautiful eyes and is possessed of superior style. Kelvin places eighth on the best-dressed list. Kelvin also appears with Austin Butler in the forthcoming Baz Luhrmann Elvis Presley biopic.
The always elegant and sophisticated Janelle working the crowd, her priest soul-looking eyes doing a very good Gloria Swanson turn à la Sunset Boulevard.
Don’t step on my trains! So very good to see Shalom. For me, she was the most exciting model arriving on the scene in the early 90s and she is a Canadian model too. She has that old Hollywood glamour aura about and looks not dissimilar to a young Barbara Amiel. Great red carpet drama.
How appropriate is that cape’s motif. Not since Frank Sinatra’s New York City anthem has a new anthem and by a native New Yorker the insanely creative, Alicia Keys. The music power couple look devastatingly handsome.
Red carpet host and emcee, as ever Hamish Bowles reigns supreme, laurel and all.
A gentleman always wears a white tie and a smile.
Guess who owns every square inch of sexy. Rings, cane, white tie, stache and yeah, that hair too.
His humour like his fame utterly escapes me. C’est la vie.
Suave, engaging and inordinately creative, he is the bringer of light and musical joy. And he has style in spades too; look at that suede jacket.
Work those feet darling. It’s is a barely there dress that celebrates her youth and thriving sexuality in a world where her name is a global grand. She knows and understands her role in the pecking order at present.
This dress work beautifully and the gold does not outdo nor overwhelm the rest of her look. Beautiful.
Trans, drag-king, who knows… more to the point, who fucking cares.
Something about her look, I think that it is the hairstyle, reminds me of Coco Chanel. Black and gold always proves a winning combination. What I really like about this outfit is the gorgeous hemline to the tulle; certainly a dress like hers or Chloe Finemann’s is precisely what Mindy Kaling ought to have worn. The gold work here is masterful and I do love those shoes.
Quirky hat, okay; however, those daft Balmain platforms are ridiculously out of place at the Met Gala… or anywhere else for that matter.
Nothing says gilded age accessory like hanging off a billionaire’s arm. Interesting fabric combinations but gold & black always magically work. It does seems as though her dress would be a noisy affair.
Not since the wedding of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex has the lovely couple been working a global red carpet event. He wears an outfit designed by Turkish-German, Umit Benan
He’s got a lock on old Hollywood good looks and glamour and his designs are incredible.
The ensemble works and she definitely looks happy.
Jewellery should never resemble plucked chicken legs, as for the rest, nothing here resembles the gilded age.
Lizzo is here and makes no apologies for anything. Perception is all and all she sees is beautiful talent and a lot of love & light to give.
Must be strange to see a clown suit in the mirror when naked. Their outfits are trifling but what do they care when carnally consumed like semi-feral gibbons en chaleur.
How cool and damn sexy is this man, who has no qualms about wearing a kanga. Awesome.
Had he been wearing white gloves, he may have made the top ten on the best-dressed list. Then, again, how is he to compete with post-twink fare like Manu Rios and Patrick Schwarzenegger.
Go on, Lady. Now that is how you do it and not a lick of jewellery.
Every film, every photoshoot. this extraordinary human makes my soul purr. Like all redheads, she is literally magical in dreams… I have encountered her in two or three dreams. I don’t do gushing fan nonsense in dreams. She like every redhead female encountered in dreams, is acutely telepathic. She understands and owns her magic and effortlessly pulls it off in her films. Elegant, she is in Jacqueline de Ribes, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis territory in this white Tom Ford masterpiece.
Super handsome couple, Henry places fourth on the best-dressed list. He has the most beautiful smiling eyes. Those eyes had me see Crazy Rich Asians a third time. By the way, her sheer dress works.
Always amazing to watch how a couples eyes morph over time, looking and feeling vibrationally similar. Perfect in every way, both; and he has got his white gloves.
As ever, Mr. Ford looks marvellous. I certainly pray that he is having the most sublime dreams with his departed love.
Don’t know his music and in no hurry to explore it.
His style is admirable; love the jacket.
Now that’s how a gold dress should look and, of course, he is elegantly attired.
Sadly, there were no good photographs of this exquisite-looking model to be had; the dress though was divine and its two black bows priceless.
A rich creamy white, it is hard to tell whether it is silk or not. In keeping with the gilded age theme, Sydney ought to have been wearing gloves, even long black gloves would have anchored all that white fabric.
Hello! Kerry has great feet and her legs are not thick. She beautifully works that side slit and look at her work those feet. The off-the-shoulder draping cape is an ingenious effect that beautifully keeps her body nicely silhouetted in all the right places.
All primary-coloured outfits in this photograph work handsomely to best display the individual.
Lovely hoop earrings and that skirt attached to the scalloped-like bodice is simply goddess-like. It is an ingenious design.
There is no red like the Valentino red; clearly, too, there is no pink like the Valentino pink. Coquettish, casual, breezy and pretty. She is a winner.
Billionaires. Internationally famous. Celebrities. To these groups some cross two possibly all circles. To them Nicola was no more than Honey Boo Boo’s third cousin who had won 500m on the Powerball lottery. Not enough to be Rich Kids of Insta; small time is just that. So fils Beckham is dowried, shall we say, as he is a ticket to getting to the big leagues. She has the cache of papa’s minor billions and he, the SNDP (serves no discernible purpose) kinder of the world famous. 1.5 kids later, if at all that much, and she should be on to social/class passport number 2 – minor Euro royal of obscure note or perhaps a Tech billionaire if her entrée to the social inner sanctum proved a dismal misfire. On attend… time, indeed, reveals all.
Ah yes, and now we come to the real McCoy… the gold standard. One of cinema’s greatest actors – think Meeting Venus, Fatal Attraction & Dangerous Liaisons.
Though not set in the Gilded Age, John Frears’ masterpiece costume drama, Dangerous Liaisons puts Ms. Close’s acting chops to excellent use.
And, of course, rightly so she is escorted Valentino’s creative director, Pierpaolo Piccioli whose show below was on the most sublime moments in fashion theatre.
He really ought to have made an effort.
Diaphanous and solipsism – youth is myopically silly like that.
The most extraordinary Queen.
If you are going to so drastically self-alter, at the very least also consider a name-change.
WAP WAP WAP. It is so deliciously real to watch this woman, use her dagger-like nails to stab at cucumber, slide the stabbed sliced vegetable around the plate to sop up sauce, devour it all whilst speaking with her sexy overbite seductively drawing you in with a smattering of profanities keeping it real. Get a bucket and a mop, the Lady is the most glorious tramp! Power to her, she has succeeded at working and owning the ultimate pole – fame/success/money and all that.
Auteur, genius, creative powerhouse and as can be expected she knows how to keep it real when suited.
Seriously darling, it would not have been too much to have gotten a pedicure. Love the creative weave of mesh and beading, beautiful tone of grey; a marvellous Versace design.
That’s a whole lot of train and ingeniously it is reversible. Stunning!
Late one evening after the playwright John Douglas had been by as they worked on a script, which eventually Merlin would have me proof and give feedback on, Merlin and I began discussing an upcoming dinner party that we would be hosting. Names were proffered and invariably Merlin would pause, scowl then dismissively scrawl next to someone’s name SNDP… there were always many such persons. Some mix of persons just made little sense. I have always thought this woman just that, SNDP (serves no discernible purpose). She perpetually foists her ill-proportioned body in varying degrees of undress whilst claiming to be a model. Kate, Naomi, Cindy, Linda, Christy these are models and they are professional not this SNDP; just look at the way she is dressed.
The shiny silver sheath, the smoky train afloat with puffy white blooms all centred by that giant red bloom. Of course Ms. Union came enrobed in the love of Dwayne Wade. Perfection.