Homecoming… EIIR 1926 ]-0-[ 2022

15.11.202129.12.2025 Arvin da Brgha4 Comments

Last night, on the eve of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’s 73rd birthday, I dreamt the most spectacularly lucid dream in long decades. In the evening of Saturday, November 13th, 2021 when I don’t even know the lunar phase and have not audio-cassette recorded my dreams since 1997 when then living in Montréal, I simply had to share this dream. I awoke from the dream being saddened that I had to come to so soon.

HM Queen Elizabeth II

Since then, of course, as of today, September 8, 2022, it is obvious HM The Queen, Queen Elizabeth II is on the cusp of passing, so I reissue this here. Similarly, after having published this in November, 2021, I did recall that there were on a high hilltop a mighty army of bagpipes creating a most glorious sound.

At once I was come to in the most lucid dream set on the astral plane. Astral plane dreams are possessed of lighting that is uniquely found there and nowhere else. Vibrationally, it always feels in such dreams as it does between 0400 and 0600 with the intensity of this magical time being closer to 0500. In any event, I was in the midst of a flying dream above what can only be called the boulevard. It was a street wider than any in the waking state. The focal point of the dream, in this astral metropolis of at least 3 billion souls, was the gates to an ancient church, which was set back from the boulevard at the end of a long narrow straight pathway. It was exactly as the Anglican Church in the parish of St. Anne in Sandy Point St. Kitts. It was a church which was millennia old and all along the path to the foreboding wrought iron gates were clergy – all male – of the Anglican faith. As at the Anglican church in Sandy Point on either side of the pathway between the church and the gates were graves with the most ancient tombstones imaginable. There was a lone grave which was open, the earth on either side black and rich. There were clergymen at the grave concluding their business. As I alighted and took my place along the boulevard, HM The Queen walked alone in a green crew neck woollen dress; it was the same colour as a young artichoke, green fig or green guava. She carried no handbag. There were no corgis; about her neck was a single strand pearl necklace which was so ancient that its nacre had become diffused, time-yellowed and on the very cusp of looking like browning rotting teeth. She was reserved and poised and as the rear of the giant Rolls Royce faced the gates of the church and cemetery, she walked around to the right rear door and entered; her hair here was beginning to grey but predominantly brunette. There was no foot person to open the door. She got in and was seemingly in her late forties to early fifties, which is more in keeping with her soul age, that of being an early mature slave soul.

Myself for not being an astral plane habitué, had the ability to fly on the astral plane and, of course, though the habitués themselves could, they of custom chose not to. I was for being an observer referred to by the habitués as a visitor. On exiting the grounds – just as in the Sandy Point, St. Kitts arrangement, there was a crescent in which the massive Rolls Royce sat with its rear facing the open gates to the cemetery and church. The car carrying the arrivée Sovereign was expected and eventually did turn right onto the ridiculously large boulevard where the astral plane throngs along the boulevard’s route were as claustrophobically packed in as it must have been at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Duke of Wellington’s funeral. Here the atmosphere was electric.

What had initially drawn me to this marvellous place, was the distant sound of several bugles, playing the rouse. I knew instantly what it meant. On my arrival, there were hills all around this sector of the astral plane metropolis; this seemed to a very layered astral plane London where different epochs in the city’s history simultaneously co-existed. On one particular wooded hill were the largest stags imaginable – they looked almost sentient whilst regally standing in small mobs. They had majestically arrived to the top from the other side, stood there for a long while then en masse sat down to onlook. Along the route, there were the most massive black steeds and when they walked and stood along the route, they were buried in the astral landscape such that the underside of their bellies were submerged.

The arrivée astral plane habitué Sovereign was then taken on a celebratory parade. The wood was an exquisitely polished oak that framed the exterior of this astral plane version of the Rolls Royce that seemed to have been from the late 1920s to early 1930s. On pulling out onto the boulevard the slow-moving single vehicle motorcade turned right and went down to the shorter arm of the boulevard. Along the right, as it were, of the boulevard and on either side were the most opulent, massive astral plane replicas of each and every stately home in England. The closest house on the right on leaving the cemetery was Blenheim Palace This astral plane version was easily 30 storeys tall and at least 15 millennia older than its waking state counterpart; I suppose that they were this massive as they served as suites for past Dukes of Marlborough as with Blenheim Palace. Even the stately houses which were demolished at the end of the empire, which saw families that didn’t marry robber baron Americans to stay afloat, were here represented. Longleat House, Althorp House, Highclere Castle, Knole House, Hampton Court Palace, Kensington Palace, Mapperton House, Waddesdon Manor, Wilton House, Castle Howard, Chatsworth House; you name it, they were all here behind wrought iron fencing and they stood side-by-side without massive ground anchoring each. This astral plane Blenheim Palace counterpart had sapphire-blue cupolas at the towers and center; every astral plane counterpart was here replete with sapphire-blue copulas. The walls of each house on the astral plane was made of marble that was time-yellowed, betraying the multiple millennia it had existed on the astral plane. Just as the skyscrapers on New York City’s Avenue of the Americas from 42nd to 57th Streets are tall and easily in excess of 30 storeys, so too was each of these astral plane counterparts for familiar English stately houses.

All along the route, which was teeming with astral plane habitués, there were different sections that towered up for several storeys. Directly opposite the gates to the church and cemetery from which the astral habitué Sovereign Elizabeth II emerged alone, was regally sat Sir Winston Churchill; he was surrounded by all the astral plane habitué Prime Ministers who had served HM The Queen. Here, there was a section reserved for astral plane-focussed English aristocrats; one recognisable such habitué was Gerald Grovesnor, 6th Duke of Westminster. At no point, however, did I ever see the following habitué relatives, HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother, HRH Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon or Diana, Princess of Wales. Constantly, persons were arriving to take their place, even when the parade was begun. This dream was so vivid, so electric, so lucid that the stimuli was so overwhelming that I times, I had to alight to ground myself. Indeed, at times, it proved laborious to try and fly where the amount of stimuli and the outréness of this astral plane milieu proved overwhelming on my ability to stay aloft to project myself whilst astrally projected into this utterly rhapsodic dream. As this dream was set on the astral plane, there were astral plane habitués here who wore the dress of the age in which they lived when incarnate. I readily assumed that these were past-life personae with connections to HM The Queen from past lives.

As I soared in flight into the astral plane air some three storeys above to get my bearings, I saw a phalanx of swashbuckling courtiers, progressing down the boulevard to take their place. They had all the swagger and style of dress as King Charles I in the masterful van Dyck tableau, Charles at the Hunt, which hangs at Musée du Louvre. They walked down the boulevard which housed the stately houses on either side, and well ahead of the habitué Sovereign’s Rolls Royce, which glided along the boulevard as if in bucolic slow-motion.

Still, there was a section of the immensely long boulevard which seemed as if longer than New York City’s Fifth Avenue, which on either side housed waking state visitors who were in attendance. Naomi Campbell, who was recently made Commonwealth ambassador to replace the Duke and Duchess of Sussex on their departure from royal duties, was here present. She was there in an enclosed section where all the waking state guests were kept. Also notable was fellow supermodel Kate Moss. I found it utterly fascinating to hear Ms. Campbell speaking in flawless Jamaican patois as she was gobsmacked by the beauty of this astral plane ritual. Taking a break from the laboriousness of dream flight in this particular dream, I had sought refuge in the glass enclosed stands where incarnate persons were focussed. These stands existed opposite each other across the ridiculously wide boulevard.

Once returned to flight I soon realised the immensity of the life that HM The Queen had lived. Here along the astral plane boulevard, on which I suppose that the Circus Maximus was modelled, were habitués who had lived during HM The Queen’s long life and reign and who had immensely admired her. These spanned the range of human civilisation with not just every racial stratum of Commonwealth member states but all other humans who had so immensely admired this extraordinary human being. Here were astral plane habitués from the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010, 2020s. From her earliest years of being the much admired Princess of York to becoming the young Sovereign and onwards, there were adoring astral plane habitué admirers. Absolutely everyone was here represented. It was simply overwhelming to see so many tens of millions of persons focussed in one place and all experiencing rapture at the arrival of someone in whom they had focussed much of their admiration, respect and love. This was a truly remarkable dream.

Pushing of again and exploring more of the unique dreamscape, I flew slowly in the opposite direction of the habitué Sovereign’s parade down the boulevard lorded over by palatial astral plane counterparts to known English stately houses. In one section there were humanoid creatures whose look suggested that these were animals which were long extinct long before animals were documented in earnest. One particular creature was pure white with liver spots markings. This large-headed male was singing whilst perched on a floating dais. Cloaked in a white ermine robe, the three to four thousand pound male creature sang with a range that went from whale song to counter tenor bravura. His voice was simply healing. Light seemed to emanate from beneath his skin and in varying intensities based on his emotions. His performance was so powerful that I had to alight again just to gather my energy reserves as flying does take considerable focussed energy.

Further along the boulevard, as every corner of the Commonwealth was here richly represented and this was a celebration of the life of the arrivée Sovereign, there were African women in colour garb, singing and dancing with jubilation written all over their cul-de-sac of the astral plane. From time to time, feeling the spirit one or more African woman would step into the boulevard and let their spirit jubilantly soar whilst in trance from singing and dancing their souls out.

The further along the boulevard one explored in flight to the left of the cemetery gates and to which the arrivée Sovereign had yet paraded, I explored whilst flying. Eventually, the lone Rolls Royce would come past a section of the boulevard where the astral plane habitués though humanoid, had heads that were akin to those of many gods from the Egyptian pantheon. Still, there were those who closely resembled Kiwi bird-headed humanoids. As astral plane-focussed dreams go, this contingent of totemic beings was not that unusual a sight. When the arrivée Sovereign’s motorcade of one turned to return and tour past the cemetery, I took to the air again and this time soared higher than usual. This enabled me to fly more swiftly than when lower to the electrically charged activity along the boulevard’s route. I returned to the far end of the boulevard to a stately house which sat at the end. Inside this royal residence, there truly was a battle royal underway. At the centre of this feud was Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Here, her voice was a booming commanding business. She was powerful and was settling scores. When she spoke, the walls of the stately house cracked, glass and art flew off the walls. Eventually one of the stately house’s cupolas cracked and eventually collapsed. It was a noisy, violent business.

The last time that I had dreamt of an astral plane-focussed dream wherein the past was being prosecuted, involved the recently passed Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas. That, too, was a battle royal where scores were being settled. That dream is as follows:

Prosecuting the Past whilst at the Deathscape.

*As per the urgency of this dream, I rather suspect that HM The Queen may already have passed by the time of the 2021 Remembrance Service at the Cenotaph; however, London’s hotels would have to be cleared of the Veterans and tourists before the death announcement would be made.

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As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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Pink Chair I & II

24.10.202129.12.2025 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Within days of George’s 44th birthday on February 9th, 1990, I had been to his McCaul Street loft, which looked east to the buildings lining University Avenue. There, on the top floor’s tiny balcony, we would retreat for some privacy, late at night and suck each other off with his son spying on us… ever he spied on us and it became a definite source of one of our many volatile breakups that George wanted to watch whilst his son and I fucked. I am not about doing anything that I find repugnant. George’s son’s legs are ridiculously bizarre; the space between the knees and ankles inordinately short – he also has too much gum for my liking. Did not matter to me that he was very thick and big; I was not playing. End of discussion. More than all that, George’s son numerology was possessed of two 9s, which made any connection between us glacial at best. Both his energy body and mindset are 9; forget that. In any event, that winter, after George and I had riotously fucked with his son’s conspicuous silence in the open loft definitely indicating that we were being spied on, I fell asleep whilst George, thoroughly, noisily ploughed right, went to shit and shower, which was always alone and a very lengthy affair. On exiting the bath, as I soundly slept, awaiting my turn to shower, George grabbed his polaroid and took several snaps of me in his sole pink armchair as I remained sheathed in a used full and droopy condom.

By the time that George would present me with the iconic, masterful serigraph, he and I were not then on speaking terms on conclusion of the work. Months earlier, in November 1989, Merlin had passed and as George made it perfectly clear that he did not want to be in a committed relationship, I walked away. He was, of course, pissed but I was not getting the support I felt that I then needed. Truth be told, the relationship with George was ideal, I could no more have given two fucks about his friends anymore than they did me. George was totally controlling – energy body of 9 – and in that way, I was his muse and a great fuck; this left both his family and friends off limit – of course, there was obsession with his son, which meant me fulfilling his fantasy. Not happening. So as I did not play along and began taking lovers of my own, as George wanted to celebrate my life in the event that I, soon after Merlin, perished of AIDS – at that point, I still had not gone out and taken an HIV test; I was simply then too solipsistic to have been any support to Merlin who was then slowly dying of AIDS. So not able to bring himself to name the serigraph after me, it became Pink Chair; of course, for his friends, it was a great dig at me whom they thought of dismissible and an utter non-entity. Of course, I never said more than two words to anyone at that point in my life – that is, if I did not think you worth my time why bother saying fuck all?

For the next three years, George and I saw each other on and off. During that time, I was rapidly self-exploring. Of course, at the core of it all, there was the one ritual that grounded me, each day as I went to bed, I closed my eyes and smiled, knowing that on awaking, I would recall a plethora of dream experiences which before sleep, I could not readily have fathomed. Each morning I woke up, grabbed the tape recorder and began audiocassette recording my dreams. For this reason, as it had been a promise made to Merlin, I had no desire to be in a living relationship. No, I do not want to meet your fucking family, most definitely do not want to be caught dead, wasting a nanosecond of my time, listening to your loser friends and their redundantly specious regurgitated anecdotes – been there… fuck that. With Merlin’s passing, I had found a new groove: go to a few bathhouses, fuck a couple or a couple dozen hungry bottoms, head home by bike and listen to either classical or Jazz and get on with reading, writing and looking forward to travelling to the next art exhibition or Jazz concert and, of course, collecting art.

At one point, George moved out of his McCaul Street loft and with his possessive son remaining at the loft, this opened the way for us to get back together. This, of course, was not without its angst. One evening, I was hellbent on ploughing George to the hounds but he kept on begging off and finally blew up at me and told me to fuck off and, perhaps, he wanted to fuck his brains out with someone else. Are you fucking kidding me? No need to sit about when possessed of that irrational cocktail of obsession, passion, lust and mistrust. With regards his sexual activity, George always lied… I knew this. The first time that he had lied, I noticed the tell-tale sign – his right index finger and middle finger would involuntarily quiver and he would always try to cover it by rubbing his right index against his right nostril. Whenever this occurred, he would always get up and walk away to try and better cover up the physiological quirk. As ever, nothing escaped my eagle-eyed perception.

That night, unable to sleep and more importantly being robbed of valuable dreamtime, I got up and hopped on my bike in the middle of a bitching winter’s dead of night. George, who then lived at 62 Austin Terrace, had me pedal like mad in the biting cold and after locking my bike down the hill, made it up to 62 Austin Terrace, which stood right at the northeast corner of Bathurst Street and Austin Terrace. Truly possessed, I hopped onto the mountain ash tree and began scaling the damn tree as though at 0300 on a cold winter’s night with a street lamp nicely illuminating things, my being a black male, climbing a leaf-bare tree in the Annex, was a perfectly natural thing to be doing, among other illogical considerations. The lights were on in the bedroom; alas, he was not being ploughed by someone who was not me. Of course, George always spoke in his sleep and in one of his little pernicious moves, days earlier as I ploughed him good, he let out someone else’s name whilst pretending to be more asleep and or drunk than he was. Of course, seven years of being the lover of an award-winning director, Merlin, I knew fucking bad acting toute de suite.

There were clothes on the bed that were not George’s but he could not be seen. Undaunted, I scaled and scraped my way down the tree with simian ease, passion-possessed and made it up Bathurst to the rear of the property where I scaled the slippery stone side of the hill and made it atop the garage where for walking across packed, crunching inches of snow, found George being ploughed on the large draught table in his study. I was beyond livid but wanted and gotten definite proof to slap down his lying when confronted. His response was, of course, feigned indignation at my having had the temerity to spy on him. As with all passionate lovers, that entangled, drama-rife bit of Sargasso was soon traversed to calmer seas. Months later, we got in from dinner, sat down for a drink at his Austin Terrace apartment and laughed and savoured our cognac, after having been out shopping in the early afternoon to choose a new frame for Pink Chair. As ever, George wanting to be ploughed long and hard, listened to Haydn’s Paris Symphonies – ever, I favoured the London Symphonies. I had just returned to Toronto after amour fou absolu had attempted to steal a dozen pieces from my art collection, among which was Pink Chair.

By March, 1993, I was hanging out in Washington D.C. with Bahamian relations when for walking out on my host, would meet Yuri, the most thoroughly consuming S&M bottom. This, of course, was at a time where all I did was crawl bathhouses partout, ever on the prowl, as finally I had discovered my metier with Merlin’s passing. S&M was the right groove at the right time in my life. So as I crawled predatorily the halls of yet another bathhouse, this one on the edge of a military base in the U. S. capital, I was hotly pursued by Yuri as my swagger and riding boots were just what and more his wildest dreams were in search of. We fucked for several hours, he professed his love and we returned to his place just southwest of Dupont Circle in Foggy Bottom that was the epitome of house proud faggot and way too minimalist for my liking. Alas, we went to his bedroom, which had a bed that was custom-built and made to service his every S&M whim. We were insatiable and it was just right. I looked past his drinking and excessive use of poppers, which second hand ever left me with a splitting headache, he had an actual freezer in which he kept handled bottles of vodka and the salacious bottom with the thick Russian accent was all mine.

Soon he took me to dinner, presented me a ring and demanded that I move to America and his position as lawyer in a queer law firm would allow me to live without the worry of working and the ideal Daddy to come home to. A city full of museums, he had season tickets to Kennedy Center and just a short flight to New York City for more culture and art, it was not very hard to say yes. Soon we went looking at places as I came down every other weekend from Toronto; we dined out and did all the things he had not before. On the off weekend, he had to himself with friends and family, which I made it perfectly clear were a non-negotiable in our relationship.

No sooner than having brought down choice pieces of art and much of my wardrobe as we chatted daily three to five times, I was returned that Sunday evening to no calls or calls going unanswered. Finally, that Thursday evening, he coolly answered the phone and wanted to know what I was bothering him for as, said he, he thought that he had made it clear that it was over between us. Perhaps, I was in denial but now he was with Tyrone who had a big 11.5 inch cock that he just couldn’t get enough of. Putting my master numbers to good use, I morphed and pulled out personalities 33, 47 and 56, all the while not so much as appearing remotely upset. Soon, he was answering the phone whilst being ploughed by Tyrone. Alas, my diamond cutter charm wore him down; we did after all have concerts to attend at Kennedy Center. So fool him, he accepted as Tyrone was going home to Philly for his mama’s 50th birthday – as if I could give two point five fucks.

Returned to Washington, I charmed him though he was wary and mistrustful – his guilt not mine. Finally, he gave in and we had one last S&M session. Tied up, he stood upright in the leather bedding with black bath sheets everywhere to catch his piss as I ploughed his arse, exposed by the thick leather chaps, rough, long and hard. I then slipped beneath the bed and got out the duct tape purchased earlier at Heckenger’s across town – everyone in the neighbourhood knew him and I had no intentions of anyone tipping him off. The hood zipped tight, revealing only his eyes and mouth, I smeared half a dozen strips of the black tape across his lizard-lipped cocksucker mouth and left just enough room for him to comfortably breathe.

As the opera fag neighbours below were in that evening, I turned up the music – Maria Callas CDs on the Denon stereo system – really loudly and pulled his big-boned body from the black leather sheets and hauled him by the harness through the 2100 square foot duplex apartment to the living room, took the strap to him as well he loved it; however, this was not about him, left him slumped and seated on the floor and quietly and meticulously cut my fucking art from the god fugly gaudy gold frames, into which the fucking racist moron had placed my stolen art, 12 pieces in all, including Pink Chair. Having returned my art into the tubes, in which they had months earlier been brought down from Toronto, I called my ride and with lots of time to spare its arrival, I hauled the blasted fool – who to that point had royally pissed off at least half my known 72 personalities, to his large bathroom, where clad in leather from head to toe, I heaved his bulky body – his legs and hands bound as he loved it during play, over the side of the tub, ripped out his butt plug, squatted down, violently ripped off the duct tape, replaced it with my gauntlet sheathed left hand whilst riotously fucking him hard. Hissing into his right ear, still hammering away at his ravaged mangina, ‘you fucking thief… what does that make you. That’s right, you’re a fucking nigger and don’t you ever forget it.’ Slamming the bathroom door shut behind me, my head ached from all the poppers he did. Coolly, I went to the freezer and got the handled bottles of vodka there, where else but America, and slowly undid his suit so that his welted body beneath could really sting from the vodka’s cold, unforgiving bite, after shoving his whimpering body into the tub. When I was done emptying all his vodka on his shivering, enraged body, I straddled his wet body below in the tub and whilst standing on the edge pissed and relieved my bladder which since removing my stolen art from his walls had been straining for release.

From there, I hightailed it to New York City and stayed a few days at Valerie Pringle’s only brother’s West 16th Street walk-up where I grounded anew by going to all my favourite museums by day and crawling the village in riding boots, making further conquests, which usually began whilst gyrating and face-fucking on the tiny dance floor down the mirrored winding stairs at the historic Stonewall Inn. Returned to Toronto with my art, over dinner at a tiny Spanish restaurant off Yonge Street, after we had taken Pink Chair to be framed, raising a glass of red, I winked at George and said of the vanquished amour fou, the best way to piss on a fool’s grave, is to do so before they actually are dead and buried. Dinner was beautiful and with that, we returned to his apartment at 62 Austin Terrace and George was no end of happy, reaching back and holding on to my riding boots, his arse high in the air, as I ploughed and staked my claim to his heart centre as never before.

‘What the fuck are you calling me for?’ On my return to Toronto, I lethally hissed down the phone at the racist boor in Washington D. C.. ‘We have no business together. Obviously, all you can handle, is nothing more than 11 IQ points. Let’s make this perfectly fucking goddamn clear, since your HIV status – that’s right, I have known all along, precludes you making it across the border, you will stay the fuck where you are and get over it. You’re a fucking thief.’ He then violently demanded that I return ‘his’ art and be man enough to bring it back. ‘What the fuck has AIDS and poppers done to your fucking pea brain? Bitch are you fucking nuts? You are dead to me. Shit, I already pissed on you… you are as good as fucking dead! Cutting him off as he launched into his foul, drunken nigger this, nigger that, I boomed down the phone into his gutted soul, ‘Hang it up! Hang it the blasted motherfuck up! Now! Go on, hang up your fucking phone now. You fucking drunken diseased rat. Now! Hang it the blasted motherfuck up now! Hang it up! Finally, the line dropped, collapsing his weak sobbing. A bottom to the core, he never dare dialled my number again.

Also, at 62 Austin Terrace, I announced to George that I had accepted a job offer in Vancouver and would be leaving in mere days. George was devastated as he felt that he was being abandoned for not having been fully engaged in a committed relationship. In the end, not long after I was happily ensconced in Vancouver’s West End, that George visited. We had some of our best sex deep into the musky wholesomeness within the woods of Stanley Park, lorded over by centuries old Sitkas. There in the dead of night, George buried his left cheek in the mud, held on to my riding boots as ever he loved to as I ploughed and took us both to beyond the edge of ecstasy. George’s first visit to Vancouver – there was a second, was passed going to galleries, having an early dinner, likely on Davie Street, going home for a nap before getting up late at night to go do that most primal of deeds, fucking surrounded by the sublime beauty of nature.

On the eve of Bob Marley’s birthday – a very brightly, crisply cold Friday in 1999, my wife and I emerged in full African garb onto Saint Laurent from Montréal’s palais de justice accompanied by George and my sister, Pandora, both serving as witnesses. That evening at our lovely Cote des Neiges home, the four of us were joined by a lovely Jewish boy from Hampstead. George and I were reunited after too long on the cusp of his 53rd birthday and among other things, we warmly celebrated his upcoming birthday. The evening was beautiful. Five years later, my wife and I relocated back to Toronto as both our fathers experienced health crises. My first visit to George’s Borden Street penthouse was beautiful, the view looked north to one of my favourite high-rises in the city; it is a deco affair at the northwest corner of Spadina & Richmond Street West. I am always reminded of Merlin and New York City where we met and how much he loved the architecture of 1930s New York City. Paris, my wife, and Pandora were invited to dinner in the late afternoon.

George seldom hung art about his homes, and rarely any of his; there was one however which moved me the moment I walked into the room. Who is it, I asked, to which George laughed and said, ‘it’s you, of course. It’s the companion to Pink Chair… it is Pink Chair. Back in 1987 when we first met, George had asked me to sit at his loft on Brock Avenue in the Queen West Queen neighbourhood. As a result of our carnal passion, George experienced a new creative drive; he became more creatively focussed and produced more. George’s attack was dazzling and he created with feverish speed. He was always grateful for that time, he was not yet 41 when we met and for him, it proved the mid-life crisis he needed. It was great, too, because Russell, a lover of his, had slowly been dying of AIDS and I became the anchor that kept him focussed here and now.

I was invigorated by this second Pink Chair, which had been completed in 1992 but which he had never shown me. Finally, George and I met separate of my wife, Paris, who has since transitioned and become Denver, for dinner at his Borden Street penthouse condo. Even though I had become a portly little cock-bottomed, short-breathed eccentric with age, I still wanted to return to being George’s muse and, of course, lover. As ever, we dined on another exquisitely prepared meal, which featured a George staple – asparagus and another sublime sauce with the right accompanying wine. At this dinner, however, George began opening up and told me of a murder at University of Toronto where he taught printmaking; it was a murder, George shared, for which he was a major suspect. For the next couple of hours, I watched George come undone as he talked of how unrelenting the authorities were in surveilling him. At one point, as he slumped in the chair across the table from me, George sprang back to life and said that he wanted to apologise; said George, all the years of hearing me speak of the insidiousness of racism and the effects it had on one’s wellbeing, he had dismissed and for that he wanted to apologise.

George trembled at times and he seemed to age before my eyes. Keenly, I kept a raptor’s gaze fixed on his every move. Never once throughout that dinner did I fail to look out for George’s right index and middle fingers’ movements; they never once quivered. George shared that he was terrified of sleeping because he constantly suffered nightmares of losing everything with his being pinned with the murder, going to and dying in jail. George said that he constantly felt as though his every action was being monitored, analysed to discern whether he was the murderer or not. Getting up, I went and knelt at his side at the dining room table and held him, hugged him. I let him know that I was there for him. Slumping forward, George hugged me and dissolved in tears, we both cried. I cried because I realised that there was no way that George could ever be passionate again; there could be no sleepovers – he talked constantly during sleep.

George and I never met at his condo again. Walking away that evening, I was struck by how neutered and consumed with fear George had become. At one point during dinner, with his back turned whilst cooking dinner, one of my notoriously loud sneezes exploded. Though George had heard that loud explosion countless times before, he responded as though a high speed train had unexpectedly zoomed past. George and I seldom spoke by phone and rarely emailed after that dinner. As a matter of fact, apart from meeting twice to catch a movie, we only saw each other whenever I turned up at Dr. Tsang’s. It was one of these visits – whenever I went to the doctor’s, George happened to have been there, George shared that he had cancer. I was stunned. Over time, George’s stomach became more distended, his look more wounded and what pained me most, was how much he remained as if possessed, thanks to having been a major suspect in the murder of a colleague.

After dinner, as I made to leave and we hugged long and hard, we then looked at Pink Chair, another of his masterpieces, George kissed me and said that whatever happened, it was mine; George wanted the piece to eventually become mine but for now, he was holding on to it because it reminded him of the passion we shared and how intensely I had inspired him to create and drove him, drove each other mad with the passion we shared. Getting down to Borden, I was so immensely drained at George’s despair that I walked with bike a block south to Adelaide, hailed a cab, securely tucked the bike in the trunk and silently wept on the ride home. I got in, lit beeswax candles everywhere, listened to Haydn’s Paris Symphonies, then had an extra hot soak in the tub with rose petals and Epsom salt, smudged my home afterwards with sagebrush, crawled into the pyramid, gathered crystals and upped my frequency whilst collapsing through the labiate folds of sleep’s sweet, welcome embrace. George died a dozen years after my return to living in Toronto from Montréal, and all attempts to acquire Pink Chair have proven unsuccessful. A lover scorned… indeed.

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As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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Elderflower? No! We Only Use White Flour..

16.08.202129.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Just when I thought there could be no tea more sublime than soursop bush tea – a favourite since childhood in the West Indies, I discovered Fortnum & Mason’s elderflower-flavoured green tea. As my latest order arrived just in time for what would have been Merlin’s 74th birthday on July 21, [21/7/1947 Pig 3.1.4 = 8] I thought to go one better and try and get myself a lemon and elderflower cake for my birthday on August 2 [2/8/1960 Rat 2.1.8 = 11]. After all, it was the Sussexes’ gorgeous-looking lemon and elderflower wedding cake that got me thinking. Soon, I was on the quest for an elderflower-flavoured cake for my upcoming birthday. Daniel et Daniel, which really is not what it was in the 80s when Merlin and I got choice pastries and at least one dish per week there, carried no such cake. Restless, I called partout and eventually got around to placing a call to another of the Weston family’s refined businesses, the Loblaws at Maple Leaf Gardens. Eventually, I was put through to the bakery department where I got an haughty prude, who seemed too bothered to have to take the call. For the third time, I repeated that I was looking for an elderflower-flavoured cake, when Ms. Krakow, 1978, third runner-up dismissively bulldozed back, “Elderflower? No! We only use white flour in our cakes!” Well, there has to be a first time for everything because early in my seventh decade, I laughed so damn hard that I fell onto the sofa, clapping, tearing up and simultaneously experienced the most mind-altering trifecta of ageing: leaking, farting and feeling damn near on the cusp of what one assumes an aneurysm must feel like. I am determined to yet have that lemon and elderflower-flavoured cake.

The tea photographed is actually not elderflower; it is a far more pale, sublimely subtle affair.

Beyond these gates, at a royal Roman villa, recently occurred the most sublimely magical theatre…..

Unescorted by her father, Lady Kitty Spencer proved that Spencer women are indomitable whether her aunt, Diana, Princess of Wales or for that matter, Georgiana spencer, Duchess of Devonshire. Ah those fabulous, formidable Spencer women!

30/12/1990 (Horse) Lady Kitty Spencer-Lewis 3.6.7 = 7

Georgiana Spencer Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire…. a Spencer woman to the core.

7/6/1757 (Goat) Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire 7.4.6 = 8

A Spencer woman who more than measured up to Georgiana – standard bearer of Spencer fortitude, Diana, Princess of Wales.

1/7/1961 (Ox) Diana, Princess of Wales 1.8.7 = 7.

Diana despite what has been claimed, was immensely uncomplicated and the most dynamic Spencer woman. She was 1 energy body, which means that regardless of her artisan soul doe-eyed fawning, she was a loud, combative, bossy bully-arsed Amazon and as tough as they come. Diana’s second number of 8 simply means that she was going to earn even more money than that into which she was born, which was true – though the Spencers are infinitely more ancient a family than the Windsors. Most of all, Diana was possessed of double 7s. All 7 persons can see beyond the veil and know exactly what is going down at all times. They can see ‘dead people’ as the saying goes but tend to rarely advertise this. They see auras and they more than anyone else can penetrate beyond the veil such that they can be as readily focussed on the astral plane as they can the physical plane. They are master manipulators and they are the ultimate power in any dynamic. Diana was neither pawn nor unaware. Most of all, all persons with more than one 7 in their numerological makeup and when the fourth/destiny number is a 7 run the very real risk of being murdered/assassinated.

29/5/1917 (Snake) President John F. Kennedy 2.7.7. = 7.

There are only 2 deaths of persons in public life in the West during the 20th century, which to our very core collectively broadsided us and shook us to our soul… all of us. President John F. Kennedy and Diana, Princess of Wales. The President was openly assassinated as it was a message to all future presidents not to ever think of trying to dismantle the Federal Reserve, which is a private rather than government entity. All persons in public life who are assassinated if they are politicians will have a 4th number of 4, 5 or 8; however, when that public person has a 7 as fourth number they were assassinated by a institution in Kennedy’s case the cartel families which own the U.S. federal reserve and in Diana’s case the dynastic institution and power behind the Windsor dynasty. Diana was pregnant and as mother of a future sovereign and future head of the Church of England, she could not be allowed to start a rival dynastic house, which would doubtless be after she had converted to another religion.

21/4/1926 (Tiger) Duke of Lancaster 3.7.7 = 8.

Diana was a damn bully and her two 7s were no match for her ultimate rival, the very powerful Duke of Lancaster, who also happens to have two 7s and the fourth number is 8, which is the ultimate sign of ruthless power. More artisan souls get knocked off for being a pain in the arse than any other role. Flaunting her pregnancy in the South of France was the final straw for the Duke of Lancaster. Diana had bullied the Duke of Lancaster’s son, Charles, Prince of Wales. Indeed, it was quite one thing for Diana to have provoked the Duke of Lancaster’s ire by producing a firstborn who only happened to be an obvious Bourbon bastard but it was quite another to be hellbent on further ridiculing and insulting the Duke of Lancaster by starting a rival dynasty and of a totally unacceptable faith.

**Diana, Princess of Wales & Dodi Al-Fayed**

Diana’s death was such callous open warfare. It was such vicious business that we became for a week, and longer, unhinged. How could this have happened? How could every effort not have been made to save Diana when clearly she had survived the car crash? Well, when make it look like an accident, does not work, then you scream down the phone, “then kill her goddamn it! I want that damn woman dead!” Like John F. Kennedy’s open assassination, we collectively fell to our knees and came undone with Diana having been ruthlessly assassinated.

Time is a most callous business and sooner or later, like shit, it always surfaces the secrets and lies and lays them irrefutably bare. One of the features of Diana’s two 7s is that the fourth number being 7 means that such persons once assassinated, have the ability to avenge their murder from beyond the grave. This is rare but does occur when there is more than one 7 and the fourth number is a 7. Prince Andrew’s undoing and the Sussexes quitting royal life in a blow to the Duke of Lancaster’s Commonwealth legacy, seem in part to be influenced by the long shadow that Diana’s assassination has caused. In quitting royal duties, Diana’s revenge has also struck a blow to Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, who treated Diana so horribly. Indeed, as the Duke of Lancaster has shrunken with age so, too, it seems that the longer the Duke of Lancaster lives, the more Diana’s revenge exacts its toll.

Just as the Duke of Lancaster grew drunk sipping on Diana’s warm blood whilst seething with contempt for the rabble drunk with grief, so too time will reveal why the Duke of Lancaster refused to honour Diana’s murder for days on end. Time will callously reveal the dark visage of the most deceptive Duke of Lancaster yet – double 7s notwithstanding.

**HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Archie & Lilibet in Utero 2021**

Though in utero, enwombed in this photograph is the most fascinating Spencer woman of the modern age after, Diana, Princess of Wales. Lilibet Diana Mountbatten-Windsor born 4 June 2021 an Ox, she will have Diana, her paternal grandmother’s inner strength. Most of all, what this reborn soul has is an inner fortitude that will be a force to be reckoned with. 4/6/2021 Ox 4.1.6 = 11. This Spencer woman is a powerhouse, who will stand shoulder to shoulder with Diana and Georgiana before her. Lilibet has 3 numbers in common with her father, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 Rat 6.6.1 = 4 and, of course, she has two numbers in common with her mother, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11. Having master numbers of 11 means that just as Meghan is more famous than Harry in their dynamic so, too, is Lilibet Diana going to be more famous than Archie her older-souled brother. It matters, too, that during a near recent past life of Lilibet Diana’s, she was famous and a seasoned performer – she has reborn, having already mastered the fame game. More than that, like her mother, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, she is as tough as they come and with master numbers of 11, Lilibet like her mother will be iconic and a lone panther. Persons will drop in and leave her life – they will never stay a nanosecond longer than necessary. She was born to rule… and will.

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Mountbatten-Windsor, Lilibet Diana 4/6/2021

Michael: This young fragment is a third-level mature sage – second life thereat. Lilibet is in observation mode with a goal of dominance and has an attitude of idealist.

Lilibet has neither centreing nor chief features at this time, owing to her age – this occurs during late teen years.

Lilibet’s body type is Mars Mercury.

The fragment Lilibet is second-cast in the third cadence. Lilibet is a member of greater cadence four. Lilibet is a member of entity two, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418. (Adjacent entity, same cadre as her father, mother, brother, Prince George and The Queen).

Lilibet’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion a warrior incarnate at this time.

Lilibet’s needs are: exchange, communion, adventure.

Lilibet has shared 8 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin.

There is an agreement with the older brother for emotional support.

This fragment, Lilibet, has been a revered performer in a recent past incarnation, primarily operatic but with some aspect of light entertainment. She was also present in several lives of note in European aristocracy (Italy and Spain)

End (August, 2021).

22/7/2013 (Snake) HRH Prince George of Cambridge 4.2.8 = 5

Speaking of Spencer women… Always follow the numbers for clues as to just how history is likely to repeat itself; of course, with each generation the players and the drama may change but the numbers always produce the same personae; however, the results may vastly vary. Want to know how Prince George of Cambridge is going to turn out? Apart from the fact that like his maternal and paternal uncles, he is gap-toothed and thus in his immediate past life, like both uncles were, also black. George is a king soul, not that that should make him superhuman; however, the template for this royal role-play is Edward VIII, Duke of Windsor.

25/6/1900 (Rat) Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma 7.4.5 = 7

14/11/1948 (Rat) HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales 5.7.2 = 5

23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5

25/6/1900 (Rat) Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma 7.4.5 = 7

Also, possessed of two 7s, like Diana, Princess of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster, was Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma. Just as with Diana & President John F. Kennedy, one of his multiple 7s was in the fourth position, which resulted in him having been assassinated. Of course, the line at the time and possibly still floated was that it was an IRA hit job. Nonsense. Louis when in India as Edwina his stylish wife openly saw Nehru, this freed up Louis to be with his one true love, Edward, then Prince of Wales, who was truly besotted with the charming, manipulative double 7 lover. This is why, they were sequestered in the colonies in India where their love could be fully flagrant and that it was. Persons with 2 and 5 in their numerology, King George V, Prince William, Duke of Windsor, Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and Prince George of Cambridge are sexually addictive and indulge readily and with whomsoever. Whether male or female, they will have long, passionate, abiding, same sex-focussed love affairs, though, will marry and procreate as is expected of them. All Edward, Duke of Windsor wanted was to marry Louis Mountbatten and fuck night and day but that could not have been. So, the very mannish, bullying Wallis was a useful beard. Of course, Edward would have gotten off on being bullied by Wallis and likely Louis also got off on watching them at play whilst Wallis would definitely have gotten off on Edward, Prince of Wales and Louis lovemaking. Eventually, the well-hung Louis Mountbatten would move on to Edward’s coveted great-nephew, Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Equally as besotted, Charles, Prince of Wales would have loved Louis Mountbatten as deeply and passionately as his great-uncle, Edward, Duke of Windsor had decades earlier in India and thereafter. Of course, it was not until Louis was assassinated that Charles finally sought to get over the assassination of his lover, Louis Mountbatten, by marrying not the Rottweiler beard, rather the conveniently clueless virgin, Diana who faster than a sneeze grew wise and more importantly shrewd and gave the Windsor’s something to gloat about, the flat-footed Bourbon bastard heir to the Windsor dynasty.

19/2/1960 (Rat) Prince Andrew, Duke of York 1.3.1 = 5.

Where 2s favour being bottoms and being bullied, 7s however, are sadistic and among their sexual fetishes apart from S&M, is having sexual slaves and also power-tripping by way of having sex with minors. It is a known fact that Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Edward, Duke of Windsor and Charles, Prince of Wales’s special friend, Louis Mountbatten got himself assassinated for his sexually predatory exploits with male minors, which saw the IRA having no part in his assassination. Whereas one could lie and cover in the past as in 1979, today, and thanks to American irreverence, Prince Andrew finds himself exposed with nowhere to hide for cover and mummy’s ermine coat just won’t do. Andrew is a bully, 1 energy body, and it is no surprise that with a fourth number of 5, Andrew has been exposed as a sexual predator; infamy is a common outcome when 5 is in the fourth position. Andrew is also a rat and more rats cause their families to stay up late at night in the near-dark, looking at the ceiling and wanting the rat curse to go away.

3/6/1865 (Ox) King George V 3.9.2 = 5

23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5

21/6/1982 (Dog) HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 3.9.2 = 5

5/1/1938 (Ox) King Juan Carlos 5.6.9 = 2

King Juan Carlos is also possessed of 2 & 5 in his numerology; however, his 5 is in the first position – the energy body. This is the signature of the serial womaniser who likely has fathered multiple offspring. Prince William has three numbers in common with Juan Carlos whereas with Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, William shares only two numbers. William also shares no numbers with his mother whereas Harry shares one with Diana, Princess of Wales.

9/1/1982 (Rooster) Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9.1.3 = 4

22/7/2013 (Snake) HRH Prince George of Cambridge 4.2.8 = 5

With the tyranny that is both his parents’ 9s, apart from the usual 2 and 5 mix, which will leave Prince George sexually addictive, he does possess one feature that is mildly alarming. He has 8 as his third number. This position of 8 usually manifests as massive financial setbacks and losses. All in all, 8 in the third position likely means that during his lifetime, George will possibly lose his title to the crown jewels either by abdication; quite simply, George can find himself displaced, for doing something that has not been done before. In short with that 2 & 5 mix of being sexually fluid, George just might end up becoming the second Spencer woman named Georgiana!

Windsor, George 22/7/2013 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a fourth-level mature king – third life thereat. George is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. An idealist, George, at this time (December 2019) does not yet have centreing.

George does not yet have chief features.

George’s body type is Jupiter/Mercury and a small tertiary of Venus.

The fragment George is fourth-cast in the seventh cadence. George is a member of greater cadence seven. George’s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418.

George’s essence twin is a king – they are likely to meet at a later date and also head of state. The task companion is a warrior.

George’s three primary needs are: expression, power, security and freedom.

There is a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, for training and preparation for ‘duties’.

There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 2 with Merlin.

END. (December, 2019).

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With a predominantly Jupiter body type, HRH Prince George of Cambridge, like King George IV before him, will tend towards having a large overpowering body; his 5 does run the risk of him being gluttonous.

4/8/1900 (Rat) Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother 4.3.4 = 11

4/8/1981 (Rooster) Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4.3.4 = 11

Both women are mature souls: Meghan (mid-cycle mature artisan soul) slightly older-souled than Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon (second mature slave soul). Numerologically, both women are vibrationally exact in every way. How you would respond to one, is exactly how you would respond to the other in a one-on-one encounter. However, aristocratic Elizabeth married a royal and though an outsider (Scottish) was not baited and hounded by an as yet out-of-control tabloid press. Meghan, self-made, black and an American exposed everything that is ugly about British society in an age where post Charles & Diana, the tabloid media are way out-of-control and hold to ransom the BRF. In marrying Meghan, Prince Harry has exposed what ‘yank’-hating, ugly, racist, truly small-minded, classist boors inhabit the small isle of England.

19/6/1896 (Monkey) Wallis, Duchess of Windsor 1.7.4 = 3

23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5

Let me start by making it perfectly clear; the only 3 similarities between Wallis and Meghan are these: both are women, both are American and both are human. They have positively nothing else in common. Secondly, before you can reincarnate, you must first die and Meghan was already very much so alive before Wallis, Duchess of Windsor died in 1986. All men with both 2 and 5 in their numerology are innate bottoms regardless their sexual focus; they love to be dominated by strong sexual and emotional partners. 2 introduces fluidity with regards sense of self to all such men. With the combination of 5 which rules excess, gluttony, perversion and insatiable indulgences, all such men need to be sexually dominated, owned and submit to their partner. 1 in the first number, the energy body, is that of the bully, the bossy, emasculating woman. Such women would be driven to be with men who wish to be dominated and who were born to strong, controlling women. The combination of 2 & 5 in a man’s chart always leads to sexual intensity, perversion and being gratified by fetishes of one type or another. From being yelled at, punched, bullied, cursed, pissed on to being strapped such men are also turned on by men and love to be controlled by strong men with whom they are prepared to indulge but would never consider it homoeroticised. Wallis with an energy body of 1 would perceive Edward, Duke of Windsor as her bitch and may well have referred to him as such during their very intense, ritualised and heavily fetish-focussed sexual relations. Edward, Duke of Windsor was as he was because 2 causes fluidity in men which is readily perceived as weakness, effeminacy… or both. 5 persons will always rebel against the rigidity, judgmental, controlling, stubborn restrictiveness of 9. Even though possessed of 5 himself, King George V’s 9 proved too overwhelming for Edward, Duke of Windsor and would have caused him to rebel which resulted in his relationship with Wallis because of her 1 and also because his father’s 9 meant that he positively despised Americans and their culture. Wherever you find 5 in a numerological chart, you also find both excess and infamy.

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What stunning portraits these latter day Gainsborough (@dolcegabbana) have realised. Their muse is no less stunning, by far, than the original Spencer trailblazer, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.

Brava!

As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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How Fucking Dare You, Piers!

28.01.202029.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

How fucking goddamn dare you, Piers Morgan use Kobe Bryant’s passing to try and whitewash the ugliness that is the fiendish lynching of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex that you, Piers, and the rest of British media engaged in whilst whipping your isle of hooligan louts to frenzied hysteria of hatred and racism? Then when Meghan wipes arse with you and takes her leave, which never in a million years you had anticipated, you bring proud black women like Afua Hirsch on your show and subject her to the usual white male asshole brow-beating as you talk over top of her for 70 per cent of the time because ‘you are a black bitch and we owned the likes of you for 400 years and we will tell you what to think even when we both know damn well that we are nothing but racially predatory swine.’

Never once during his twenty-year career did opposing fans, when Kobe and Lakers played away games, scream and make monkey noises as is regularly the case on your isle of drunken boors where you swear up and down there is no racism. How dare you! Leave Kobe the blasted motherfuck to rest in peace. He is far better deserving than to have self-serving tributes as revisionist boors like you are quick to engage in. What you damn well ought to be doing is schooling that porcine fuck, Thomas Markle Sr., in the fact that the daughter whom he claims to love, whom you equally speciously claim never suffered racism in Britain, was subjected to racism by HRH Princess Michael of Kent when she wore the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace. That’s right, I may be a lucid dreamer but I am pretty fucking sure that this did not occur in some dream to which only my lucidly engaged mind was privy.

Please leave Kobe the hell out of your revisionist BS because unlike your racist isle of louts, only in America could Kobe have achieved his phenomenal greatness and this in spite of America’s own brand of racism. Hell, at least in America, blacks are respected and not culturally ghettoised as in your fair barbaric isle.

Please, Piers go and explain to Thomas Markle Sr. that Danny Baker’s incendiary tweet was not in the least remotely racist but mere jest. Please Piers go and convince your knuckle-dragging readership that were HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex were to have wedded a Jew that you would have engaged in an openly vile antisemitic campaign of hatred towards his wife then deny that it was remotely antisemitic. More to the point, had this been the case, you would be damn well unemployed ages ago. The mere fact that at this juncture Thomas Markle Sr. has come forward to state that his daughter experienced no racism whilst being lynched in Britain, shows how desperately Britons are prepared to throw money at the issue of their alarmingly savage racism to make it go away.

Perhaps, the Cambridges want the predominantly black Commonwealth states to take leave as they tear arse time and again in their faces. Just look at them today at the 75th anniversary ceremony on Holocaust Memory Day, all poised and obsequious in stark contrast to their behaviour at the reception for the African heads-of-states last week at the UK/Africa summit.

Perhaps, Piers, you can explain to Thomas Markle Sr. that though Lewis Hamilton has won 6 F1 Championships, he has only been made an MBE, whereas Ben Stokes was made an OBE. And please do try explaining to him that it has positively nothing to do with race that five F1 Championships later, Lewis Hamilton remains an MBE whereas Andy Murray, no Mamba he, was made a CBE for merely winning twice the championship at Wimbledon. Naturally, never in a million years would Jenson Button have been relegated to mere MBE status if he had won 6 F1 Championships. How fucking dare you, Piers! How are you celebrating Lewis Hamilton as your own Mamba, 6 fucking F1 Championships on?

Like Kobe, this woman Meghan is a true Mamba. She came, she saw and like Kobe, would never settle for petty, lazy mediocrity and that is why she took her leave of the Cambridges and their petty grudging machinations, the racism at Kensington Palace as was outed by HRH Princess Michael of Kent – why do you think that the Sussexes moved to Frogmore Cottage… all the more reason why they should not be paying for your entrenched racism by paying for Frogmore Cottage.

Piers, how pray tell can the likes of you aspire to being Mamba when all you and your isle of bigots are, are mere lazy, colonialist, racist boors, who can never cease being slavishly addicted to your truly deluded idea of superiority and entitlement? Did it never occur to you as you racially preyed on, hunted, lynched and celebrated Meghan’s departure that all of this was affecting The Queen whom you claim to cherish, honour and respect? In lynching Meghan, you were also dismantling The Queen’s proudest legacy, the Commonwealth? Well, she is gone and like Thomas Markle Sr., you never knew Meghan and she will never suffer you nor your BS. Stop trying to absolve yourselves of your ugliness… your racism; it is at the very core of your collective isle-dwelling souls.

Go on, if you had treated Kobe as you treated Meghan, would he have achieved his greatness? Fuck no! Meghan knows her worth, as did Kobe, which is why she took leave of lazy, petty assholes like you – and elsewhere royals, royal households – who could never aspire to being Mamba. How dare you, you small-minded, bigoted fool deny your racist birthright? How dare you presume that you could possibly ever be perceived as Mamba? Indeed, you may yet begin to transcend your mediocrity by doing something so bold and Mamba-like as writing about the Cambridges’ crumbling façade as alluded to by BBC’s Mary Berry’s A Berry Merry Christmas TV special at Christmas 2019. Indeed, I dare you, you failed Mamba twat, write about the vile paedophilia within the House of Windsor, which to deny is just as risible as your winded rants about Mamba Meghan never having been subjected to racism by the British media, royal households, royals or society at large.

Cover-story_Usain-Bolt_Stephen-Corby-1100x733

How dare you Piers when the very racism you deny is at the heart of why Meghan could not achieve her own greatness in Britain. Unlike the raw spontaneity of sport where Lewis Hamilton, Kobe Bryant, Michael Jordan, Usain Bolt and countless others cannot be hindered and interfered with in real time by the likes of insufferable and ubiquitous racist boors like you, ready to lynch, vilify and criminalise such persons, they unlike Meghan are able to achieve greatness without being hindered, driven out of town and having the mob incited to hatred and lynching them because of your racism and grudge. You cannot warp and interfere in real time events such that you who must always win, must always be superior, come out on top – hell why do you think Simon Cowell is so damn rich? Simon Cowell allows you a guaranteed winner to your liking, of your fragile-sensibilitied likeness every time. No asshole, Meghan didn’t run; Meghan’s greatness belongs in real time, which is guaranteed beyond your isle of bigoted boors – the royals, royal households, Britons at large and most definitely Mamba-challenged assholes like you!

How fucking goddamn dare you?

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By Any Means, We Win!

23.01.202029.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

What William wants, William gets; he is the spoilt, over-indulged man-child, who also happens to be inordinately stupid and lacks awareness in direct contrast to his paternal grandmother, HM The Queen – one only has to recall his behaviour during Sheku Kanneh-Mason’s performance at the 2018 Royal Wedding of the Sussexes which validates this fact.

rs_1024x759-160414062908-1024-Prince-William-Kate-Middleton-Bhutan

What possible strategic import is Bhutan such that TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge had to pay the inordinately handsome King a visit? None! William bothered and besotted, clearly had to make that journey and realise his public school boy fantasy.

Obsessively controlling, this is the only known photograph of HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge with a gun whilst hunting. A carefully stage-managed persona, which airbrushes out anything that could possibly cast him in a negative light. Just like when recently stridently denying that there was any bullying on his (William’s) part of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex or that TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge could in any way have been party to the campaign of isolation, racially predatory bullying and collusion with the print medium to slander, vilify and drive the American negro from being within the ranks of the senior royals.

Following TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, everyone fell into line and ignored, isolated, excluded and condescendingly gloated, hissed at Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. The Cambridges, like HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York and his relations with murdered paedophile Jeffrey Epstein, simply do not relate to or engage with blacks. Period. There is no fudging the issue. As such, they would have seen it as a betrayal on the part of HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex to have gone and wedded a black woman, thereby bringing into their midst, the most undesirable of possible wives.

The Cambridges’ bigotry is precisely why that flat-arsed, no-calved freak, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, felt perfectly justified in wearing the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s annual Christmas Lunch in 2017. This display would have been a way of currying favour with the toxic 9s (the Cambridges) who head the court at Kensington Palace.

This is precisely why it was contingent on TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge visiting his shitty little enterprise, there was pea-brained Amir Khan, claiming to all the world that there is no racism in England; however, you can damn well bet that the blithering jackass certainly thinks that there is Islamophobia in England. Matters not how the Cambridges run off to Pakistan and find them more desirable than the predominantly black Commonwealth countries’ citizens, radical Muslims are never going to cease fantasising of putting your skull in the small of your back. So sad to watch the descendants of the world’s greatest empire kiss-arse in a bid not to be hunted by those who will never cease seeing them as the enemy, even in your own land. Alas, such is the cruel justice that is karma.

Here we have another Asian Briton, running off at the mouth and making absurd inflammatory claims as there is no racism in England. That is as absurd as any man anywhere, denying that women experience sexism. If there is no anti-Semitism, no Islamophobia then yes, there is no racism towards blacks. Obviously, no way Muslim Khans, Amir & Saira, would agree that there is no Islamophobia. These Asians as they curry favour with whites, just come off looking as latter day house niggers for stridently denying that blacks experience racism. Just because a Mongolian does not experience anti-Semitism does not meant that anti-Semitism does not exist. Really sick and tired of all these holier-than-though, non-white, non-blacks, stoking racial divisions by denying racism towards blacks exist, simply because it earns then favoured nation status with people they would, in the case of the Khans et al, readily favour the heads of the same whites, they feign defending, in the small of their backs.

Henry & Meghan attending HM The Queen’s 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace.

Where pray tell were the Cambridges coming forward at Christmas 2017 and stridently defending Harry and his wife and stating that there was no place in their court for behaviour like that of HRH Princess Michael of Kent. Yet, there was William having the clueless Amir Khan, pronouncing that there is no racism in England. Alas, there is no sophistication in the actions of stupid persons. He said nothing about the brooch incident; however, when your brother and his wife are being run out of England, you get a convenient kiss-arse to come forward and deny racism in England.

As fate would have it, it truly would be poetic justice to have HRH Prince George of Cambridge end up marrying one of the many well-heeled and aggressive Indo-Pakistani families that now see opportunity, what with the American negro crashing the gates of the palace. Sadly, of course, George will likely end up converting to his wife’s religion in such a scenario and there would go all those centuries of tradition and history. Just imagine, all the art in Buckingham Palace carted to the courtyard and destroyed like the Buddhist statues in Afghanistan were; thereafter, Buck House become a palatial mosque at the end of the mall Indeed, fitting karma for a history of warring and slavery; more than that, fitting karma for having bullied, racially preyed on and driven out Meghan that undesirable American negro.

You keep on avoiding those predominantly black Commonwealth countries, though future sovereign thereof; you may yet rue the day your bigotry got the better of you. Look at the preceding photograph, both Cambridges are hard-faced and sullen, betraying their desire not to be in the company of people like these, who happen to be predominantly black as they are the leaders of Africa at a UK/Africa summit. All royals with hands clasped as though wanting not to be contaminated by undesirables.

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Just as at Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor’s christening photograph, William had the same look of disgust and loathing for having to be in the presence of such undesirables… blacks.

Both the Cambridges walking into the salon at Buckingham Palace to meet the predominantly black delegation of African leaders at the reception for the UK/Africa Summit with the faces looking hard, vexed and like thunder; apart from the fact that their marriage is a fractious, hostile waste of time, they are also not holding back on their displeasure at having to engage people about whom they do not give two fucks.

All this trip demonstrated, is who William’s advisers are and who he looks up to. There was no import in a future head of the Church of England, kowtowing to any other religion anywhere. HM The Queen has never done it; then again, Israel is not a predominantly black Commonwealth nation. The sad reality is, William could not fathom that to many with a discerning intellect, he looked as ridiculously silly as he found Rev. Curry as he openly ridiculed him to his father during the Royal wedding in 2018 of his brother at St. George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle before his brother’s mother-in-law. William is an alarmingly clueless chump.

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Indeed, there were the Sussexes on the eve of the 2019 Remembrance Sunday service in Whitehall with Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall not turning up; she bowed out at the last minute over claims of being under the weather. Yet, there she was the day following in the balcony in Whitehall next to HM The Queen, looking as prune-faced as ever.

Well before you knew what next, there was Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex emigrated to Canada. Now that’s more like the Tudor matriarch we know and love; damn right said Meghan, ‘Bitch I’m not your dirty tampon!’ Regardless how that sissy-arsed closet case, Piers Morgan loudly farts from the wrong orifice, Meghan is not a quitter. Funny how he failed to have stated that though not the star, Meghan did not quit Suits for all of seven years. Wanna know why pussy-face, because she was not being racially preyed on, disrespected and of all people by persons whom she readily discerned are fucking idiots… to put it delicately.

Just look at the rabid, racially predatory idiot having to soul-search and claim after Meghan has said, ‘Fuck you, I’m out,’ having to run around and defend that they were never being racist. If Meghan had not left, you would not be having this debate, rather, you would be continuing on with the same racialised reportage that got you massive advertising revenue. Well, don’t you worry about it, Americans do not like being treated like shit and they are second to no one. The days of British actors migrating to America and walking off with awards, awards season after awards season are numbered. How many American actors from Julliard end up in BBC dramas or anywhere for that matter on British TV or film? None; it simply never happens!

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Only a self-assured soul who had been highly placed in the BRF in previous lives and one who played just as pivotal a role as the current sovereign, HM The Queen, could be so strong, indomitable and possessed of a true sense of self. Yes, indeed, why suffer through decades of being racially preyed on by royal households, royals both minor and senior? Good of the Sussexes to have gotten out now, in the next decade or two at most, William will likely be sovereign and he and his warring wife are the most ill-equipped persons you can possibly imagine, to carry on the heritage of the current sovereign, HM The Queen.

Ragland, Doria 2/9/56 Cleveland, Ohio.

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature slave – second life thereat. Doria is in the perseveration mode with a goal of dominance. A realist, Doria is in the intellectual part of moving centre.

Doria’s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary, stubbornness.

Doria’s body type is Venus/Saturn.

The fragment Doria is fifth-cast in the second cadence. Doria is a member of greater cadence seven. Doria’s entity is three, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418.

Doria’s essence twin is a slave and the task companion a priest who is known to her.

Doria’s three primary needs are: exchange, adventure and power.

There are 5 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

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As is obvious, Doria is a cadre mate of HM The Queen, her daughter, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor and HRH Prince George of Cambridge. Archie and George are entity mates; however, whereas Archie is the 7th level mature priest, George is a fourth mature king! The senior Cambridges are in no way connected to any of the aforementioned persons at the level of soul; the former persons, though, share a bond, which would never be marred by anything that the Cambridges would do.

How’s that for karmic dessert for the bloody savagery you meted out to Africa and her descendants even to this day and which, like the smug cowards you are, will rant up and down, protesting that it has anything to do with race as you lynched HRH Prince Henry and his wife for being a goddamn American negro straight out of Compton. These people actually get a high out of fucking with blacks and denying to our faces that racism exists. There is no way in high hell that Piers Morgan would bring a Muslim, Muslim cleric or Jihadist onto his show and take pleasure in fucking with such an individual and claim that there is no such thing as Islamophobia – certainly, his open animus towards Afua Hirsch is standard behaviour towards blacks.

In all this high jinks, William and Catherine had not foreseen the ramifications of their grudging, racially predatory behaviour towards Meghan and her husband. Now that Meghan has taken Harry and her family to Canada, there is HM The Queen’s greatest legacy, the Commonwealth, left in ruins as it is a known fact that neither William nor Catherine have any desire to mix with the predominantly black Commonwealth heads-of-states and definitely they are not the least bit inclined to go visit those nations.

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Archie was the catalyst for the Sussexes to make their break for North America. There was Meghan, refusing to play by the rules and when finally she revealed a photo of Archie with his great-grandmother, there were they all looking on adoringly as though he were the messiah. Further, there was of all things a dread-locked black woman in the photograph and the royal baby’s grandmother no less. If that were not bad enough, without access to Archie as the Sussexes denied the royal rota for attacking Meghan, they presented him at court to Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu, the very reminder of white privilege not being a given anymore. There was Archie, a royal baby, being fawned over by that vile attacker of Apartheid as heroic Baroness Thatcher saw him, to say nothing of Nelson Mandela.

Indeed, Meghan is infinitely smarter than the royal rota realised; this is after all, the same soul who proved the matriarch of the Tudor dynasty. No messing with Meghan. Britons with their inferiority complex towards richer, larger, brasher Americans just had to bully, bray and racially prey on the black witch. Too bad, you never thought that black American woman was going to fight back and pull the rug out from under the bullying royal rota’s feet.

This couple, possessed of matching numbers, and toxic at that, 9 and 3 are as culpable in Meghan deciding that the best move to save their marriage and sanity was to hell with the Cambridges’ games and get out. The royal rota is dead and for being in Canada, who could care less what they think?

Now the ball is in the powerful royal rota’s court and the The Sun’s racist editor can go stuff a cock in every orifice as he does the bidding of his vile overlord, whose oft-passed-around, Texan escort wife pretty much sums up the lack of integrity associated with that racist behemoth. Who cares now what Piers Morgan thinks in his daily shrill, race-baiting sniper fire at Meghan and Harry? All this because it has everything to do with race.

The Windsors represent the lionisation of white privilege; more than that, they represent the purity of white genetics. The irony of all this is that almost all European royals invariably descend from HM Queen Victoria, who was directly descended from the very equally black wife as Meghan, Duchess of Sussex of HM, King George III’s, Queen Charlotte.

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Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor is the manifestation of Piers Morgan and all racist Britain’s worse fears. There is a royal child, who is directly born to the womb of a black woman. Of course, that black woman would be reviled and become the most lynched black in human history. Indeed, why should she suffer it; it is madness, has nothing to do with her or reality and as the Sussexes clearly love each other, why subject yourself to such toxicity? Why be vilified, lied about, openly hated and ridiculed all because you did not give birth to a child who is of pure white heritage.

This ultimately has nothing to do with Meghan. Meghan, though, was the crucible of their worse fears realised; the moment you breed with non-whites, you lose your very less than dominant genetic blonde and blue-eyed stock, which of course is widely claimed as superior. The obvious love this man, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex has for his wife, Meghan, a black woman and their non-white child is at the heart of the open racially predatory animus these ugly people bear Meghan and her family; yet, these cowardly liars swear up and down that it has nothing to do with race!

Well here’s another obvious lie of yours, on which your civilisation is based: sorry not buying it – Mary did not lay down and give birth to Christ without once having fucked. From that one lie, has sprung a culture of lies where everything is based in lies… right down to trying to deny Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex her humanity. To hell with the royal households, the Cambridges and any other royals who would deny this great eloquent, intellectually and emotionally intelligent woman her rightful human respect.

Since the institution and its rabid racists could never be expected to change, on realising this, fast enough, one day Meghan looked herself in the mirror, smiled and said, ‘I am much too tall to be made to feel this small.’ Meghan decided to be the change that the House of Windsor needed, ‘Come on H, we are moving to Canada, you are finally going to be emancipated.’ Free at last were they of the toxic brother (William) and his equally toxic wife (Catherine) whom, I might add, Harry never rejected.

Let them finally get off their arses and do something remotely looking like work and more importantly, looking like a couple in love… hyperemesis gravidarum my arse! Meghan driven out because singly or combined, the Cambridges were outshone by Meghan, indeed, Meghan and Harry.

Like Charles with Diana, Princess of Wales before them, a petulant, jealous William colluded with his wife and conspired to demonise that black witch. They had never in a million years envisioned Meghan, upping and abandoning them and their BS. Look at William in the above clip; he is winded, embarrassed and unfocussed and hardly ever looks up. Whatever are they going to do? Meghan pulled a move that they had never seen coming in a million years. His culpability in the matter is betrayed by his not once cracking a joke, which is his usual approach on taking to the lectern

Well, there you are centre stage, as boring as day-old porridge and just as sodden as cardboard left outdoors during monsoon season. Go on mousy, go on cock-suck that mic and show us how you have found the voice you never had to lose in the first place. Now Meghan can speak before an audience without having the royal household, directed by the Cambridges, scrub the internet of her speeches, as they did with her eloquent speech to the 2018 British Fashion Awards.

Really you two, what exactly have you won? Now centre stage, the spotlight will be most unforgiving as it ferrets out who you truly are. Your collusion with royal rota is up, the beast needs new blood to feast on… and you are it.

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Finally, The Mouse Has Fucking Roared!

22.12.201929.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

What did I tell you? I done been sermonising up in here all these long months and then the coalminer’s kinder done let it all hang out. Getting hot under the collar in the kitchen indeed.

Now you know, with that one move, all god’s coloured queens done sprained their wrists, hyper-fanning themselves and blew their just-so fascinators clear off their weaved heads, on seeing the crypt-dwelling, muggled mouse-cum-rat roar back. Twas bound to happen; sooner or later, every rat will resort to cannibalism.

Did you not think it weird that Catherine went and sat her post-partum steely self between Lord Porchie’s minor meat-loving dolt and Camilla – the coolest older royal after The Princess Royal. As William would have had to get up to bear the rings, it is only natural that Catherine ought to have sat to HRH Prince Charles, Duke of Cornwall’s immediate right, rather than two to his left just beyond his wife, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall despite what protocol dictates.

Catherine is both a warrior soul and a 9 energy body to the core. What’s more, she is a fifth-level mature soul and as there is drama at the mature soul age, it is most pronounced when one is fifth-level mature as that level is synonymous with the fifth role in essence, the sage. Drama is the hallmark of sages, fifthness brings you drama. Finally, the little squeaking mouse had had enough of playing nice, metamorphosed, becoming a rabid rat who readily roared.

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Jo Elvin, Alexandra Shulman, Janet Street-Porter, Lady Colin Campbell, Piers Morgan & Stephanie Powers.

Whatever shall those silly, ninny-arsed fools do now as they have spent the past year, trying to make you and I see nacre where there was none, in what is clearly nothing but faux pearls from Target! No matter how the persons above slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in their bid to suddenly anoint Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as stylish, having found a voice that she never had to lose in the first place, to being future Queen consort et tout ça; it is all frigging lies, which were shattered with Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge dismissing HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge much as she did on the balcony at Buckingham Palace within mere hours of having been wedded on April 29, 2011.

Numbers do not lie and 9 energy-bodied women are all shrewd, rudely dismissive and crass when it comes to letting you know just where they stand; and for being human, there is no reason why Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge would act any differently.

These blasted clowns acting as though we have all been somnambulant these past 8 years. I don’t care if you want to rebrand her as being able to turn her piss into wine, she, as her numbers dictate and as she indisputably chose to lay bare during Mary Berry’s Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas – which only came about because palace mandarins decided that since that American, Straight Outta Compton wrote the foreword to the Grenfell cookbook Together then a cooking special for the TV masses it is – is no such thing.

catherine-duchess-of-cambridge-on-day-one-of-royal-ascot-at-news-photo-1150564025-1560867912

ab5cb89c4ec8e20d85f094bddf3a66f6--creepy-illustration-edward-gorey-illustration

True to her numbers, Catherine just had to let there be no doubt that she ain’t nothing but a damn river rat in true Edward Gorey fashion. And there were her revisionist enablers, thinking that this Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas, will really show up the object of their vilifying campaign, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex as so passé. And boy did they ever show her up… Catherine that is!

That’s right Monty, that’ll be two sugars with my Countess Grey.

Regardless, Diana, Princess of Wales’ deeply lonely, all scholar souls ever are, emotionally stunted son, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, does not deserve to be bullied and disrespected. As has been painfully obvious, this will ever cause him to roam as every emasculating woman has caused her partner to do.

Like Vladimir Horowitz and Wanda Toscanini, who were also task companions, this pair of task companions must also get up to the most vicious nagging and rows imaginable. You can fool no one, most especially older souls than you!

With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s appearance at court, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge has got reason to live. Life is all competition for warriors; hell Catherine would compete with a damn fly but not before first plucking one of its wings off. That maniacal angst of Catherine’s is why the soul who was Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort, later HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York & Albany and now Meghan, Duchess of Sussex chose to have nothing to do with the fire-breathing, ape-bat shit psycho holding court at Kensington Palace; instead, Meghan et famille quite rightly so decamped at Windsor Castle’s Frogmore Cottage.

Look at the two older children; they are growing up in a household where there is clearly massive strain in their parents’ marriage. There is a lot of discord and rowing afoot and that is readily discernible in the two older children’s faces.

Wanda Toscanini & Vladimir Horowitz.

Horowitz, Vladimir 1/10/03 Kiev<O>5/11/89, NYC

Michael: This fragment was, in his immediate past life, a mid-cycle mature scholar in passion mode, with a goal of growth, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre.

Vladimir had a Mercury/Lunar body type.

Vladimir’s was a strong primary chief feature of arrogance and a weaker secondary of stubbornness.

This fragment was second-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity five, cadre two, greater cadre 14, pod/node 449.

He and the fragment who was Wanda Toscanini are task companions, both now discarnate. The fragment who was Wanda was a fifth level mature warrior.

Vladimir’s essence twin is a scholar and is incarnate on the physical plane, is female, age seven years. There are plans for them to complete the mother/son monad in Vladimir’s next incarnation, which will probably occur during the third decade of the next millennium.

So here was an artisan-cast scholar with a great deal of sage energy, most of which was expended in his personal life. This fragment’s relationship with his task companion was passionate, explosive and mutually satisfying.

This scholar’s demeanour in public contrasted greatly with his behaviour in his private life.

It is interesting to note that this fragment has had only one other life as a practicing musician and that was as an organist at the Chartres Cathedral in the early part of the nineteenth century.

However, this fragment has a long stage history, beginning in Greece during its Golden Age.

This fragment also built harpsichords during the latter part of the eighteenth century and actually built one for Leopold Mozart.

As a highland warrior in the latter part of the seventeenth century, this fragment distinguished himself both on the battlefield and in fashioning bagpipes.

He was an exemplary soldier in many lives and many guises.

However, the place where this fragment was most at home was on the stage or behind the scenes.

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Like Catherine & William, Vladimir & Wanda were also task companions and also the same mix of Scholar and Warrior souls. Both women were/are fifth-level mature warrior souls. I knew a classical musician in NYC in the 1980s and he knew the couple and said they were the most passionate, loud, argumentative and frankly abusive towards each other couple he had ever known. This is not uncommon territory for task companions; by its very nature, the relationship is about spurring the other into action. Warrior females in a relationship where they feel themselves not in control, will engage in bullying to assume power of some sort or power as they so deem it. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s uncouth display, in public no less, during the Mary Berry Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas, speaks to the great stress that William endures and that Catherine has exercised in her bid to gain control in a position which she clearly perceives as tenuous at best.

Recently, I got taken to task about my observation that TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge refuse to tour predominantly black Commonwealth countries. They have recently been to Pakistan and have also to date visited India. Along with that, they have visited Singapore and elsewhere. The argument was from my dinner partners that, perhaps, the Cambridges do not tour such countries because they are poorer et al. If only that were true. Nigeria is the third most populous Commonwealth nation after India and Pakistan and though Nigeria’s GDP is higher than that of Pakistan’s, the argument that they don’t do poorer Commonwealth nations do not hold up, when they have hopscotched over Nigeria and toured less populous Singapore whose GDP is also less than that of Nigeria’s. Again, I hang tough, their combined numerological 9s, are precisely why the Cambridges have to date chosen not to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation. That certainly does speak volumes about them and in particular William and his enabler in that regard, Catherine.

Demonise TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their family all they want, whilst portraying the Cambridges as the embodiment of wholesomeness and regal class. Be that as it may, the Cambridges have been fractious where the Sussexes never have been. No matter how the print medium race-bait the public into loathing the Sussexes, theirs comparably is a happy marriage and that at the end of the day, is why Catherine, rather than Meghan, seethes at having to be touched by her spouse. Catherine is a toxic 9 writ large and no amount of sugar-coating ya-ya from the DailyMail and its racist trolls will ever be able to gloss over the froideur Catherine exhibited at Mary Berry Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas, towards HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.

That is no mouse, it is a damn river rat! So you know, two rats will have a million offspring in a mere 18 months, most of which will be cannibalised to keep themselves fed and nourished. So very wise of the Sussexes to stay clear of that rabid, to say nothing of haunted, toxic and dense-energied lair where the Cambridges hold court, Kensington Palace.

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4.3.4 = 11

08.12.201929.12.2025 Arvin da Brgha

Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the most masterful numbers. She does, indeed, have master numbers: 11. Look at those eyes, the eyes of Queen Mother, to HM King Henry VI, grandmother to HM King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. She has staying power, thanks to those double 4s and with an attitude of 3, she is renowned for being most articulate and a skilled communicator of the message.

4 – focussed, solid, self-made, resolute, inner-directed, reincarnated with an agendum.

3 – attitude of 3 – gracious living, the great communicator, when one speaks others listen. There is only win-win, failure is never an option for these persons. Incidentally, Ben Mulroney is an attitude of 3, which is why he is a gracious interviewer – non-confrontational. Also, I have noticed that a lot of persons who planned a life in the public sphere tend to have 9 and 3 in their make up, as in both HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his lovely wife, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. Incidentally, these three persons, Ben and the Cambridges would have been very relaxed in each others company and true to her 9 energy body, Catherine would likely have made a dig at her husband along the lines, ‘He certainly has a great head of hair…’ As it is perfectly naturally for straight men to be attracted to each other, they would not be human if they did not, both men would have been pleasantly warmed by the other’s make-up with their similar 9 and 3. Catherine and Ben both are 9 energy body; they would have found each other more than passingly fascinating. Catherine is a warrior which means that she will always be steely; as for Ben, don’t know his overleaves but I am guessing that he is more so on the expression axis rather than not – an artisan or sage soul. In my experience, whereas 9 women can be extremely rude and dismissive, 9 men are reserved and not given to readily passing judgment.

There is also the matter of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being in perseverance mode, which is as unrelenting a foe as you can ever imagine, on top of which she is a warrior. This woman was born to be Queen Consort and that’s the end of that, there will be no Camilla rewriting the script. Interestingly enough, both Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons are wedded to very strong women – as well they should be. In both cases, both couples are entity mates, which is as good a partnering as one can hope for. Meghan, however, with double 4s and master number of 11 is here to rule as when previously she had as Queen Mother and Tudor dynasty matriarch.

Not only is 11 a master number but it also leaves all such persons lone wolves, regardless how popular they are. This explains why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will faster-than-a-sneeze dispense with persons when need be. And yes, she has every damn right to be done with the blasted dreck that do not know the meaning of family: honour, fealty, discretion. I am, where the master number 11 is concerned, just such a person… 2.1.8 = 11. Of course, like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge that attitude of 1 means that I am more inclined to be shy and reserved than ‘on’. At least that was the rule when Merlin was incarnate and we were together. Now, more of the 11 comes to the fore and I simply give two-fucks and sound off loudly and most articulately.

Recently, owing to a host of prickly transits, to say nothing of the mercury retrograde, I have found myself beset with some entanglements that have provoked the less polished side of my Venus/Uranus conjunction. This all began around the time that I wrote the blog about that blasted tarbaby frog finally showing his true colours. I had no less than 8 French Canadians getting up in my business, demanding that I delete aforementioned blog and that these were the indiscretions of youth. Bitch please! After having lived in Montréal for seven years with the best task companion/comrade-in-arms an equally seventh level mature soul, though, she a warrior, we gave as good as we got. Of course, said warrior became my wife at Palais du Justice on Bob Marley’s birthday in 1999. Today, we remain the best of friends and she now he, has a fully beard than I have ever sported…. alas, I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I was being regaled by my sister who lives in Nevis about my mother’s cousin whose funeral it was that day. She died at age 107 and was attended by quite the turn out with le tout Nevis’ elites in tow. Though I have never met, her great-granddaughter was part of the descendants who eulogised the grand dame; that great-granddaughter was Mel B (Scary Spice) of Spice Girls fame. I have though several times met my fathers cousin, the inimitable and truly regal, Cicely Tyson, wife of Jazz genius, Miles Davis a man who did not gladly suffer people who hate him or his race…. as well he damn ought to have.

As I entered the little school in my neighbourhood, a spry spirit who always is good for a laugh, beamed on seeing me as he sat on his scooter with equally situated mates and inquired, “And who will you be voting for?” to which I shot back, “You can damn well bet it won’t be for no blasted motherfucking, cocksucking tarbaby-arsed frog!” raucous laughter peppered the air as I went in and voted conservative for the first time in my life. Enough of that sissy-arsed twat, who is nothing more than Modi’s pappishow with his displaced femme au foyer, fag-hag frau, Madame Plotte-Visage herself, who looks more and more each day like Tammy Faye Bakker. You don’t like black people… go fuck yourself… god only knows, you did not invent Jazz!

Days earlier en route home with my little suitcase in tow, I got up off the bench to take the Wellesley 94 bus eastbound to my art-filled lair. The bus pulled in and queerly parked such that the back door was a good three feet away – I have never seen the appeal of metric… nothing beats knowing whether you are dealing with 9.5 or 10.5 inches! Though my suitcase was too heavy, I was prepared to step off the platform to make for the rear doors, yet, the doors did not open. Finally, I joined the Dravidian male who had been waiting to board the rear doors as well. When I got to the front door, noisily pulling my suitcase, I looked up stunned as the doors slammed shut just as I was getting ready to board. The doors then opened after the driver looked at me with a smug smirk creasing her lizard-lipped face. I got in and as ever, I said thank you. As I progressed towards the double seats by the rear door, the bus suddenly broke, causing me to lurch forward. Taking it all in stride, I opted not to assume anything by this trio of events which most blacks would see after the third incident as being racially provocative. Up the couple of steps I got with my heavy suitcase; this only made me realise my advancing years as suddenly the urge to pee came on. I had switched from Bleu par Chanel a couple of years back when senior leak suddenly meant that after five minutes Bleu fades and gives way to god forbid that most malodourous of bouquets: loud-smelling, dribbled piss. Now it is Christian Dior’s Sauvage as the scent lingers and dissipates any provoked thoughts of raunchy water sports.

Having made my way to the back seat, there were all told less than a dozen souls on the bus. On arriving at the first stop from the station, the driver got up at Church Street. I thought that there must be someone wheelchair bound, trying to board, hence she got from her seat to assist. As I was otherwise engaged in thoughts libidinal and what I’d like to do with that burly mesomorph at work, whose woman just upped and left him, I remained focussed on artisan channels 3 to 5 instead. Just then, I noticed the bus driver step up the two steps and make it towards me, seated at the centre of the bus’ long back seat. Leaning her, her nasty-looking perm straight out of the 90s, she gruffly barked at me in a manner that suggested that couth had ever been foreign to her. “Look, everybody has bad days okay. There’s no need to swear at me.” I said nothing, looking instead past her as the thought occurred to me that the bus was being driven by duppy incarnate. Since my name ain’t Shaneequa, I remained calm and looked up at a face warped uglier by rage, which I also found uncomfortably too close. I was hemmed in. “Get off my bus or I call the police!” As I chose to say nothing or move a single muscle, she got even more incandescent with irrationally unprovoked rage, “That’s it get off my bus now, I’m calling the police!” As she turned to walk away, it gave a good look at her flat-arsed, no-calved god fugly hideousness and I got up and began making it for the bus’ front doors. As I slowly strode for the front doors, I expertly memorised her bus ID and every detail of slender hipped, extra-vertebrae-looking alien body and realised that she was likely trans; either way, just then a definite non sequitur. For once, I said nothing on exiting and as I really needed to pee, thought of hailing a cab when noticing another bus directly in back of the scene of my misadventure. I got aboard, said hello to the driver, a guapo Filipino and grabbed a seat on the even less populated bus. Also, I memorised the ID information associated with his bus. On exiting the bus, as per usual, I said thanks and exchanged pleasantries. As soon as I got situated at home, with Buster on my lap purring away, I took to the TTC’s site and chose the tab that allows for filing complaints. In exquisite detail, as well you are I shared what occurred and confidently knew that at no point would any of the bus’ cameras capture me saying anything to the female driver. She is, as per her contract, never to leave her seat nor confront a passenger. I have never seen her since.

Well in the grip of Mercury retrograde, I strolled into one of many little joints which I love frequenting as I like chatting with the proprietors and in the process, giving them my business. On close to a decade of frequenting this particular store, where I picked up a lottery ticket or two, my bike was leaning against the row of sugary treats, I turned just in time to see an old weathered hag out on Yonge Street beadily gawking in and cutting her hateful eyes at me. Possessed of some right afforded her by god only knows fuck-all whom – the blasted motherfuck, she bounded into the store, well into her ninth decade and looking and smelling of ill-health and poverty, “Get that goddamn bike outta here.” I was wearing my helmet with lights attached front and back in broad daylight as one does. Without so much as missing a beat, I launched into her with a ferocity, she likely had never before encountered, which is why she felt perfectly entitled to take such liberties. “Get your fucking ugly arse out of here, go the fuck to Wal-Mart make your way to the back of the store and tell them I sent you to put a down paying on your fucking casket as you are obviously too fucking poor to afford to die all this time…” Never having had her racially predatory behaviour challenged before, she stood there suddenly catatonic. “Go on, here you go, start that fucking down paying today…” with that, I tossed the few coins in my pocket at her feet and barged on in full throttle loud, vituperativeness. “Pick it the fuck up, high time your fucking ugly, broke arse and casket were lowered into the ground. Come in here opening your motherfucking lizard-lipped mouth, barking at me. Pick it the blasted motherfuck up and crawl the fuck in your casket.” She tried to weakly say something to which I kept up my defense against being racially preyed on, “Shut up and die, go on… scoot. There’s no need for your fuck-all ugly, broke arse, smelly cunt hanging around… get the fuck off the planet.” Never ever during a mercury retrograde will this venus-uranus leo hold his tongue when being racially preyed on. Faster than the loudest sneeze, I rammed my fist up her rotting arse, yanked and ripped at her calcified soul, pulled it out, wiped arse with it, then slapped her silly in the face before making her gag on a soul being held hostage by her useless maudlin existence. I have become so less inclined to tolerate this perpetual abuse which we as blacks endure on a daily basis yet pretend as though it does not exist. There are, though, times when you need to protest. Back in 1988 after meeting Wayne Robson’s firstborn, as I moved south down the west side of Bond Street to go visit Merlin at St. Michael’s Hospital who was suffering his first bout of AIDS-related pneumocystis, I screamed at the top of my lungs at an old Caucasian female who on noticing me began hurriedly crossing to the east side of Bond, “I don’t want your fucking handbag…” Never ceases to amaze the arsenal of behaviour that non-blacks project onto us as they get their racially predatory fix: sniffing, outright ridicule, dragging feet, yawning, bumping into you, blowing cigarette smoke in your direction… those are the passive racially predatory acts. More often, it is like that act in the convenience store, so racially obsessed that one feels oneself perfectly entitled to project that ignorance in a malicious, accusatory, bullying manner towards blacks. Indeed, ever notice the inordinate number of overweight blacks; they like all persons who were sexually preyed on in their early years more often than not develop eating disorders.

With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s lynching daily in print media, social media and just about everywhere else, I have become increasing intolerant of any and all such BS. Do not because I am black start, apropos of fuck-all nothing, braying about how much you hate and can’t stand that Meghan bitch as if the blasted fuck these arsewipes know the woman. Out of the blue someone whom I thought had long made the only logical move viable to her sorry arse and crawled into her casket, called up trying for the nth time to get me to start today and join that pyramid scheme of hers for which she is ever travelling to some rah-rah seminar and on the cusp of getting rich yet still ain’t and needs you to join this very day; this, I can assure you, is about as appealing as trying to get me to bed some moneyed old fuck with a micro penis and bad breath. Nah… I’m all about the dharma.

Last summer everyone called up, demanding to know if I were not going to the Raptors championship parade. Hell no! Crowds you say… not happening. The day of the parade, I kept being called up by excited friends, asking me if I was watching and wasn’t it phenomenal. Very matter of factly, I declared to one, “When these fucking Goys do Yom Kippur, they certainly do know how to go all out.” Of course, after having explained myself days later at a dinner party, the point was well taken. This is a country with soft ethnic cleansing of blacks: negative immigration and population growth, a entrenched history of employment discrimination, which sees blacks being ghettoised in casual positions in the work place, especially at crown corporations (government-owned) – I have worked at two: Canada Post and the Toronto Convention Centre; in the case of the former, I arrived in Montréal from Vancouver to find myself the first full-time black in the work place; as fighting is nothing but foreplay in my books, I organised a lone Haitienne and got her to file a Human Rights complaint which she won. This resulted in back pay and all the mostly Haitian blacks awarded full-time and back pay where they had served as casual for 5, 10, 15 years. Naturally, the messenger/lightning rod always comes into someone cross-hairs. At one point, where they tried firing me the local union president told me to go to hell and go back to Canada; thus, I ventured into my firing interview with a lawyer in tow – had never happened before and was not then fired after multiple frantic calls to Ottawa to find out how to deal with him. Before being fired, that blasted porcine pequiste fucker decided to avail himself of my tax dollars by running in the federal election, thankfully he did not win but when he tried two years later, I wrote to Jack Layton who had frequented our Cabbagetown home in the 80s when we lived next door to a rather parvenu and highly snobbish Alfred Sung and informed Mr. Layton that if he did not withdraw that vile racist, my lawyer and I would go to the media and expose him – the letter of course was cced to all the other federal party leaders. In the end, the Bloc Quebecois thanked me for the letter and ran a black Haitienne in the riding from which the union head was summarily dropped and that Haitienne, Ms. Bardot won her seat, only to be replaced in Papineau riding by that blasted, racist tarbaby-arsed frog… but I digress. Two million persons cheering on black excellence when this is a country that actively eradicates any participation of blacks in its cultural fabric – hello JazzFM where you would be dismissed as stupid for thinking that Jazz is black culture. Sure, there are window-dressing blacks in the TV medium but they are not the norm. Not a single prominent Canadian protested and demanded that the vile racist politician resign when his blackface past emerged. Naturally, his people stridently argued in his defense. Would that these ungrateful fucks who hold the country to ransom would finally fuck off and leave. No one outside of Québec, who does not work in the government, is remotely bilingual. Seven years of living in Montréal made one thing perfectly clear: theirs, by its sheer ubiquity is nothing more than a northern confederate flag… and they certainly are possessed of unapologetic xenophobia. The only people deserving of having a party in the Canadian parliament, which not all Canadians can vote for, are the First Nations and Inuit peoples.

Back in late 1982 whilst Merlin and I held up in the Trockadero loft in Manhattan’s Chelsea on Sixth Avenue below 23rd Street, I got in one evening after looking at rehearsal of the Nanette Bearden Dance Company, to find Merlin having dinner and strategising with Jim Henson. As they shared the same agent, Joyce Ketay, they were prepping and throwing around ideas for how to thematically film the series, Fraggle Rock which would be shot in the coming new year in Toronto at CBC’s studios. Merlin had made his favourite dish a chicken paprikash which John Hirsch had taught him. Joining them, I dug in to what was my favourite of Merlin’s prepared meals. I will always remember Jim saying, “first you start with a compliment and then you hang back and listen, listen to what’s said but most of all, what is not said…” Sage advise that I have always followed. What I love about us artisan souls is that we always reveal our nature and the fact that we input on five channels whenever we speak. Listen to Naomi Campbell in her acceptance speech for the CFDA Icon Award. Straight out of left field in the tenth minute, she remarks, “God my lips are dry… sorry.” No other soul but an artisan soul would shift subjects so abruptly so seamlessly and carry on without so much as missing a beat. This quirk of ours, mine, Naomi, Meghan and every last artisan soul who has ever breathed, makes for a master tactician and someone not easily understood or shaken. With a destiny number that proves master numbers like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is a 11 – she is a diamond through and through and why HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales refers to her as Tungsten.

As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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See You Soon… 30 Years On, Merlin’s Magical Departure.

16.11.201929.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Almost instantaneously, as the Moon transited Leo in my third house, my lungs besottedly drank the warm and dank, dark air. Thus I effortlessly drowned into sleep. Whilst wintry winds howled outside the window, this cold early Saturday morning – November 18, 1989 – my lucid focus seamlessly shifted into the dreamtime.

I readily knew that I was dreaming.

Here, just as moments earlier whilst awake and meditating, Merlin was uppermost in my thoughts. I could sense his presence. The shift from one dimension to the other was seamless. Lucidly self-aware, I was immediately come to in a dream that was set in the bedroom where I slept.

I was in bed with the artist Olaf Nordstrom – a source of loving support at present in the waking state. I was lying in bed, leaning on his bony chest, as he sat up in bed. It was obvious from his body language that he did not want to be in bed with me. I felt a still and quiet vibration to this dream. The moment was truly serene and peaceful. This was not a sexual or post-sexual interlude. We were both reflective. It was obvious that we were on the cusp of something momentous. It was the sort of vibration that signalled that something extraordinary was about to unfold.

Olaf behaved as if he was uncomfortable being there – it was a grave moment. He wanted to be there, however, to merely lend his support. It was obvious that he was wary of my clinging. Clinging, however, was not my intention. The moment together was brief – just a preparation for things to come. With that we parted. It was time to get up and participate in the events of whatever was to unfold.

This dream was possessed of inordinate lucidity; its every detail and nuance my faculties absorbed with acuity beyond the norm.

In the second dream, this cold Saturday morning, I found myself in the familiar territory of the Cabbagetown streets where we lived. I went into a store which does not exist in the waking state. It sat just south of the Pet Menagerie store, on the east side of Parliament Street, between Amelia and Winchester Streets.

It was a tailor’s shop that carried rather high-end fabrics. I was there to pick out some fabric because I had a definite idea of what I wanted to wear to Merlin’s funeral. I knew that the only way, to get the look that I wanted, was to make the outfit myself. The kindly, gracious salesman was trying to get me interested in a rather conservative plaid fabric but it simply was not to my liking. My aversion was not because it was plaid; rather, the tone was too sombre.

He was not insistent but let me know that it was appropriate. However, I would have none of it; I simply did not like the fabric or the colours. I simply was not going to have it. Unable to make up my mind and not wanting to make a decision about fabric, as there were so many ramifications to what it all meant, I left the store stepping into the light of day. It had been a very dimly lit, nicely wood-panelled, stately shop.

Once outside, I became acutely aware of Merlin. I was now returned to the yard of Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, where we lived, and Merlin was present with me. Thoughts of Merlin, on leaving the store, had me immediately posited in the front yard of 20 Amelia Street where I happily joined him. We were watering the lawn even though it was wintertime. Next door at 18 Amelia Street, where at this point Club Monaco designer Alfred Sung no longer lived, there were lots of potted plants hanging from the lone, purple-leaved, sugar maple tree.

Merlin was telling me to water the plants. He then began telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had to start taking care of the apartment – I had to make it a home again. Merlin asked me to start preparing things. He meant that this was not the time for procrastination. Of course, moments earlier in the prior dream, I had been procrastinating when down on Parliament Street to pick out fabrics to wear to his funeral. By avoiding the matter altogether, I had chosen instead to forego the purchase. As Merlin spoke to me, I became so aware of him that I completely became self-aware – both in the dream and in my sleep whilst in bed at 20 Amelia Street.

I was standing there very intently looking at Merlin. He, too, was very intently looking at me. Whilst we were unflinchingly looking into each other, I thought aloud with quiet resignation, ‘Merlin has died.’

I knew, too, that Merlin had heard my thoughts in the dream.

At that moment my sister Pandora da Braga, with whom Merlin enjoyed the best relations of anyone else in my life, suddenly became a presence in the dream. She never fully became physically manifested but her energies became overwhelmingly strong. Her energies were just to my rear as she played a loving and supportive role.

Suddenly, introspectively, I recalled a dream which I had had earlier in the week. With everything moving so quickly, in the waking state – with little time to collect my thoughts, let alone overlong time to record any dreams- it had slipped by unrecalled on awakening. However, now it was not merely being recalled, it was being relived in its entirety. I stood there and as I recalled the dream, rather seamlessly, I actually entered the dream which was being reanimated as it was being holographically recalled.

Within the reanimated dream being recalled and relived, I was again on the lawn at 20 Amelia Street in the warmth of the Sun’s rays. Just as in today’s dream, I was on the front lawn facing due north and the house with 18 Amelia Street on the left to the west. As Merlin and I were visiting in the outer dream of today, I had turned my body. Being in the same physical position had triggered the recall and reanimation of the dream from the past week.

To my left, I saw an incredibly ancient-looking, wise being who progressed across the lawn. The slowness of his progression was so measured that one’s experience of time, in the reanimated and recalled dream, progressed outside of time itself. It was simply magical to experience the progression of the very ancient and mystical being. The millennia-ancient figure progressed across the lawn, of 18 Amelia Street, heading towards our home at 20 Amelia Street. The being was male and small in stature; he was hobbit-like. His head was large, disproportionately large, compared to his tiny, frail-bodied frame.

He could not have been more than four feet tall. His head was absolutely massive. His forehead arched up and was high like an African’s. Too, his head was elongated in the back, reminiscent of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s skull. More striking than the majesty with which the august being progressed outdoors, towards our home at 20 Amelia Street, was the look of his face.

It was simply magical. From beneath the translucent skin, soft yellow-white light escaped revealing his very visible aura. Nothing but pure love, along with the same nonjudgmental look that ever peered back from Merlin’s eyes to mine, radiated from this being. The love radiating from the being towards me was awesome, immense – intense. The great being’s progress was purposeful. He was on a mission; he was unstoppable. The process had begun.

I was struck by the uncanny resemblance, which the face of this being bore, to the planet-being in the skies of Sandy Point, St. Kitts in a momentous dream during September 1983. It was a dream whose potency and beauty would lay unfathomable for years to come. The being progressed as though levitating mere millimetres above the rather zingy, extra-green grass of the lawns at both 18 and 20 Amelia Street. Though he did not pause as he progressed, the radiant being did turn and look at me. As though he was familiar with me, he acknowledged me by slightly nodding. However, he continued on towards our home.

He moved past me as I stood there, still and silent, drinking in the majesty of the experience. At soul-centre we were familiar to each other. I knew him. He knew me. I stood, alone and awestruck, in the front yard being refamiliarised by the vibration of his beauty as the effect of his potent powers spatially affected the dream. As he moved past, I was reminded of the film The Dark Crystal, by Jim Henson – with whom Merlin had worked, directing two episodes of the Fraggle Rock television series in its inaugural season. This movie would for several months, after we saw it together in New York City, be our favourite film.

Thereafter for several weeks, whenever we looked at each other – even when not being intimate, we had hummed at each other as the rival beings in the film did when communicating. The being here was much like the good beings in the Jim Henson film The Dark Crystal. The being progressed up the few stone steps, to the wooden veranda at 20 Amelia Street, and began making his way inside the house. As I watched him ascend, from the lawn to the veranda, it was clear to me that he was levitating. Though it was a dream and I too could have levitated and flown, he though had a power which surpassed mine.

This august-souled, mystical being clearly originated from a dimension which vibrationally and spiritually was of a higher plane than the astral, where the dream occurred, and the physical in which I am incarnate. Indeed, the same physical plane from which Merlin was rapidly taking his leave – it was that discernible. The moment the mystical being entered our home, being lost to view, I came to from the inner holographic dream which was a recall and reanimation of a dream that I had experienced within the last week. As I came to, I was about to go indoors to see what had become of the being that had clearly entered our home.

It was then, having returned to being fully focussed in the outer ‘shell’ dream of today November 18, 1989, that I saw Merlin anew. He was standing at the front door looking out at me. I stood there, in the front yard, transfixed whilst the bright daylight bathed my body throughout. The look on Merlin’s face was purely transcendent. He was perfectly still and perfectly radiant. Merlin stood in the midst of a nimbus of dazzling, blue-white light. As he lovingly glowed out at me, this splendid light only intensified.

Merlin was transformed and as his face lovingly lit up, at me, the light grew to more completely envelop his body. Whilst lovingly glowing at me with the warmest, most familiar knowing smile, Merlin slowly brought his right hand up with the palm facing me and more completely smiled. The radiance of his smile soon became lost in the glow of his aura’s light. The nimbus, enveloping his transformed body, radiated even more intensely at that point.

I was blown away. Arrested, I readily knew what I was experiencing; I could feel it. I knew that across dimensions, in the waking state, Merlin had just died.

However, as is my wont, I protested. I dropped the hose which was still bleeding its nurturing water onto the frozen, wintry lawn at my feet. I stood – paralysed. Determinedly, I then bolted for Merlin. I headed up to the veranda as my lover, as my mentor, as my friend stood transcendent in the doorway to what had been the most beautiful sense of home ever experienced. “Merlin!” shrieking in protest, I yelled out his name.

(Detail of oil on canvas by my sister Pandora of Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery where Merlin is buried.)

Suddenly, the thunder of my protesting breath abruptly drew me from sleep. I sat upright in bed, my arms outstretched and beyond, after having crashed back into my body and no longer astral-projected. From the foot of the bed both cats – Zora and Whoopi – knowingly, silently looked up. I was arrested by the frozen horror-struck face staring at me from the mirrored closet doors across the room.

In the near-darkness of the bedroom, a few rays of early morning light made it past the blood-red, velvet drapes heavily hung at the windows. Those rays starkly cast light on how horribly desolate my life now was. Merlin was gone. His spirit had taken leave from this world. It was that discernible as my world, my very universe, had experienced a massive vibrational shift.

I had been abruptly displaced from the astral plane. I had been lucidly dreaming a dream within a dream. I was being told so long as Merlin, transitioned from incarnate to astral plane habitué, bade farewell to our magically glorious union on the physical plane. I was heartened by the peace and knowingness in his transcendent face because I knew that it was a, “See you soon…” parting, for now.

I knew that there would be dreams aplenty up ahead. Just as he had pledged, he would magically weave in his indelible promise to me, before departing from the physical plane. There was such a cold silence, a stinging finality to the moment, as I sat there in bed. After having looked back at myself, silently waiting, I placed a call to the eighth storey nursing station at Wellesley Hospital.

I was immediately aware that the tone of the nurses, with whom I was by now long-familiar, had changed. In very little time, it was official… Merlin had indeed passed. Truth be told, it was not a surprise; I could sense it on awaking. He simply was not there. As always, I had reached out to sense him on awaking – his energies – just blocks away at Wellesley Hospital. Now, there was nothing.

Then, as if needing further proof, I thought about Merlin calling each morning. He would do so, to lovingly say hello and thereby, to lovingly wake me up. Merlin would then lovingly ask for a call-back, after I had audio-recorded the dreams. Merlin had, thus far, not called. Once again, I saw the stillness of my reflection across the room. I knew then, really knew… Merlin was gone.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support but if you really want to make me levitate then do buy my books!

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The Lady Eve 2.0.

26.10.201929.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

As only Preston Sturges could have envisioned, at last we have got ourselves a remake. Would you believe it, a long-running romcom at the Buck House Theatre stars two rather convincing incarnations of Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda in Sturges’ The Lady Eve. In this eight-year production, Charles – the slow, doltish oaf is played to uncanny perfection by the follicly challenged Duke of Cambridge. In the role of Jean: acerbic, sarcastic, bitchingly fierce is the chain-smoking, bulimic, coalmining kinfolk, Catherine – the fair, suddenly and compensatorily beloved… to say nothing of reconstituted Duchess of Cambridge. Look at them deplane; make no mistakes about it, they are hissing at each other. Now as then, Catherine is just as dismissive of William as she was for all the world to see, within two hours of having said, “I do” at Westminster Abbey as they stood on the balcony at Buckingham Palace; yet, body language and lip-reading experts – so beloved by trash like DailyMail – were strangely never consulted. They rowed and she hissed and dismissed the dim-witted oaf, within mere moments of finally having made him all hers.

My what an uncanny resemblance she bears the Duchess of Cambridge. Of course, she was conveniently dispensed with by Catherine after recently marrying. Naturally, such a move would nicely cover the obvious reason for her having been sacked as she was yet another of William’s conquests, right under Catherine’s nose. He is a scholar soul and it is 99.99% probable that he was bedding Catherine’s staffer; it would of course be a way for him to act out the fact that he has no power in their dynamic/marriage. She is a warrior and he is a scholar. Catherine’s first number is 9; her energy body is all about being number one… Perfection is hallmark. All energy body women who are 9s have these traits in common; they are rude, blunt, callous, will openly editorialise in front of anyone and everyone. They tend to have a mannish quality to them for being so fiercely competitive and of course, this is why she is known as sporty Kate.

As a warrior, Catherine has zero percent of the allure and mystique that all artisan souls innately do. As much as William is unbridled in his open animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, none of it would take place if Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge were not intimidated and challenged by Meghan. The vile media lynching of Meghan is purely for the sport and empowerment of Catherine. Nonetheless, she can run out there and cock-suck all she wants every mic in sight, Meghan will always stratospherically soar above her. All artisans come prepared: to know the structure of a thing, anything… is to know its weakness and therein lies an artisan’s power. William is stupid and Catherine is wooden and a mousy little dud for whom a mic is but kryptonite.

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Go on, Meghan, start graciously, articulately, engaging in a display of that most rare of assets that you possess in spades… intellect. During her ITV documentary with Tom Bradby, those were the eyes of an eagle, capable of flaying your very soul without so much as a second thought. She knows, understands and controls the camera and its power. She was born to be exactly where she is. That interview presented someone far more emotionally intelligent and complex than we have ever seen representing the House of Windsor to date. She was even more subtle and complex than Diana, Princess of Wales during her Panorama interview with Martin Bashir. Truly, it is artful stagecraft what this woman does. Like Diana before her and every artisan soul, she is completely misunderstood. Where most souls have a plan B, all artisans know that there are 24 other letters in the alphabet for a reason; you need plans A to Z. During that interview with Tom Bradby, Meghan showed strength, vulnerability and shrewd unbridled power. She spoke to all her detractors both in the media and within the firm. These are the palace mandarins who somehow think that she is not following the script; these tools who somehow think that just because the Cambridges are in the direct line of succession, therefore no one must outshine them.

In a scene that was truly incredulous, to say nothing of tedious, there was Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being vocal – rather than articulate – and speaking to the media for the first time after 8 years of marriage. There, too, was HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge having to idly standby as never before he had and listen as she takes the spotlight. This is the palace mandarins’ feverish re-branding of the wooden, mousy broodmare. Yep, William looks pleased as punch at having to listen to his bullying wife takeover… seriously. Like Charles before him with Diana, Princess of Wales, William has no intentions of living through a marriage with someone more popular than himself. I feel sorry for the Cambridges because as much as they are hamstrung by their 9 energy, they are also at the mercy of the palace mandarins who tell them that this is what they have to do. They are being galvanised into action where previously they had not been. It is ridiculously risible to suddenly have Catherine out there, making speeches and engaging the media because as Meghan deftly demonstrated in her one-on-one interview with Tom Bradby in the gardens of the residence in Capetown where they stayed, she is a commanding master at self-expression, possessed of a most winning personality and is clearly nine-parts intellect.

Here is Catherine, sporting a hairstyle in which she essentially is wearing blinkers; this betrays how controlled and reined in she was, going into the marriage. Of course, she has remained that way, to some degree, though she has definitely remained the dominant partner. Catherine knows that her husband basically is stupid and uses her 9 energy to keep him in line and feeling imperfect – that’s what 9s do. His out, naturally, for being a scholar soul is to seriously play the field as he damn well pleases.

She is desperately having to perform and as a 9 body-energied person, she knows only too well how utterly imperfect she is at speaking up and being articulate or rather attempting to be articulate. She is all about grinning and condescendingly making mere mortals aware of their every imperfection – that’s what 9 energy in the first position does. Of course, 9 in the second position leaves William predisposed to being discriminatingly prejudicial in the negative expression of that number. Certainly, this has been validated by the fact that in 8 years, they have yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation. I can assure you, if they were to, there is no way Catherine and William would be donning the national costumes of the locals in say Nigeria, Kenya or South Africa. What makes this even more bizarre is the fact that William proposed to Catherine whilst holidaying in Kenya, yet the couple have never once seen a reason to return to Kenya on tour and giving a speech about what a special place the country holds for them as a couple. Truly bizarre.

to-further-her-research-and-engagement-with-the-early-years-news-photo-1568893949

A few weeks back, in part of her childhood mental health campaign, which it goes without saying, is truly both admirable and commendable, Catherine sat clasping her hands whilst a little black girl in London on a charity visit was presented to her. She smiled and she did that thing that all 9s do; she perceived the little girl as imperfect in some way and never once reached out to her beyond a guarded smile and never once touched her. She would sooner have petted a dog in that situation than the black girl. Meanwhile, there was she leaning in, touching, stroking and doing all that which 9s do when they have decided that you not that imperfect after all.

As captured above, Catherine at Royal Ascot 2019, on the eve of the announcement of the dissolution of the Fab Four Royal Foundation. She was smug, obstinate and celebratory of her/their coup (the Cambridges). I have known five persons with the same numerology, one of them even born on January 9th, though different year. They are all as though carbon copies of each other for 9 when negatively expressed, leaves such afflicted women toxic and given to being obstinate, shit-disturbing and jealously petty. No matter what you may think, the architects of the current hysterical animus towards TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are none other than TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. Catherine is a warrior soul and they are fiercely competitive by nature; a warrior would compete with a rock if said warrior felt that its place as number one were remotely threatened by said rock.

So there was Catherine with her whimpy almost regurgitated can’t-find voice, giving her first TV interview in the 8 years that she has been married. By so doing, she has given the plot away; we now know how truly shallow and grudging the Cambridges are. Good god, you are future King and Queen Consort, leave the American whose gift of speech and eloquence, you will neither match nor surpass. Just for being heirs does not mean that the Cambridges must be the most popular or that a lesser royal must not be seen to have more mass appeal than the über-flaneur quintessence of all things bland, TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. None of what William has done has been done without being prompted by 9 energy body Catherine.

I would not in the very least be surprised if Catherine were to turn up to the 2019 British Fashion Awards and deliver a speech, thereby further reminding the heavily sage and artisan soul audience what a mousy little yawnfest she is. Of course, she has never graced the awards before but that Meghan did and was such a success, you can bet that the Cambridges will insist that it is Catherine who should rightly attend the awards. Catherine is like one of those gorgeous actresses from the silent movie era who when the transition to talkies occurred, proved such a fright that there went her career. What possible interest does she think, eight years on, could anyone have to listen to what she has to say. During the CNN interview with line-toeing Briton, Max Foster, Catherine’s; voice faltered and sagged, the longer she weakly carped on. You can bet your last pound sterling that William laid into her about how poorly she performed.

No matter what these two do and how they get the world to hate Meghan and Harry, one thing will never change: the Sussexes are a couple in love – their marvellous adorable son is a true testament of that love. This is why they hold hands and are so openly affectionate. Charles was not in love with his clueless new wife, which is why they never held hands or openly expressed their love, which in either case is perfectly human behaviour after all. Too, we know from their rowing on their wedding day that Catherine dismisses her husband as a fool and he has steadfastly rebelled by ploughing anything that moves.

The more these two, the Cambridges, sat by idly and said and did nothing as Harry and Meghan were lynched in the media, the more they exposed themselves as the grudging architects of the mob scene. This truly primitive stoning of the Sussexes, is the work of a couple of 9s, who happen to be not just entity mates but task companions at that. All this nonsense about Catherine having found her voice and her new regal style are like being black and having to watch frauds like Diana Krall be lauded as Jazz greats. One also ought to be damn well wary when it is embittered souls like Alexandra Shulman suddenly singing Catherine’s praises as fashion doyenne after 8 long boring years. This is the same Alexandra who was ousted at British Vogue by Edward Enninful, which likely means she has more than an axe to grind as the fashion bible has become more inclusive and reflective of British and world society.

Harry channelling his past-life inner Snoop Dog; pass the Courvoisier!

If Harry were to have remained a bachelor for another decade, none of this sudden need for the Cambridges to express public affection and for Catherine to have developed a fetish for cock-sucking every mic in sight, would be taking place. Joy Elvin, Alexandra Shulman all lauding the old sodden driftwood as never before, is a right case of the emperor’s new clothes. Well darlings, just as Hollywood was not impressed by her in 2011, so too were Elvin and Shulman nowhere to be found singing La mouse’s praises. Go ahead, no matter how she preens and engages in mindless, mousy drivelfests before every available mic, including one proffered by a biased Brit, CNN’s Max Foster, ain’t nobody gots time for that cold, leftover side order of chitlings.

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This is the beauty of the artisan soul’s mind on display. After a winning tour de force presentation of self, in which both TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex lay their souls bare with absolute candour, the upshot of which was that William, architect of the Duchess of Sussex’s lynching in the media, especially at that vile rag, DailyMail, was made to do a mea culpa turn in the media, expressing concern for their mental well-being. This coming after the British tabloid rags never ever once mentioning what a formidable asset Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is to the firm with her stellar intellect and the fact that this woman is the most articulate, camera savvy, emotionally intelligent member of the British Royal Family that there has ever been. This showed in spades in her engagement interview in November 2017 with the BBC and again, in her interview with Tom Bradby at the end of which, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex turned around and launched their lawsuits against the media – as well they damn well should! How could you go on and on ad nauseam about this woman and never once mention what an articulate asset to the BRF she truly is.

It is the goddamn elephant in the room; they never ever can criticise this woman’s intellect or her commanding stage presence – the gift she has for communicating the message. And then there is Catherine… Ha! Then when they were all wondering if Meghan was too fragile and mentally exhausted comes the One Young World Summit at Royal Albert Hall and like Diana Ross, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex comes through moving to the stage from the audience in a bit of stagecraft that had triumph written all over it. Indeed, this was the same Royal Albert Hall where last year, thanks to the race-baiting gutter journalism at the DailyMail, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were booed as they took their seats. This past week as she confidently strode through the audience at Royal Albert Hall, the message was plain and simple: they don’t call me Tungsten for nothing! Just when you thought that you had that woman figured out, she goes and pulls a fast one – exactly as every other artisan worth their salt would.

Just like Andrew’s minor meat proclivities, the Cambridges were exposed for the pivotal and venal role in the Sussexes’ lynching in the media that they have played. There was William having to appear in the press, expressing concern for the Sussexes’ well-being. Of course, for so doing, Catherine and William were readily exposed for their role in the media lynching of Sussexes and in particular, Meghan. How anyone can find fault with someone as gifted at communicating the message as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, truly is beyond me? Regardless how they jeer and celebrate, like Catherine at Ascot in 2019, they will never eclipse the light that is the Sussexes’. I have often wondered if the Cambridge’s vindictive campaign were not rooted in the past. Who knows, perhaps, Catherine – who is the real power behind the sabotaging of the Sussexes – was King Richard III, who was maligned and pilloried by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, the former Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort. Then again, perhaps, William had been Richard III and as the Cambridges are task companions, it would be so like the dominant partner, warrior soul Catherine, to mete out justice as she sees fit. This is mere conjecture on my part as I have not done the past-life overleaves of either senior Cambridge – similarly, I have never seen the need to do the overleaves of the Cambridges’ children. The Cambridges are not a couple in love; William settled in the end when no aristocratic woman would want to pass a life, having to babysit his damaged – to say nothing of oafish – persona. As Catherine is the power partner in their task companionship, they both merely chose to have William reincarnate into the House of Windsor’s direct line of succession so that she, if indeed she were Richard III, in the past, have access to the throne and avenge herself of Meghan, who was then Margaret Beaufort.

Then again, maybe Catherine was no such person in a past life and simply possessed of a spiteful persona that is more than a little prejudicial – their recent dress-up parade in Pakistan certainly would not have been indulged in when visiting any predominantly black Commonwealth culture. In any event, as Diana, Princess of Wales is likely soon to reincarnate, I am sure she is finding all of this drama rather intriguing and the Cambridges truly venal. Either way, as Andrew eventually has been exposed, so too will Catherine and William be fully exposed for what they are.

That face of hers when not fakely grimmacing that fuck-you smile is such a hard, miserable sight; it truly captures who really is behind the Sussexes’ lynching and all because, one must not be more popular than moi. Well damn girl, you only had 8 years to open your damn mouth and say something remotely intelligent, to say nothing of charming.

Though the neighbouring apartments at Kensington Palace were prepared for the Sussexes, quite rightly Meghan and Harry saw fit to move to Windsor’s Frogmore Cottage and set up their offices at Buckingham Palace. Regardless the cultivated face the Cambridges show the public, at heart centre, they are a very petty, mean-spirited partnership. The Cambridges embody the negative aspects of their 9 energy to the max – prejudicial and hypercritical… to say nothing of hyper-cynical; these are not persons that one would want to be around overlong. Though Meghan has been described as a con and a fake, hustler, social-climbing blah blah blah, all for being black and accomplishing the unthinkable, the true Lady Eve is Catherine, who with her mother, preyed on blithering William like a famished eagle a mere lamb.

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Surprise! The Predator Blames the Victim…

04.10.201930.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

After a royal tour of Africa, the adorable famille Sussex, returned home and got down to the business in hand. Naturally, the venal hate-mongering, bullying, racial predator, Piers Morgan, had nothing to vent and spew the usual hatred about. Then like fresh meat, he pounced at the announcement of legal action against he and his venal, racially predatory rag, DailyMail.

I am so happy that Piers Morgan has blindly engaged in his campaign of open hatred towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Now it has gotten to the stage where an American does what can be expected of an American; she sues. Americans are not bullied! What Piers and his arrogant island of boorish prats have not realised in all this time, is there has already begun a campaign of retaliation against their bullying of Americans. The British media and public campaign of racially predatory bullying of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex has been unrelenting from the word go and has continued unabated.

Little has Piers Morgan and his ilk realised that the 2019 Academy Awards was American retaliation. After all these years of watching Brit after migrant Brit waltz in and grab another Oscar, which is not an international competition; the Oscars are not the Cannes Film Festival – it is an American award. That’s right, finally, the people who built America, blacks, were finally being acknowledged as never before. There was Barbara Streisand handing off the Oscar to a fellow New Yorker from Brooklyn, Spike Lee. For the first time, there was a record number of blacks who won Oscars. Even in costume and design, there were black winners.

So there sat that thoroughly effete prat bore, boor – take your pick – Richard E. Grant, virtually knighted in British media as winner of the Best Supporting Oscar for 2019; it had not even occurred to the migrant Brit colony with their superior-than-thou attitude that something as absurd as a black male American would win the best supporting actor award. Why would a black American win over a Brit? That’s right, if you don’t play nice and quit bullying Americans then it is time you start selling your Beverly Hills estates and adapt by moving to that beach ghetto Malibu because Brits acting as though the Oscars were a colonial offshoot of the BAFTA has run its course.

Guess who yachts with David Geffen? That’s right, there are no Brits and Oprah is infinitely more powerful than racist boors like Piers Morgan clearly appreciate. That’s correct, they all have money and they are all Americans and they do not like being bullied. The age of being wowed by The Queen, The English Patient, My Fair Lady, Downton Abbey, The King’s Speech, The Madness of King George has finally run its course. Thanks to you Piers Morgan, the Americans have seen your true visage and like the wizard’s of The Wizard of Oz, they are not only not impressed they are also not having it. The sea-change is well and truly begun. Yes, indeed, stop with the can’t shake snobbish accent and decamp where you belong. It is an American industry and an American award; in the Age of Trump, it is high time that you were exposed as what you truly are, the ugly migrant, who must no longer be suffered.

Here is where you truly lost the plot, Lara Stone was burnt at the stake – during which time, of course, little predatory racist boor, Piers Morgan said nada… zilch. Yet, in all these going on 24 months not a single migrant Brit in Hollywood or elsewhere has passionately spoken up in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s defence, with the exception of Sir Elton John. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the deep-pocketed support of the likes of the Clooneys, David Geffen, Oprah and the major players in Hollywood who happen to be American and matter. It is grossly racist and absurd to sit by and do nothing whilst this human being is being lynched for merely being black.

Well, then, since you feel so passionately about it, why pray tell do you deserve to be considered, let alone nominated and more egregiously awarded Oscars season after season, after blasted motherfucking season. You are a gross displacement of what a truly civilised society resembles and how it behaves to ‘others‘ in its midst. Just think of it, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex toured Africa and there they met scores of elevated, remarkable human beings on an order, which you can never match in the British Isles. Stellar exemplary human beings, like Archbishop emeritus, Desmond Tutu, Graca Machel – persons who thanks to their nobility of spirit successfully vanquished the racial predator in their midst.

Yes indeed, Piers Morgan, run off at the mouth all you want and incite the mob to racial hatred, time and again. Like every predator, sexual or racial, your first response when the prey fights back, is start blaming the victim. No woman ever sexually preyed on, goes out asking and looking to be preyed on by any sexual predator. The woman, the victim, is not the problem; she has not brought it on herself. A woman is not raped because she wore suggestive and provocative clothing; a woman dresses to please no one but her damn self. She does not get dressed, thinking: how am I going to attract animus from a sexual predator today? Similarly, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and no black person anywhere goes out of their way, looking to attract racially predatory boors, so that they can somehow feel victimised.

Fuck you, Piers cowardly-chicken-shit-arsehole Morgan, you are the victim of your own racially predatory obsessions, which has resulted in your being sued and they, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex for being entity mates and for her being American with a very powerful cadre of supporters will plough your fucking idiot, smug arse under. You will never again work in America when they are done fucking retaliating and defending themselves against being lynched, slandered, and made subject of ridicule, death threats… all thanks to your vile, stinking racially predatory, incendiary braying, masquerading as journalism.

Americans are going to teach you a very callous lesson that they hold sacred above all others: Freedom is not free, you dumba$$ bitch!

You, like that ghetto of migrant Hollywood Brits said and did sweet dick-all when HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York was exposed as a sexual predator; if you truly cared about the monarchy then you would have been even more livid in defence of your institution at Andrew’s obvious culpability… there is also the very real matter of the Cambridges’ tattered marriage, which you and others from Joy Elvin to the palace mandarins are eager to reinvent.

No one cares at this point, Catherine was too bone idle and downright maudlin to make speeches, too bone lazy along with her arrogant husband to undertake royal duties so begged off claiming, Hyperemesis gravidarum – meanwhile 2/3s the world’s women have to walk with gallons of water on their proud head for miles whilst pregnant. Just imagine if Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex got up to their stunts and engaged in the wilful idleness that the Cambridges have?

Catherine is great, she is a warrior’s warrior and she is at her best each year at handing out shamrocks, being on guard at Armistice Day ceremony in Whitehall. Clothing is uniform for a warrior; it is not fashion. Fashion is not a way of exuding their inner magic as with artisans like Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. I will never knock Catherine for her athleticism and her right saturnine bearing; it is the essence of who she is.

This absurd pitting women against women is just drunken idiocy. Stop suddenly talking BS about Catherine being a great speech-giver. Bullocks! She is not, never has been and never will be. Stop trying to eclipse Meghan’s innate commanding stage presence and gift for being on and engaging an audience. It is not a competition of Duchesses; Meghan is supremely gifted at uplifting, inspiring and empowering womankind for speaking and so eloquently, representing her uneclipsed light. She and her husband are doing the work of upholding HM The Queen’s greatest legacy, the Commonwealth.

In the meantime, the days of Hollywood being obsequious towards migrant Brits in their midst have run their course – just as much as you are going to be rudely awakened, jousted and ploughed under for fucking with Americans. Americans are no one’s damn fools, as you shall yet learn.

The Sussexes are making a valid and real difference in the world where it is sorely needed; you, Piers Morgan on the other hand, are merely being yet another white male arsehole. There is nothing either unique or noteworthy in so being. You sadly are far too common place and that is the real problem in this world. You are a fucking otiose boor to say nothing of bore and high time, you were handed your arse like that damn audacious prat, Richard E. Grant, who sat there and heard his name not called last February at the Oscars.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are not victims; they were never in the business of affording you or any other media racist predatory thugs, the power of their time and shortly, you are legally going to get your just dessert just as that other pariah, Jeffrey Epstein was served. A pity you know nothing of Margaret Beaufort… all you saw was some damn black bitch, who does not belong and you intended like every sexual/racial predator to put her in her place and rape her of her power. More fool you, indeed…

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Surprise! The Predator Blames the Victim…