Plus ça change… Oopsie, can’t make it to the wedding. Look whatta want, I’m just a wuss and afraid of flying. Let’s pull a health scare.
Along come these two racially obsessed jackasses, fully convinced that they are right in treating Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as though she were a fugitive from Justice for which they intend to get the ransom. Oh wow, look at that, on the eve of travelling to be hosted by these two blasted cretins, big wussmeister pulls another health scare and goes and hides in his corner. Meanwhile, to save face, Lord George Nonesuch talks grandly of all the things that they had in store for wussmeister numero un on his arrival for HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee celebrations. Really, Lady Rotherqueer, like somehow you were going to get that blasted fat coward to be sat next to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Equally, Lord George of Nonesuch was blithering on, horrid acting and all, about all the places little Tommy fat-arsed was going to be wined, dined and entertained. One of the topmost ducal families… And so fucking what? And is that ducal host a grandson of Sovereign as well as son of the future Sovereign and brother of another future Sovereign? No, well see here ducky, who gives a fuck?
Let’s make this perfectly clear, never in all your scheming, will you ever get either the Duke or Duchess of Sussex to meet with that man or have their children exposed to such an obviously compromised, sorry excuse for a man. Family my ass. As Tommy fat ass has illustrated, sooner or later we all shed skin and move on. Trust you me, two hundred years hence, when you and that pompous Jackass of trifling import, are long gone, historians will be callous with the truth.
Contemporaneously, all the Sussexes detractors bleat on ad nauseam about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex having played the race card. None of these persons ever comment on the blackamoor brooch. In writing alleged royal biographies they dance around the issue and never mention it. Somehow, it is of no import. The reason for HRH Princess Michael of Kent having worn the blackamoor brooch is because her son, Lord Frederick Windsor, one of HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge’s closest familial bonds, is married to a British Jew who works in Hollywood as an actor. It is that connection to Jews in Hollywood that resulted in the blackamoor brooch having been worn to HM The Queen’s Christmas Lunch in 2017, weeks after Harry & Meghan officially announced their engagement and at which Meghan clearly was present. That was to let the American negro know that the Cambridges did not approve of the union and clearly had given their consent to attack the Black American fiancée of the Duke’s younger brother, HRH Prince Henry of Wales as princess flat-arsed, rhino stumps viciously masqueraded before the world’s media and those in Hollywood that she was doing as was directed.
Always, connect the damn dots. So close are the Cambridges to the (Kents) Windsors that William elected to have his two children, HRH Prince George of Cambridge and HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge enrol at the same school in Battersea at Lord Frederick and his Jewish wife’s. That speaks to the racism in Hollywood – again, if 9-1-1 had no happened, Halley Berry would not have won a best actress Oscar in 2002, which has yet to be repeated – especially so when Viola Davis absurdly won best-supporting actress Oscar for Fences, a role which was a lead actress award-winning role on Broadway.
Why indeed should Meghan have stuck around and been racially abused within the vipers nest of the royal households? Instead of addressing the blackamoor brooch and the obvious ongoing racially predatory harassment to which Meghan had clearly been subjected, before and after her marriage to Prince Harry, Tina Brown spends her time sourcing her throwaway biography, speaking to of all persons, Thomas Markle Sr. Why not interview HRH Princess Michael of Kent and ask what possessed her to have done such a racially hostile thing as choose to wear the blackamoor brooch and who exactly had put her up to it? That maudlin yenta, Angela Levin who can’t ever seem to keep her yap shut denigrating the Sussexes, has never seen fit to challenge the obvious racism to which Meghan was subjected. Lord only knows coming on strong, like Orly Taitz sans lipstick is herr Bower, skewering the schwarze without, quelle frig-all surprise, touching the blackamoor incident and the obvious racism to which Meghan was subjected within the royal households and the British tabloids before and most especially after her marriage to Prince Harry.
Incidentally, the soul which was incarnate as Scott Joplin was recently incarnate and again Black American and was the musical genius, Prince.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Here we have an artisan soul, bringing the light and fabulousness. There is likely a good dash of priest soul energy somewhere in his casting. I was delighted to have discovered this rare beauteous soul. Definitely, he gets my vote for best-dressed male at Met Gala, 2022 – number one of ten.
The executive looks especially refined in a white halter, topped with clipped, ruffled floor-length skirt by Azzedine Alaia.
August, inordinately handsome couple of notable heritage.
Kaia looks and seems like a warrior soul – mature soul cycle possibly.
Understated and dignified. Madam First Lady’s jewel-toned gown is elegant and unfussy.
Ms. Lee’s gown is perfect; her legs are revealed yet partially concealed and without a slit, there is no chance of her feet being photographed sickled in.
This is a very beautiful dress; very elegant and tastefully executed. The dress must make the most beautiful music as she glides along. Wonderful.
Camila’s matte gold sheath is a complex design. What is especially winning is the pair of flesh-toned gloves.
Like Precious Lee, Chloe Bailey has thick thighs; however, Precious was styled to perfection. Nothing about her look aesthetically misses the mark.
From the highs of being Bridgerton’s heartthrob to disappearing into the oblivion of TV car commercials.
90s American model, looking effortlessly chic in golden vintage Azzaro.
Smartly attired rapper; I love the lapel detailing. With legs on show, it would have been more appropriate to have worn a kilt or male skirt.
No idea of this artist’s range. I do, though, know that his attire is by no stretch of the gilded age.
Formerly of NASA, the dashing renaissance man also has impeccable tastes. Definitely one of the top 3 best-dressed men at the Met Gala, 2022. Without doubt, he has my vote as the third best-dressed.
Naomi Campbell remains the most dominant, dignified supermodel. The ingenuity of the Burberry logo incorporated into the gown works beautifully.
Bella’s bejewelled left ankle seems as though a foot still planted in the gilded age. The lace and leather bustier are a modern interpretation on the gilded age.
In her on-air interview with La La Anthony, who along with Vanessa Hudgens and Hamish Bowles hosted Vogue’s streaming red carpet arrivals, this performer proved embarrassingly unaware among other things.
As with Naomi’s gown, Lila’s sheer gown is also bejewelled with Burberry’s horse logo.
Supermodel mum, Kate with daughter Lila whose modelling has successfully launched.
The other Queen to be dressed by Burberry, Wagon’s still got it as the song proclaims and as is plainly obvious. Stunning.
I don’t know about the gilded age but if you are going to be bound and stuffed into a gilded cage, your every fantasy would be realised on having leather-clad Irina Shayk predatorily stride in, famished and ready to have her way with you…
Looking like a bearded reanimation of Frida Kahlo, as my musical tastes do not stray beyond Jazz and classical, I have no idea the state of his music.
Coming on strong is young Mr. Jacob Elodi; he is central casting’s bid to cash in on the millions of screaming little Beliebers as they grew away for the Canadian pop star. Tall, dark and handsome.
Conventionally, he is the best dressed; however, he comes in number two, as Frederik Robertsson visionary presentation/performance was unsurpassed. Everything about Stormzy and his debonair style has winner written all over. White on white on white complements his beautiful complexion.
The hair swept up, elongating the neck, the jewellery, the clutch, the appropriately placed roses and that lovely smile. Indeed, the lady graciously captures the gilded age.
The lovely Tessa Thompson is a vision of soft cherry blossom pinks in a delightful ode to the gilded age. Incidentally, as pitting women against each other is one of the many insidious ways that sexism thrives within the culture, unlike the men, I will elect not to declare a best dressed female.
The gold touches and opera glasses are winning odes to the gilded age… to be sure.
Feathery wisps below the knees, though evocative of the Jazz age, we will nonetheless take it. Beautiful colour combination.
Light, airy, delicate and a modern ode to the gilded age wonderfully executed.
Dame Anna Wintour, November 3, 1949, year of the Ox. 3.5.1 = 9. When you take into account Dame Wintour’s pedigree, an earl and duchess among them, here is someone who has used their numbers not only masterfully but in their most positive expression. 9 in the fourth position is that of the gatekeeper – her aristocratic heritage affords her a confidence that would escape a self-made individual. No one else, save Dame Wintour could have masterfully run Vogue, held it together and been in such an esteemed position of power and for so long save Dame Wintour. 3 in the first position; she thinks before opening her mouth and her word carries much weight; 3 governs the world of intellect, books, publishing and refinement of expression. She is of hybrid heritage as suggested by her mindset, 5, thereby allowing her to be more open to the ‘other’ than say someone who was not of multicultural heritage. Lifepath of 1 simply means that she was born to lead and has staying power of Wellingtonian scope much as the 1st Duke of Wellington. This is a human who is living a life in full and with the greatest mastery of their numbers rather than being ruled by those numbers and thereby expressing the negative manifestations of those numbers. Anyone else wearing a tiara to the Met Gala would be readily dismissed as pretentious, not so Dame Wintour. As ever, her ensemble is understated and elegant.
Sleek, understated as a Chanel man of worth would be.
Always funny and always keeping it real and casually of the gilded age.
A quartet of cool ladies’ interpretation of the gilded age with the help of the house of Chloe.
Like Caroline Trentini, Venus Williams is pitch perfect. Tall, long lean lines; she is perfectly elegant, understated, confident.
Look at that statuesque lady. This Sudanese goddess is in a rarefied class all by herself. She does for that Christian Lacroix dress what no one else could. Stunning!
Ravishing, Alexa is at all times über raffinée. Those shoes are everything.
Normani ought to have worn lacquered, fire-engine red lipstick to set off the outfit; it would make her complexion pop against the monochromatic ensemble.
It’s been a minute since we’ve seen Caroline but she has served up a winning point with this rich maya blue cape.
Sarah Jessica Parker
Sarah’s look proved both historic and as such an homage to the trailblazing work and life of Elizabeth Hobbs Ketchley, whose life did straddle the gilded age. She was a slave who transitioned to working at the White House where she served as a dressmaker to Madam First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of President Abraham Lincoln.
Without doubt, I must acquire this book.
Perhaps, this is how the Harkonnens dressed during the latest gilded age on Giedi Prime in the year 10, 125.
As a large-bodied professional model, Paloma has thorough awareness of the aesthetics of looking good on camera. The bustier gives a flattering presentation of her form and she knows well, as does Precious Lee, that one does not expose thick thighs by way of a side or front slit. Her look is handsomely august.
That neck, that waistline and the hoop skirt create the bustle-like look of the gilded age. Caroline and her performance truly capture the style of Martin Scorsese’s masterful film, Age of Innocence.
Commanding. Handsome and theatrical which is welcome in the gilded age or any other for that matter.
Clean, simple, elegant, though, her hair ought to have been gathered. Clearly, her hair was worn down as a way of detracting from her cleavage.
Look sweetheart, just because your grandmother was the official fart sniffer and second-hand smoke filter for HM The Queen’s notoriously uncouth sister, The Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon, does not give you the right to come pissing all over the Yanks and their perceived quaint culture. No American actor, if that’s what you’re comparably supposed to be, would ever dear show up at the annual Serpentine Summer Party thusly attired. We all know on that frightfully frigid, racist isle of yours, a damn Yank would be ejected from the gathering at once. Nobody wants to be acquainted with your lopsided quail egg boobs. You are fucking ridiculous. Go home. Stay gone and pluck that inbred-looking unibrow; you blasted desperate, no-talent attention whore.
Beautiful feet, lovely smile, great dress and without doubt, unlike the racist Poundland aristo’s, the nacre her pearls are of the highest quality.
Sneakers and a Dior smoking… the gilded age revisited.
Soft, delicate and fluid with beautiful complement of colours and textures. I especially love the shoes; this young man’s is a very elegant, beautiful look.
He would only be better dressed if carrying white gloves and a cane. Handsome in every way; got the memo and dialled it in. This earns Mr. Doherty the fifth spot on the best-dressed list.
Ms. Chen could not look any more lovely or elegant. The lined gloves are ingenious and she’s got great feet.
Can you feel the music that he radiates? Can you feel the love? I sure do. Beautiful human.
A gentleman always wears his white gloves. Very elegantly handsome indeed. Tails, white shoes and tie but, of course, Mr. Elgort clocks in at the tenth position on the best-dressed list.
Classic Fendi highlighted by the hat, bracelet and the most smashing shoes. Handsome and an eclectic winner!
White on white, beautiful. If only one had a good look at the double strand necklace. The mermaid and off-the-shoulder accents beautifully set off by the elegant gloves.
Red feathers delicately perched never looked so good. Beautiful creation.
There is a lot going on here but it all remarkably comes together beneath that beauteous high forehead.
As can be expected, everything is sheer perfection. Not a soft pink feather is out of place.
Coming through, looking like a Na’vi goddess just returned from Pandora; I know truly fierce makeup when I see it.
Great gown and she has sure got moxie.
That is a very elegant brown suit; his vibe is wonderfully laidback.
Beautiful. Stunning as is her personality.
There is so much happening here that her dress seems as though a runaway vine that’s consuming her and everything close by.
Lace catsuit with a dripping effect created beads partout. Very cool.
Sexy. Stylish. Beautiful. Stunning and the outfit only heightens her beauty.
The beautiful, charismatic, palpably in love thespian couple.
He’s definitely got a vibe and it is seriously infectious.
His look is rather 19th century – the beard the defining signature. His style and the ensemble are rather fluid, elegant and decidedly musical.
Why they did not throughout hold hands and passionately French kiss, is a true mystery; to have not done so, made the whole getup flat-footed and insipid.
Silver, black, mauve, metallic and matte; there is a lot going on with this exquisitely elegant dress. The gloves really makes this outfit both a classic and winner. Lovely.
Handsome. Refined. I love a man in a cape and all that monochromatic white on white on white is breathtakingly elegant.
HEAD OF STATE
Like true African royalty, she carries a blond fly whisk. Love the overall effect.
Gilded age, catamite or castrato… take your pick.
Though the colours work beautifully for not being a sculptural creation, this van Herpen comes off as merely conventional.
Classic van Herpen design. Clean architectural lines.
The creative genius in one of her angelic designs. Truly, her designs are uplifting works of art.
21st century human male – spiritually focussed and spreading love and the light fantastic. Top of the list it is, indeed. #bestdresedmale Met Gala 2022.
This is a very beautifully complex design. Remarkably, Phoebe looks like a young Helen Mirren.
Positively love the riot of beautiful blooms on the marvellous cape’s interior. Beautiful hands handsomely framed by frilled sleeves.
By far, this was one of the most beautiful, understated elegant designs at the Met Gala 2022. The gloves like the head scarf and train are touches that come together beautifully, creating one of the evening’s most memorable looks.
Claire Danes & Hugh Dancy
Gilded age or not, this is pure romanticism and glamour. The facial adornment is parfait. Lovely, elegant couple.
Gilded age, Jazz age or Great Gatsby, take your pick. A very beautiful man, wonderfully dressed and love the tie. To all this fluidity and one can only raise a glass and say, ‘Bottoms up!’ Patrick is ninth on the best-dressed list.
One of three hosts of Vogue’s live stream of the Met Gala, 2022 red carpet arrivals, La La’s outfit was strange. One does not wear a fascinator to an evening event. Ladies with thick thighs should always wear a column or mermaid gown, failing that extra wide pants would be wisest. Her exposed hips makes it look as though she is wearing a bath sheet as a wrap with train. I can appreciate her wanting to support a black designer but if I were her and this item showed up, I would have hightailed it to an appropriate boutique and rented a Balmain outfit.Even knee-high boots would have saved the outfit. No way to high heaven was Hamish Bowles going to co-host with Ms. Anthony looking as she was.
Elegant and refined; he is a winner through and through.
Simple and unpretentious. Great legs and lovely feet; her look is ever kaleidoscopic.
African royals’ take on the gilded age set in Zulu territory.
Chole Grace’s look, especially the eyes, bare so distinct a connection to Brooklyn Beckham’s that it would be surprising if they did not have a soul connection.
Lovely skirt, though, I rather suspect that so much midriff would not have been on display during the gilded age.
A pearl choker would handsomely have anchored Phoebe’s look in the gilded age.
Her top is interest, if modern; more than all that, those feet are everything and are nicely set off by the stretch leathery-looking pants.
Absolutely every detail of Ms. Jung’s outfit and élan is pitch perfect. Her stance… everything is utterly flawless.
Unless anticipating immient sea level rise, this hemline missed the gilded age timeline by inches. Truly unbecoming of Ms. Chan to have gotten it so wrong.
Mr. Ghesquière is creative director at Louis Vuitton under whose stewardship, the future looks uneclipsed.
Perhaps because she is expectant; however, little thought seemed to have factored into abiding by the gilded age theme.
Mr. Cooper is way too big a star to be on the best-dressed list. I have always warmed towards this human vibrationally.
Even more details appear in Emma Stone’s chic Louis Vuitton dress as she walks the carpet to this utterly intriguing man’s rear.
And in exciting news, spring follows winter…
Here’s to the many who truly own and enjoy being a woman. Go ahead Eiza!
Sweet, gorgeous, beautiful light and a lady to boot. A truly remarkable gown.
And this is how you own the gilded age!
Beautiful lady, beautiful dress.
One would never expect a professional model to not own it. Stunning woman wearing a stunning outfit.
This glamourous lady always gets it right each time she graces a red carpet.
This may as well be gold leaf, it looks just as magically delicate.
Ever she will be the ageless, fearless, Ripley.
He’s got the best showmanship energy. Wonderful.
Beautiful gold dress with contrasting black detailing. This precisely is what La La Anthony ought to have worn. Just imagine crawling to the top of those stairs then met by the sight of what the Vogue live streaming host was wearing.
Teal to pine-green either way, this is an outstanding costume. I especially love the matching lace up boots. I suspect that the designs on the train are more spectacular in person than they photograph.
Lace and beading on an elegant column dress; nicely dignified young lady; I especially favour the choker.
Got up like that, she may as well be six inches tall. Next!
Mature, elegant and spot-on august. This is a truly ladylike human as she presents for the gilded age. Monochromatic sophistication from head to toe, gloves to clutch. Brilliant.
Soft. Delicate, though, I don’t know how well the flaccid-looking bell sleeves work.
Monochromatic mess. She should be wearing large costume rings on her gloves ruby, emerald, sapphire; further as the dress is one piece in the back, the separate bra serves no point.
Lovely dress but the raccoon eye makeup is too distracting. Lovely blue tonalities.
One of the three Vogue red carpet live stream hosts, Vanessa’s dress is perfection; her legs are on display but discreetly as is appropriate. Hair up and lots of rings as is the current vogue. She is sensational.
Megan Thee Stallion
Don’t call her stallion for nothing. Here is one exception to the don’t wear a side slit dress if you’ve got thick thighs. Megan is next level sexy and she knows it. All that gold to match all that attitude and sex appeal. A hands down winner.
No complaints here… Madam is looking next-level perfect.
Simone’s style is much too casual for the occasion; definitely, not of the gilded age.
Pearls, bustle, pearl choker and plenty of sex appeal for the gilded age or any other.
The newly minted best supporting Oscar winner is as charming as she is eloquent. A winner, to be sure, in any age, gilded or otherwise.
Hands down, sixth best-dressed male. A man in lace leaves me utterly besotted.
Tycoon Jenner decides to give two effs and do as she pleases. Honestly, a baseball cap turned back-to-front? The flouncing skirt is beautiful.
Beautifully stunning man, impeccably dressed; when is velvet not elegant? I do, though, think that the different leg styles do not work; perhaps, it were in a lighter colour. He’s still a winner either way.
Mama sure made some profitable lemonade out of the fin de siècle lemon that was O. J. Simpson… and a sex tape, of course. When is an Oscar de la Renta not exquisitely chic? Certainly, this dress brings back memories of the icon of Olympic proportions, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.
Clean, elegant and understated. Super cool and elegant. Beautiful.
Like Miranda Kerr, Katy has a child with super cool Buddhist actor, Orlando Bloom. That aside, this is the most conventional costume she has worn to the Met Gala. Layered, it is elegant and marginally risqué.
A true amazon in a very big beautiful gown. And what a gorgeous blue dress it is.
Boom! What a joyously vibrant dress. This, without doubt, is one of the most memorable dresses at the Met Gala 2022.
Beautifully golden; however, I do think that this should have been a one-piece outfit.
This woman is too short for all the chaos going on with this gown and that shoelace-looking effect at the bust does not work.
The rather stylish Ashley is beautifully put together. The train works, the feathered skirt with front rather than side slit does work and she also knows how to present her feet – sickled/winged out rather than gauche/pigeon-toed. The bows work and the jewels are beautifully displayed. The white feathers add elegance and pull the eyes from being exclusively focussed on the upper body.
Beautiful sublime wonderfully adorned princess. This is a truly wonderful gown worn by a gorgeous lady.
Denée’s jewellery are exquisite and the dress beautiful. From afar, the wraparound bustle (what is it really) seems not to work; however, up close you discover the blooms in varying degrees of bloom and then the wraparound bustle make sense. For this to have truly worked, the blooms out to have been white – carnations, peonies or roses. Red on red simply does not work.
Everything about this is just wrong. The blooms placed as they are shrink her already short neck. Her thighs too thick for a side slit – the camera adds weight and volume where undesired. Hems too long and precludes walking comfortably. The split train at the shoulders further accentuates the fact that she’s neither tall nor lean – they should be at mid-back to waist; that way, it would elongate the line of the torso. Most of all, apart from the sickled in feet, the colour is too pale, making her appear darker and her eyes more recessed than not. Darker fabric would have had a desirably slimming effect.
The grand dame has arrived. Same designer as Camilla and Mindy but just look at the difference. Again, the shoulders are bare and the train begins at mid-back; it also allows for her jewellery to be best displayed. The colour is warm, enveloping and embraces more when she smiles. A heavy fabric, it also has enough flair at the feet, allowing to kick-step as one does in such gowns. Most of all, it covers up that most important feature, the feet; you can never tell if they are turned out or sickled in, which matters immensely. Just look at the elongation of the lines when Hoyeong Jung poses with her booted working leg extended and turned out. Straight away, the line is long, perfected…. aesthetic.
Now, we come to the statuesque Kiki doing her return turn in a beautiful rose gown, same designer of course. Like Mindy, hers is not an especially long neck but her afro creates a crown-like halo effect thereby creating no umbra to the neckline. Here too, as with Mindy’s, there are blooms; however, here are placed at the gloves and at or below the bosom. With the placement of the blooms on Mindy’s gown, it makes it appear as though her head is submerging into her shoulders. Kiki’s gown has a fluted, thereby allowing her to kick-step and confidently stride. Jewellery is kept to a minimum, allowing both Kiki and the design to shine. As with Mindy, we have no idea if her feet are large and sickle in. You get done up to look your best not to have your great grandkids wonder, ‘what were they thinking?’
The designer, Prabal Gurung, with two smartly dressed clients, Philip Lim & Michelle Yeoh.
Gloved and she even had a large fan which she used to dramatic effect… Delightful to have watched her work the red carpet.
I rather admire this family; here you have six strong powerful women who have made their mark. They could have chosen to be reborn male and been successful; instead, they used the spotlight of the O. J. Simpson trial to step centre stage and took off like greased lightning. They have served as admirable role models in the age of female empowerment. They are all anchored by Kim Kardashian who has master numbers of 11; never under estimate the power of persons with master numbers.
Beautiful beading and wonderful train. Lovely dress.
Talk about survivor; this woman is phenomenally resourceful with incredible staying power. She is truly inspirational.
Feel the love; look at this adorable creative soul weave his magic. The shoes, the cape, the beading and that very alluringly kiss-inducing sternocleidomastoid…
There are conflicting reports which design house this man is wearing. Ether way, it is trop gauche to be stuffing non-straight leg trousers into books.
I can’t see this man playing Elvis Presley; however, Baz Luhrmann certainly thinks so. Incidentally, Elvis is a young soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s as for that matter are Robin Williams and James Baldwin – all three entity mates’ Michael overleaves will be shared at the end of this commentary. .
My, but he has the most beautiful eyes and is possessed of superior style. Kelvin places eighth on the best-dressed list. Kelvin also appears with Austin Butler in the forthcoming Baz Luhrmann Elvis Presley biopic.
The always elegant and sophisticated Janelle working the crowd, her priest soul-looking eyes doing a very good Gloria Swanson turn à la Sunset Boulevard.
Don’t step on my trains! So very good to see Shalom. For me, she was the most exciting model arriving on the scene in the early 90s and she is a Canadian model too. She has that old Hollywood glamour aura about and looks not dissimilar to a young Barbara Amiel. Great red carpet drama.
How appropriate is that cape’s motif. Not since Frank Sinatra’s New York City anthem has a new anthem and by a native New Yorker the insanely creative, Alicia Keys. The music power couple look devastatingly handsome.
Red carpet host and emcee, as ever Hamish Bowles reigns supreme, laurel and all.
A gentleman always wears a white tie and a smile.
Guess who owns every square inch of sexy. Rings, cane, white tie, stache and yeah, that hair too.
His humour like his fame utterly escapes me. C’est la vie.
Suave, engaging and inordinately creative, he is the bringer of light and musical joy. And he has style in spades too; look at that suede jacket.
Work those feet darling. It’s is a barely there dress that celebrates her youth and thriving sexuality in a world where her name is a global grand. She knows and understands her role in the pecking order at present.
This dress work beautifully and the gold does not outdo nor overwhelm the rest of her look. Beautiful.
Trans, drag-king, who knows… more to the point, who fucking cares.
Something about her look, I think that it is the hairstyle, reminds me of Coco Chanel. Black and gold always proves a winning combination. What I really like about this outfit is the gorgeous hemline to the tulle; certainly a dress like hers or Chloe Finemann’s is precisely what Mindy Kaling ought to have worn. The gold work here is masterful and I do love those shoes.
Quirky hat, okay; however, those daft Balmain platforms are ridiculously out of place at the Met Gala… or anywhere else for that matter.
Nothing says gilded age accessory like hanging off a billionaire’s arm. Interesting fabric combinations but gold & black always magically work. It does seems as though her dress would be a noisy affair.
Not since the wedding of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex has the lovely couple been working a global red carpet event. He wears an outfit designed by Turkish-German, Umit Benan
He’s got a lock on old Hollywood good looks and glamour and his designs are incredible.
The ensemble works and she definitely looks happy.
Jewellery should never resemble plucked chicken legs, as for the rest, nothing here resembles the gilded age.
Lizzo is here and makes no apologies for anything. Perception is all and all she sees is beautiful talent and a lot of love & light to give.
Must be strange to see a clown suit in the mirror when naked. Their outfits are trifling but what do they care when carnally consumed like semi-feral gibbons en chaleur.
How cool and damn sexy is this man, who has no qualms about wearing a kanga. Awesome.
Had he been wearing white gloves, he may have made the top ten on the best-dressed list. Then, again, how is he to compete with post-twink fare like Manu Rios and Patrick Schwarzenegger.
Go on, Lady. Now that is how you do it and not a lick of jewellery.
Every film, every photoshoot. this extraordinary human makes my soul purr. Like all redheads, she is literally magical in dreams… I have encountered her in two or three dreams. I don’t do gushing fan nonsense in dreams. She like every redhead female encountered in dreams, is acutely telepathic. She understands and owns her magic and effortlessly pulls it off in her films. Elegant, she is in Jacqueline de Ribes, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis territory in this white Tom Ford masterpiece.
Super handsome couple, Henry places fourth on the best-dressed list. He has the most beautiful smiling eyes. Those eyes had me see Crazy Rich Asians a third time. By the way, her sheer dress works.
Always amazing to watch how a couples eyes morph over time, looking and feeling vibrationally similar. Perfect in every way, both; and he has got his white gloves.
As ever, Mr. Ford looks marvellous. I certainly pray that he is having the most sublime dreams with his departed love.
Don’t know his music and in no hurry to explore it.
His style is admirable; love the jacket.
Now that’s how a gold dress should look and, of course, he is elegantly attired.
Sadly, there were no good photographs of this exquisite-looking model to be had; the dress though was divine and its two black bows priceless.
A rich creamy white, it is hard to tell whether it is silk or not. In keeping with the gilded age theme, Sydney ought to have been wearing gloves, even long black gloves would have anchored all that white fabric.
Hello! Kerry has great feet and her legs are not thick. She beautifully works that side slit and look at her work those feet. The off-the-shoulder draping cape is an ingenious effect that beautifully keeps her body nicely silhouetted in all the right places.
All primary-coloured outfits in this photograph work handsomely to best display the individual.
Lovely hoop earrings and that skirt attached to the scalloped-like bodice is simply goddess-like. It is an ingenious design.
There is no red like the Valentino red; clearly, too, there is no pink like the Valentino pink. Coquettish, casual, breezy and pretty. She is a winner.
Billionaires. Internationally famous. Celebrities. To these groups some cross two possibly all circles. To them Nicola was no more than Honey Boo Boo’s third cousin who had won 500m on the Powerball lottery. Not enough to be Rich Kids of Insta; small time is just that. So fils Beckham is dowried, shall we say, as he is a ticket to getting to the big leagues. She has the cache of papa’s minor billions and he, the SNDP (serves no discernible purpose) kinder of the world famous. 1.5 kids later, if at all that much, and she should be on to social/class passport number 2 – minor Euro royal of obscure note or perhaps a Tech billionaire if her entrée to the social inner sanctum proved a dismal misfire. On attend… time, indeed, reveals all.
Ah yes, and now we come to the real McCoy… the gold standard. One of cinema’s greatest actors – think Meeting Venus, Fatal Attraction & Dangerous Liaisons.
Though not set in the Gilded Age, John Frears’ masterpiece costume drama, Dangerous Liaisons puts Ms. Close’s acting chops to excellent use.
And, of course, rightly so she is escorted Valentino’s creative director, Pierpaolo Piccioli whose show below was on the most sublime moments in fashion theatre.
He really ought to have made an effort.
Diaphanous and solipsism – youth is myopically silly like that.
The most extraordinary Queen.
If you are going to so drastically self-alter, at the very least also consider a name-change.
WAP WAP WAP. It is so deliciously real to watch this woman, use her dagger-like nails to stab at cucumber, slide the stabbed sliced vegetable around the plate to sop up sauce, devour it all whilst speaking with her sexy overbite seductively drawing you in with a smattering of profanities keeping it real. Get a bucket and a mop, the Lady is the most glorious tramp! Power to her, she has succeeded at working and owning the ultimate pole – fame/success/money and all that.
Auteur, genius, creative powerhouse and as can be expected she knows how to keep it real when suited.
Seriously darling, it would not have been too much to have gotten a pedicure. Love the creative weave of mesh and beading, beautiful tone of grey; a marvellous Versace design.
That’s a whole lot of train and ingeniously it is reversible. Stunning!
Late one evening after the playwright John Douglas had been by as they worked on a script, which eventually Merlin would have me proof and give feedback on, Merlin and I began discussing an upcoming dinner party that we would be hosting. Names were proffered and invariably Merlin would pause, scowl then dismissively scrawl next to someone’s name SNDP… there were always many such persons. Some mix of persons just made little sense. I have always thought this woman just that, SNDP (serves no discernible purpose). She perpetually foists her ill-proportioned body in varying degrees of undress whilst claiming to be a model. Kate, Naomi, Cindy, Linda, Christy these are models and they are professional not this SNDP; just look at the way she is dressed.
The shiny silver sheath, the smoky train afloat with puffy white blooms all centred by that giant red bloom. Of course Ms. Union came enrobed in the love of Dwayne Wade. Perfection.
Three queens shining uneclipsed.
Look at darling Gigi, mother, model and the legs that aesthetically look good in a side or front slit dress. This is how you slay.
Just look at the details and tailoring of her gown. Basta! So much style and personality; it could only be larger-than-life Donatella!
This may well be Dylan; no idea who they are but in some sources it was said to be Dylan. Definitely, this look would have been considered futuristic in the gilded age.
All that swagger and some Courvoisier on the side. With good reason, Dwayne makes it to lucky seventh place on the best-dressed list. The cane, the gold pocket watch chain and that diamond necklace! Yes, indeed, metrosexy does the gilded age.
Hats at night indoors is a definite no! How it never dawned on anyone that this woman looks like Yosemite Sam in drag, is all you need to be mindful of. Clueless!
Nyjah gets an honourable mention. Seriously, though, unless it is Japanese, I really don’t get the appeal of tattoos, especially on clearly unaware Blacks, who get inked and it proves barely perceptible against their rich expanse of melanin. The suit and boots are an exquisite combination.
She s a model and knows how to work it. I really love that emerald.
Nowhere did I find mention of exactly what design house these persons were wearing.
Honourable Mention Gentlemen
Andy Blankenbuehler, Ben Platt, Franklin Leonard, Gunna, Jeremy Strong, Odell Beckham Jr. Stromae, Mark Guiducci & Lenny Kravitz.
Lenny Kravitz certainly looked sexy and I loved his choice of jewellery.
Honourable Mention Couples I
Kim Kardashian-Thomas-Humphries-West & Pete Davidson, Agnes Chu & Tom Gilmore, Aurora James, Diana Taylor & Michael Bloomberg, Marc Jacobs & Charly Defrancesco, Vanessa Nadal & Lin-Manuel Miranda.
The persons who had Marilyn Monroe’s iconic dress loaned out need to be sacked. It’s like some parvenu Parisian hostess having the Mona Lisa in her dining room for her next dinner party. Just no!
Honourable Mention Couples II
Edward Enninful & Alec Maxwell, Diane von Furstenberg & Barry Diller, James Corden & Julia Carey, Maya Haile & Marcus Sameulsson, Stephen Jones & Amy Fine Collins & Tracey Collins & Eric Adams.
All the stylish glitterati to be had were out in force; however, their designs origins were never mentioned anywhere.
With his recent passing, this exquisite cape of Mr. Talley’s has been acquired by the Metropolitan Museum’s Costume Institute. Back in 1983, New York City milliner, Frederick Jones and I were walking along West 57th Street en route to Bergdorf Goodman’s. Frederick was going to shop; however, it also meant that he was going to be hustling. Frederick positively loved Merlin and was chiefly Merlin’s friend. That summer because Merlin was in Toronto, working on Fraggle Rock and a couple of theatre productions, he asked Frederick to keep an eye on me. By this point, Merlin and I had spent a very memorable weekend at the Hotel Chelsea in one of those rooms that faced the courtyard and that first night as we fucked all night, at one point, Merlin his limbs wrapped around my frenzied, sweaty body, let out a sigh and began convulsing. As it was early in our relationship, I thought that perhaps he was having an epileptic seizure. Pulling out, concerned, I watched as Merlin’s eyes rolled back and he climaxed without once having touched himself. The look of ecstasy on his face, I will never forget. He professed his love and told me that it had never happened before and that I was his for life… more importantly, Merlin said that he was mine for life. We remained inseparable thereafter.
Walking east along the wide boulevard, coming towards us was the tallest most striking man. I would learn afterwards that it was Andre Leon Talley with whom Frederick was upset. Just imagine, Andre had not said hello to him. Later that week, at an Upper West Side dinner party someone spoke of Andre and how well he was doing, Frederick chimed in and declared, ‘The day he arrives in heaven, all god’s coloured queens will bow down.’
From there, it was on to more partying, which culminated in going to the Ab’sinyan Ba’tist Chuch, as Frederick would proclaim. Frederick always attended because it was all about the hustle; he was there to sell his hats and see who wore which of his hats. First met Frederick when he came to dinner in early December, 1982 to the Trocadero loft in Chelsea on Sixth Avenue below 23rd Street. The following February, whilst still staying at the Trocadero loft, Grace Jones appeared at the Grammy Awards, wearing what we all knew was a Frederick Jones creation but which was lauded as a Lagerfeld creation.
This, I can assure you, caused Frederick to drink to excess for weeks devastated as he was; he wailed at the betrayal as though his mama had died. Eventually, I would in the summer of 1983 spend most of my time blocking and shopping in the garment district for fabrics, returned to his West 43rd Street in mid-afternoon after dance classes and auditions; it was an exciting adventure working for Frederick and earning some under-the-table cash. His tall fiercely jealous Puerto Rican lover was cool towards me. Frederick and I, though, managed a hot sex life with all the feverish brevity of Bonobos at play. Both Leos born in early august our bond was filial rather than not. I drove him on to be more productive all the while, managing to serve him less gin, which Frederick, sadly, drank all day long.
Victoria Beckham who hands down wins best red carpet feet!
One day as Frederick pored through the latest photos of his clients wearing his hats, I explained the importance of standing sickled out when being photographed. Yes, indeed, not standing like a pigeon-toed oaf was truly elegant. Soon, Frederick became obsessed with feet. I was being made to show his clients how to properly stand when they were being photographed whilst wearing his creations, which were genuine masterpieces; these quick tutorials, I did whilst wearing a pair of black patent leather high heels, purchased just off Times Square. Pretty soon, Frederick was bragging to Merlin that thanks to me, his photographed creations looked more sophisticated. To this day, I often smile when seeing someone walking a red carpet and posing sickled in. Frederick would actually yell, ‘Lord Jesus’ as we were anywhere or watching TV and someone stood around pigeon-toed.
Looking at the arrivals for the recent memorial for Andre Leon Talley, I was reminded of Frederick when accompanying him to the Ab’sinyan to which Merlin when in town made it on a few occasions.
Anna Wintour escorted by her son, Charles Shaffer attending the memorial for Andre Leon Talley at the Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem, New York City.
Veronica Webb is the most articulate, eloquent American model of the 1990s and I lived for Saturdays when Jeanne Becker hosted Fashion Television as she just might be featured saying something… anything.
Photographer Dario stylishly attired in kanga; I love the puffy-sleeved jacket.
An elegantly demure Kate Moss departs Harlem’s Abyssinian Baptist Church.
Coming through, none other than Baby Phat, Kimora Lee Simmons.
Dame Anna Wintour’s daughter, Bee Shaffer-Carrozzini whose handsome husband is the late editor-in-chief of Vogue Italia, Franca Sozzani’s son.
Journalist, writer critic Emil and über soignée fashion editor, Claire Sulmers elegantly representing.
The grand dame of the wrap dress; I rather admire this human.
Gosh, they grow up fast.
Writer, journalist and one sexually magnetic human.
The socially ubiquitous Mr. Blasberg escorting Karlie Kloss.
Ever stylish and still elegantly striding forth.
Gucci executive arriving at the Abyssinian Baptist Church.
TV journalist and maverick arriving to memorial service in Harlem.
Well, of course, he’s elegantly dressed.
Yes, why wouldn’t the Queen be in attendance?
Near 40 years later, I smiled on the day that I heard of Andre Leon Talley’s passing. I was comforted in knowing that among all god’s coloured queens bowing down as Andre arrived in heaven, was Frederick Jones.
Baldwin, James 2/8/24 <0>30/11/87
This fragment, a priest, was a fourth level mature soul – second incarnation at this level. The mode was repression with a goal of growth – internally abrading overleaves. An idealist, he was in the intellectual centre moving part.
Body type was Mercury/Saturn.
James’ primary chief feature was Impatience and the secondary martyrdom. There was also some degree of self-destruction due to early childhood traumas.
Casting was fourth-cast in a fifth cadence in a sixth entity, cadre one, greater cadre 7, node 414, same entity as Arvin.
The essence twin is a priest, incarnate and the slave task companion is discarnate.
James’ three primary needs were: freedom, power and expression. ________________________________________________
Presley, Elvis 8/1/1935<O>16/8/1977
Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level young sage – third life thereat. Elvis was in the passion mode with a goal of growth. A spiritualist, Elvis was in the intellectual part of moving centre.
Elvis had a Venus/Mars body type.
Elvis’ primary chief feature was arrogance with a secondary of greed fixated on experience.
Elvis is seventh-cast in the second cadence of the first greater cadence. Elvis is a fragment of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod/node 414 – an entity mate of both Arvin & Merlin.
Elvis has a sage essence twin and the task companion is an artisan to whom he was wed — Priscilla Presley.
Elvis’ three primary needs were: expression, power and freedom.
There are 12 past-life associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin.
Williams, Robin 21/7/1951<O>11/8/2014
Michael: This fragment was a sixth level mature sage — second life thereat. Robin was in the passion mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, he was in the emotional part of moving centre.
Body type was Mars/Venus.
Robin’s primary chief feature was arrogance and the secondary was self-destruction.
The fragment Robin is second-cast in fifth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence six. Robin’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 — another entity mate of both Merlin and Arvin.
Robin’s essence twin is a sage and the artisan task companion was known to him.
Robin’s four primary needs were: expression, adventure, communion and security.
There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 12 with Merlin.
Thank goodness for the wonderfully charming Archie Manners, he waved a wand of truth and exposed the industry of charlatans, who parasitically income stream from the lives of the royals.
Aristocratic magician Archie and his business partner are responsible for outing the archly pretentious con artists, masquerading as experts. With a couple of 1s in his numerological makeup and that empathetic 6, Archie being a true aristocrat doesn’t give a living crap what these persons think; they are frauds.
Ingrid having been caught in a boldfaced lie would later turn to being mindful not to cause offense. I do know several blacks who after subscribing to Majesty magazine, promptly cancelled, owing to Ms. Seward’s appearance. For many Black Americans, the royals were a new phenomenon and many of the upper middle class African-Americans were wowed by the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in 2018. I can assure you, though, after the Oprah interview, the royals have fallen out of favour with many. The blackamoor brooch also came to light during the time of the Oprah interview and that was a definite deal breaker.
After having sucked up to Prince Harry for the biography that she wrote, this vile woman has just been keen at every opportunity, to raise her rear right leg and piss all over all things associated with the Sussexes. She is what my darling Merlin would seethed and dismiss as ‘that Semite’. Himself, a Jew of Polish heritage was ever embarrassed by Ashkenazi persons whom he always found alarmingly racist towards Blacks; this they, somehow, felt was perfectly justifiable because for merely being Jewish, they were above reproach. For this reason, such persons were ever dismissed as ‘Semite’ as they were not fit to be identified as Jewish. Merlin would actually toss something at the television or leave the room when such glaring bigotry occurred on television. This woman is alarmingly mealy-mouthed and ever ready to vilify both Sussexes.
Poseuse extraordinaire, with a second/mindset number of 9, she goes where the prevailing winds do and the American negro does not belong in the royal family. Of course, her diaper-wearing father outed himself as an absolute turncoat fraud in Archie Manners’ brilliant exposé.
The pompous, South African born jackass is outed. Who cares what these persons think or say; they simply project onto the monarchy whatever their miniscule bigoted agendum happens to be.
Just look at him, über nez brun figurative and otherwise. He is a nasty little White male bigot, who not surprisingly hails from another shitty little isle, this one at further reaches of a time and place when empire mattered. Naturally, his fiendish racial animus towards the Sussexes is so intense that he will haul out that porcine turncoat in Mexico, who masquerades as a caring grandfather, whenever he and the other fifs of Fleet Street decide to fabricate and gloat at another salvo at the Sussexes; I can just imagine the perished kiwi fruit, drawing hard on a bottle of poppers whilst getting off.
Just imagine the gales of laughter as Dan Wootton and his sizeable troop of cum-farting, lisping bigots on the isle of racist boors get their clueless-as-fuck mascot, somehow, past Buckingham Palace security to stand on the balcony. There, the gargantuan Duke of Mexico can be favoured over the Sussexes and stood between HM The Queen and HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. At some point, in true Jerry Springer style, Thomas can then confront the Duke and Duchess of Sussex whilst on the balcony and demand to hold his favourite grandchild, Archie. Like true colonial bigots, the likes of Dan Wootton et al would think it priceless to have that uppity negro upstaged and put in her rightful place.
“…”They owe me,” Markle said in the documentary. “The royals owe me, Harry owes me, Meghan owes me. What I’ve been through, I should be rewarded for. My daughter told me when I reach my senior years, she’ll take care of me. I’m in my senior years now. I’m 75 years old, so it’s time to look after daddy.”…”.Thomas Markle.
Just imagine the infinite broadsheet coverage with this priceless click bait fodder, earning each article in excess of 15k comments. I can just imagine them plotting to have the Duke of Mexico join the procession back up the mall to Buckingham Palace in a convertible golf cart. Can you just imagine that clueless despicable man, a veritable albino Idi Amin and no less hateful, looking smug as fuck as his Poundland medals noisily dangle off his left moob. Old age security is more than enough to keep that vile turncoat, living baronially in Mexico.
And to think that this man was actually in the employ of HM The Queen. It is a complete disservice to HM The Queen to have persons with such obvious racial animus and bigotry in the royal households. When HM The Queen took those oaths, wherein she devoted her life and reign to being one of service, she meant it. She is also head of the Church of England, which would not exist were it not for the Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort, who is now incarnate and none other than, Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex herself – there are no coincidences. Were it not for her, the Tudor matriarch, the Queen would be governed by the Pope. Indeed, were HM The Queen like the racist boors who vilify Meghan, formerly Margaret Beaufort (Tudor matriarch), all the Governors-General would be royals. In such a paradigm, one would have, for example, India Hicks, Governor-General of the Bahamas and say, James Ogilvy, the Governor-General of St. Kitts & Nevis rather than two members of my extended family having thusly served HM The Queen. In my entire 7 decades, one was not brought up to think of, nor seen HM The Queen as ‘White.’ She has always just been, The Queen and she has never for a fleeting moment reeked of either bigotry or racial animus. Trust me, being able to spot White bigotry, is an almost built-in matter of extra-sensory perception for Blacks the world over.
Not surprisingly, this woman/gender ambiguous’ numerological make-up contains a 9. This placement of 9 is that of the over-the-top, archly bigoted, pretentious, snob. It is all about who is good enough and being the ultimate defender of the flame and an aggressive gatekeeper. For the record, what tacky cereal gives away junk like that crap on her head? I will say this, hers/theirs are eyes usually resident at sanitoria. Vraiment étrange…
Episode 3 of Keeping Up with the Aristocrats. From the 11:30 to 19:19 is Princess *cough, cough* Olga’s birthday party at her country dump. Present were all the usual royal sycophants and pretentious parvenus about whom the truly aristocratic do not give two fucks, which most definitely includes nez bruns real and figurative and the vile racist attacker of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, the Poundland aristo, lui-même. She/they hangs on to that bargain basement nothing title of lady as though it were Princess Royal. Sweetheart, nobody gives a living fuck and by pompously clawing on to the shitty nowhere title, risibly illustrates how desperately parvenu, which is to say readily dismissible, this one is in Britain’s rigid classist society. During minutes 40:10 to 45.53 of the same episode, Olga attends an evening gathering hosted by the Chatelaine of Renishaw Hall where also present were Ivar Mountbatten and his handsome husband. Naturally, the ‘lady’ *cough, cough* did not make it beyond the stately home’s entry gates. No matter how much she/they affect(s) the grand airs, those who matter would never suffer this crass, put-on in their midst as was made readily evident during the gathering at Renishaw Hall. Olga, an ancien/passé princess will be welcome among aristocrats and orbital royals like Ivar Mountbatten but not in your life would Ivar Mountbatten and his husband be around snobbish boors like Lady Kissy Kissy Boosh Boosh and the sycophantic opera fags, who readily gravitate to such extra-orbital netherworld spheres like famished flies on shit.
On the Poundland aristo’s YouTube channel on April 14, 2022, the very day that the Duke & Duchess of Sussex visited HM The Queen at Windsor Castle. Not once did this woman/gender ambiguous make passing reference to the fact that, through her/their impeccable royal source(s), there would be imminent activity by the Sussexes that would have everyone talking but to protect her/their royal source(s), she/they could not say further; however, by the end of the week, she/they and her/their royal source(s) will have been proven correct. Thursday, April 14, 2022 was the very day that the Sussexes made worldwide news and what do you know, thereafter was the Poundland aristo, fuming and flaring her/their ferret-like nostrils with indignation at the vile Sussexes, visiting HM The Queen, a visit which she/they never once could claim that she/they had alluded to in her/their vlog on April 14, 2022 or the vlog prior. From 21:00 to 23:20, it is perfectly clear that the uncouth Poundland aristo has no inside royal source(s) and that as she/they was/were sat engaging in decidedly libellous palaver, the Duke & Duchess of Sussex were in Windsor, visiting with HM The Queen. Nonetheless, there is the Lady of dubious gender, declaring at 21:40 ‘My understanding, is that The Queen would not be that thrilled to receive them.’ She/they, then dripping with racist innuendo, like her/their zero-nacred Poundland jewellery, until 23:20 blithers on, dismissing Meghan, and by inference Blacks, as inelegant country folk set loose in a costumier’s.
April 16, 2022
In this video, after the Duke & Duchess of Sussex had been to visit HM The Queen in Windsor, the uncouth gossip is left to scratch and claw and throw more defamatory grenades in a bid to cover the fact that the vlog of two days prior, April 14, 2022, there was no mention of the Sussexes’ visit to see The Queen, because she/they hasn’t/haven’t got a fucking clue and is an absolute racist and fraud – neither she/they nor her/their alleged royal source(s) know sweet fuck-all of what is truly going on. As for her/their royal source(s), there are more royals in England than any country on the planet; when this racist woman/gender ambiguous says royal, she/they never does/do say British royal family. Truth be told, as there are royals from every royal family on the planet in England, this means that the ratio of royals to chavs in England is 1:1. As she/they continue(s) her/their defamatory campaign of courting Meghan’s litigious wrath, she/they at 16:00 to 16:40 implies that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex has a cocaine habit; this she did whilst impersonating Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and excessively sniffing and snorting back and forth from one nostril to the next. All the while, this woman/gender ambiguous racist creates a petition to invite Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex to ask HM The Queen to place his Dukedom in abeyance; so intense is this woman/gender ambiguous’ racist obsession with Duke of Sussex’s wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Sooner or later, the Sussexes are going to take legal action against this fraud and they have all the video evidence and more that they need. Keep digging with the use of the little people having been whipped into hateful frenzy – the same little people about whom she/they does/do not give sweet fuck-all on any given rainy Friday afternoon. Always, it is readily convenient and credible to pin Blacks with the label of being drug addicts in one’s racially predatory obsession.
Back in summer 1986, I took over a friend of Merlin’s gig as dresser on Cats at Toronto’s Elgin Theatre. At the time, the person was experiencing burnout as many friends and theatre associates of theirs were dying of AIDS. What was supposed to have been 3 to 6 weeks maximum, turned into almost a year. Friends made during that time, still work in the showbiz world here in town and matured into TV/film careers. Not one of these persons ever said a damn thing negative about Meghan Markle when she worked here in Toronto, filming Suits. She smokes as does Prince Harry was the extent of what different sources related. If there was a drinking or drug problem, it would most definitely not have been overlooked. Also, if you have a drug problem, it is either rehab or simply being written out of the show, neither of which occurred. Also, if Meghan, Duchess of Sussex were the bully as alleged by royal household staffers and the tabloid medium, it would have been an issue on Suits for which she would have been dismissed. An actor working on the set of a long-running TV series, is not dissimilar to being a royal in a royal household; Meghan was not suddenly going to be difficult when she was accustomed to being deferred to on the set of a hit TV show. Meanwhile, the Poundland aristo seriously engages in defamation of character for being inordinately racially predatory of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Like her/them sitting there on the day that the Sussexes were visiting with HM The Queen in Windsor, April 14, 2022, about which she/they knew sweet fuck-all, she/they also does/do not know anything about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s life, when she resided here in Toronto. Stop fucking goddamn inciting gullible bigots to racially hate Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and Prince Harry; this is precisely why the doyenne of Renishaw Hall would never think of having that vile, gossiping charlatan in her home.
Let me make it abundantly clear, this woman/gender ambiguous and all Meghan’s detractors would know to keep their rabid tail between their syphilitic legs if Prince Harry had married either a Jew or a Moslem. One simply does not giver offense to either demographic. For one, fear of retaliation, economic or otherwise of being accused of either anti-Semitism or Islamophobia would have this Trench town racist, keeping her/their foul and defamatory thoughts to herself/themself. As one does not give offense to either demographic and in the case of the latter, as fatwahs and their consequences are very real, she/they would think twice of putting either Castle Booring at risk or ending up like Nick Berg did.
Meghan, Duchess of Sussex never played the race card, that was quite nicely played for her by HRH Princess Michael of Kent and then she had the fuck-all temerity to show her flat-arsed, no-calved pretentious face at a Black woman’s wedding, having sported the blackamoor brooch six months earlier, which is no less offensive to Blacks, especially so African-Americans, than a swastika would have been had Prince Harry like Lord Frederick Windsor, princess flat-arse’s son, married a Jew. So thank you for sitting there, looking all smug as fuck, sporting your blackamoor brooch because never could it be convincingly argued that Meghan was making specious allegations of racism, pulling the race card when even before walking down the aisle with Harry, there was the dumbass, advertising what gleeful fun one was having being racially predatory boors towards that Compton hustler. Blasted flat-arsed, pretentious sow.
At the heart of Britons’ arch racist animus towards Blacks is the sticky business of karma. They owe massive karma to Blacks for the empire building wealth that they amassed for the enslavement of Blacks and in its aftermath, the absurd injustice of slavery profiting Britons being compensated for their supposed lost income stream whilst the discarded enslaved got nothing. And so they hate and deny and will never ever admit to having been racist or being racist. Yet, somehow, they and indeed all non-Blacks seem to think that despite their unbridled racist animus towards us, we sent out an SOS, asking them to come relieve/rape us of Black culture, which is inherently musical, and thus they grudgingly squat the fuck all over Jazz as though, somehow, invited. Let’s, however, digress no more…
The soul which, formerly when incarnate, was Margaret Beaufort, Tudor matriarch, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I, has been reborn, Black and on re-entering that dynastic family for being Black has affected the karmic chickens of slavery, Black exploitation and rape of Africa and its people, coming home to roost. By her very presence, she has lanced a bilious flood of racial dread, which White Britons bear Blacks for the karma they damn well know that they owe Blacks. No matter how you protest, just remember that within your midst are persons who will never assimilate and who are singularly focussed on subjecting you and your society as you subjected Blacks. Keep hating Blacks and being singularly focussed on Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, serving as a vessel for your uneclipsed racism, of which your sleeper enemy is keenly observant and quietly figuring out how to deal with and successfully subject the threat of your existence; all the while, you prove yourselves blissfully unaware of the bigger picture karmically.
Remind me again that England is merely an island and its residents frightfully small-minded, alarmingly racist and violent in the extreme.
“Why wouldn’t they just throw him over the balcony and her with him.” — @EamonnHolmes
So blinded by hate is this porcine, homo-repressed boor that he thinks nothing of threatening a senior heir and successor of the Sovereign’s, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex with death along with his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. A threat issued of physical attack on Harry, is an attack on the Crown, HM The Queen. This man is beyond absurd. This whole tempest in a teapot has been completely taken out of context on that side of the pond.
Firstly, in his interview with NBC Today’s Hoda Kotb, Harry when making the remark, did so in reference to the fact that his beloved ‘granny’ had been recently side-lined by Covid. Obviously, if greater care had been exercised to protect The Queen from being potentially exposed to Covid, she would not have fallen ill with Covid and Harry would not have had to make the statement. Secondly, by his remark, Prince Harry was making a none-too-veiled reference to disgraced Prince Andrew, escorting HM The Queen to the thanksgiving service for The Prince Philip at Westminster Abbey. Thirdly, Prince Harry was specifically referring to HM The Queen’s private secretary, Edward Young and her dresser, Angela Kelly. But far be it from the blind little bigots, always looking to ferret diabolical meaning where none was intended.
Why pray tell was the little embedded-dicked, closet case, not preying on Prince Andrew. Obviously, it must have been a case of predators’ honour that the pussy-whipped fucker issued no threats against Prince Andrew when he had the gall to escort HM The Queen at The Prince Philip’s thanksgiving service at Westminster Abbey in March, 2022. Lord only knows, Prince Harry has not had to cough up millions to make the embarrassment of minor prey go away. But here comes little racial predator 70 million and two from the isle of sycophants, storming the palace gates and looking to lynch the racial traitor and his runaway slave… mais oui. Vas chier… fif de madame grosse fesse.
First number of 1 is that of the bully; they are conceited in the extreme and, of course, no Black woman should be marrying into the royal family for the likes of this man. End of discussion.
Meghan, Duchess of Sussex whilst attending the Invictus Games in the Hague, April 2022, took time to join in an arts and crafts session. Straight away, the little negative twits were only too happy to gloat and ridicule because look at her, she has painted the flag upside down. Truth be told, when a nation is invaded/under attack, it is customary rather than raising a white flag of surrender, to instead raise the nation’s flag upside down as this is a call for military intervention from neighbouring nations/allies. Meghan painting PEACE on an upside down Ukrainian flag, was in fact correct.
Back in April 2011 at the beautiful royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, Tina Brown as guest commentator for ABC’s coverage of the wedding, as a Briton, she was featured. However, when the Beckhams were spotted in the line to enter Westminster Abbey, Tina Brown in a bit of classist shade dismissed Victoria Beckham with the ludicrous observation that the elegantly soignée Ms. Beckham regularly went jogging in Hollywood thusly attired. This sort of loose-lipped put-down does little for her credibility especially after the fiasco that was Talk magazine, which for being bankrolled by that sleazy creep, Harvey Weinstein, naturally never featured a Black American on its cover. Not surprisingly, there were Britons on the cover of the pretentious, to say nothing of otiose, rag. There was Tina Brown, trying to make Liz Hurley happen… and decades later, it still hasn’t happened. Who else but a racially smug Briton would be editor-in-chief of an American magazine and never feature a Black American on the cover of an American magazine, Talk.
Nothing is more dangerous than sophisticated racists because they are so indignant when called on their racism; it is almost as though you would be mad for having to question something that is patently untrue to such persons. There is no racism; there is no damn need to change anything. Alas, there was Tina Brown, having been dispensed with by ABC, decamped to CBS where at the royal wedding of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex where Oprah was a guest, the very same displaced Briton was having to offer her tired-arsed, third-tier opinions to Oprah’s best friend Gayle King – as if her opinions matter to the people who were never good enough to have featured on her shitty little, loser magazine’s cover. Some people.
There is positively sweet fuck-all that Tina Brown can say that is credible… she and her opinions are of negligible worth. I might also add that 3 and double 5s just spells over-the-top fabulist. But damned if that is going to stop her from cashing in on the racial lynching of Prince Harry for having married a goddamn American… a Black American. It was not acceptable when King Edward VIII brought Wallis Simpson to the court of St. James and it definitely is not acceptable for Prince Harry to have brought a goddamn Black woman into the very heart of the British royal family. Indeed, the Sussexes are the bitcoin of new income streams for bigoted hacks in the age of social media.
Her book will be biased and inclined to attack the Black Duchess and bow and scrape to the Cambridges. She will not touch the racism in either the royal households or royal family. What Meghan is experiencing, is what all Black women experience. Where Black men are gunned down with alarming frequency by police relative to White males, and their respective percentages of the American population, is horrific. Black women are deliberately denied, feared, hated, overlooked and bypassed because one can – only one Black woman has won a best actress Oscar in its 94 years – Halle Berry. Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson’s senate confirmation hearings were appallingly vicious; there is positively no way that a Jewish woman would have been so abused during the same process – think back on Judge Kagan’s confirmation hearings. Justice Elena Kagan’s intelligence was never questioned nor was she subjected to the ridiculously petty lines of questioning Justice Brown Jackson was. Will Tina Brown highlight HM The Queen’s dresser’s, Angela Kelly being outright rude and dismissive behaviour towards Meghan or that of HM The Queen’s private secretary, Edward Young also was towards Meghan?
Again, let me make it abundantly clear, if Meghan Markle were White, Moslem, Jewish, Chinese or East Indian, absolutely none of this Salem revisited would be upon us. They, the media, have created a car crash and simply wanted Meghan and Harry to buckle up and take a ride like Diana, Princess of Wales did. One simply does not give offense to the aforementioned demographics; however, it is always perfectly justifiable to be irrationally exuberant in one’s racially predatory animus towards Blacks. The way to get around being labelled racists or to take ownership thereof, one simply attacks the accuser with new-fangled derogatory terms like ‘cancel culture’ and ‘woke.’ Indeed, the racist justifies their right to be racially predatory by protesting against Blacks (Black Lives Matter) calling them on their racism.
The 60s to 90s were a time of raid and neo-colonisation on the part of Britons on American media and culture, including this odious, little White male bigot, seizing power at CNN and acting as though by virtue of his Britishness, he was somehow welcome or entitled to squat all over American TV/culture. Honestly, when can any of these ungrateful people look at their sojourn in American and claim that Americans were rude, xenophobic boors towards them. Nonetheless, these charlatans have had it way too good, crossing the pond and becoming latter-day buccaneers as they have raped American culture and grew more fantastically rich than they ever could for staying relatively obscure on their shitty little isle of vile xenophobes. Of course, bigots like this pretentious snob – he has two 9s in his numerological make-up – think that Americans aren’t civilised enough to enter the ranks of their archly classist society, though smelling loud of that cheap eau de toilette called the American buck. Incidentally, for having two 9s, he was so infuriated at being called on his bigotry by meteorologist, Alex Beresford that he got up and stormed off the TV set and lost his job. This was his meltdown response to Meghan & Harry’s appearance on the Oprah interview. That vile unethical boor ought never to have been afforded a green card, let lone been on American TV, after his complicit, reprehensible actions when at the now defunct, News of the World tabloid rag.
What these bigots have never been able to accept, is that Meghan is as intelligent, eloquent and articulate as she is, especially as this completely shatters their perception of Blacks/Black Americans. Meghan, of course, by comparison showed up Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge for the sodden cardboard that she is for lacking in charisma, gravitas and eloquence but she gurns and dresses superbly. Speaking of dressing, it was mighty queer that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wore an off-white dress to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s wedding. If that is not a display of her first number of 9 and the fact that she felt so threatened by Meghan’s force-of-nature magnetism that she would be the only woman exclusively wearing off-white (white) to the royal wedding of the woman whom it turns out she made cry, rather than how it was speciously reported by Camilla Tominey in the launch of the campaign to banish the negro from the kingdom isle of racist boors.
I will say this, it is my observation that most – though by no means all – Whites with 9 in their numerological make-up are usually prejudiced towards Blacks and most such-focussed persons, are intensely racially predatory towards Blacks rather than not.
The one constant in all the media frenzy and predatory obsession with the Duke & Duchess of Sussex is that no one ever discusses the latent, blatant racism to which the Sussexes have been subjected. They will write volumes and cash in; however, had Prince Harry married a White American actress named Cressida Bonas with the same pedigree as the real British-born Cressida Bonas, positively none of this nightmare would have unfolded. Indeed, the print medium would long have turned on Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge in favour of the blonde, favoured wife of everyone’s favourite, Prince Harry. As Diana, Princess of Wales so eloquently stated during her BBC Panorama Martin Bashir interview, “the best way to dismantle a personality, is to isolate it.” Naturally, each of these opinionated White income streaming royal experts will never cast light on the racism to which the Sussexes have been subjected; instead, it has been rendered non-existent and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is never referred to as Black. To focus on race would be empowering, humanising Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, which serves no purpose when on a campaign to totally annihilate a Black woman.
Now for the Pro(fessional)s. Hilary Mantel, whose exquisite Tudor trilogy I have enjoyed, has been a staunch supporter of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. She has wasted no time in calling the British print medium on its unbridled racism towards the Duke & Duchess of Sussex for their interracial marriage. She speaks truth and calls out the ugly racism for precisely what it is.
Times of London royal editor, Roya Nikkhah is as classy as it gets. Consummate professional, she does not engage in either sophistry or gossip. Sophisticated. Professional. Elegant. Precisely as any respectable journalist should comport themselves on or off the page.
Royal biographer, writer and editor at Vanity Fair, Katie is professional and strictly factual. Never gossips and keeps her mostly American audience educated on all things royal.
Hello Magazine UK’s royal editor has always been pitch perfect and warmly professional in her coverage of the royal family. She speaks with the same care and tact of each royal family member, regardless their public persona and the whims of public opinion, which can be biased in the extreme.
Scholarly, professional, passionate, inordinately knowledgeable, she is a font of insights historical and current. Articulate, she has an engagingly warm voice. She has an actual career and unlike some, she doesn’t need to prey on the Sussexes in a bid for a new income stream.
Here we have BBC’s royal correspondent, Nicholas Witchell in a marvellously edited video, which was a none-too-veiled threat to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge who expressed his displeasure with the BBC and even went so far as to not have the BBC host, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s Christmas Carol Service in December, 2021. The BBC really do not care what William thinks and were not shy in telegraphing their refusal anytime soon to sycophantically bow and scrape in his direction. There is much that they can do within their medium, which would not much benefit TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge. Certainly, the BBC releasing the Cambridge’s rowing at the 2019 A Berry Royal Christmas special was a none-too-subtle salvo from the BBC to the arrogant future Sovereign.
The éminence grise of royal biographers, he was also an actual friend of The Prince Philip. Look what’s not to love, we are both rats, have two numbers in common (8 & 2) and both of Jewish heritage. That 2 is responsible for his collection of smart, witty jumpers. That 2 and its placement would have left him singing louder than anyone else in the theatre, ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ at the end of Spamalot. 2, no matter where it is placed, means that one is always rooted in one’s joyous child-ego state and why damn not! More than anyone, he would be aware that regardless of the tabloid medium’s racially predatory animus towards the Duke & Duchess of Sussex, the Windsors are a family above all else.
Mr. Bradby knows the real score and empathises with the Duke & Duchess of Sussex and the politics of the royal households and royal principals behind the racially predatory campaign against the Sussexes. That PR war against the Sussexes was/is chiefly waged in the tabloid medium. The Cambridges are passive-aggressive boors; they do have their own secrets, which sooner or later will be outed by William’s fourth number of 5, catching up with him.
Tom allowed, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex – that soul formerly incarnate as Margaret Beaufort – to start flexing her chops and going to town on the cowards, who dared fucking with her. The Tudor matriarch did not return to play pushover.
ITV royal correspondent, Chris Ship like Emily Nash has a keen awareness how Britain LLP looks before the rest of the world. He is adroit, professional and purely objective.
Duke & Duchess of Sussex at the Invictus Games in the Hague, 2022
Though she launched the opening salvo in the campaign to banish the interloper negro from the isle of racist boors and royals, that Meghan made Catherine cry when it proved to have been the reverse, Camilla has clearly had a road to Damascus change of tune. Recently, she has uttered words like Black Lives Matter as it has begun to dawn on Britain LLP that theirs is not the most rosy of images beyond their isle of rabid bigots. Her opinions on the Sussexes have become more nuanced and professional and, I dare say, she is even beginning to approach the professionalism of Nash, Ship et al.
Always adroit, I was impressed by his indignation during a round table discussion immediately after the airing of the Oprah interview, featuring the Duke & Duchess of Sussex. Stridently, he argued that whoever had raised the racially insensitive matter of Archie’s skin tone, ought to be stripped of their royal privileges. This, though impressive, struck me as odd because what was even more offensive was HRH Princess of Michael of Kent wearing that blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s 2017 Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace. Surely, by that maxim, she should at the very least have been evicted from her grace & favour apartment at Kensington Palace.
First became aware of him on the same roundtable discussion after the Oprah interview, in which Robert Jobson participated. He is nuanced and keenly aware that optics are more important than being on the isle of bigoted boors’ bandwagon.
As HM The Queen made it perfectly clear at The Prince Philip’s thanksgiving service at Westminster Abbey in March, 2022, Prince Andrew is her son and she is along with being a grieving widow, Sovereign. The call is hers to make. She has remarkably honoured her promise to be of service, all well on the cusp of an eighth decade. You don’t like that she wants her favourite grandson, his articulate wife and their kids on the balcony at Buckingham Palace at Trooping the Colour during the Platinum Jubilee celebrations? Tough! The call is hers to make and if you truly do not like it, you can damn well crawl the fuck in your casket. It is no damn business of yours. Sooner or later, the government is going to have to put an end to the press, holding to ransom the British royal family. The royals of Sweden, Spain, Norway, Denmark and everywhere else in the world are not terrorised by the press, chiefly so the tabloid press. The British press have made a business of ruthlessly directing the royals in a generational pantomime that has caused, death (Diana, Princess of Wales), anguish and drug abuse (alcohol) re: (Princess Margaret), predatory racial harassment (Duke & Duchess of Sussex). All the while, they have turned a blind eye to Prince Andrew’s unsavoury proclivity for lamb, veal and other minor fare, to say nothing of the hissing toxicity that is TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s marriage.
Provided to YouTube by Columbia/Legacy Bitches Brew · Miles Davis · Wayne Shorter · Bennie Maupin · John McLaughlin · Chick Corea · Joe Zawinul · Dave Holland · Harvey Brooks The Complete Bitches Brew Sessions ℗ Originally released 1970. All rights reserved by Columbia Records, a division of Sony Music Entertainment Released on: 1970-03-31 Associated Performer: Miles Davis feat. Wayne Shorter, Bennie Maupin, John McLaughlin, Chick Corea, Joe Zawinul, Dave Holland, Harvey Brooks Associated Performer: Miles Davis feat. John McLaughlin, Wayne Shorter, Chick Corea & Joe Zawinul Drums: Lenny White Drums: Jack DeJohnette Congas: Don Alias Shaker: Jumma Santos Producer: Teo Macero Recording Engineer: Stan Tonkel.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
More and more, the hideous burrowing larvae at this rotten artichoke’s core becomes exposed. Respect is earned and never a birthright. When incarnate anywhere in the physical universe, the most important asset to possess, is intellect. So you don’t like blacks, and who pray tell are you to the people for whom Jazz is culture, high art and everything?
So never mind Archie’s skin colour; what about his hair colour? All along the Sussexes have cleverly hidden from view Archie’s hair colour, indeed his true identity; he was photographed being returned home from preschool, wearing a large toque. Also, at Christmas 2019, he was photographed with his proud pa whilst on Vancouver Island, wearing a toque to coverup his flaming Spencer mop. He was filmed on Oprah Winfrey’s interview with his parents in a manner such that much of the colour was edited from the film, making it appear as if filmed in black and white.
Last Christmas’s card was an illustration where the colour was a smeared auburn. Archie was filmed in sepia holding ballons which yet again, left his identity ambiguous. Then after having dropped the race bomb on the Oprah Winfrey interview, Archie’s shock of red hair is finally revealed. Just as Meghan executed the most elegant display of controlled anger, during which time in her sit-down interview with Oprah Winfrey, she never once mentioned Prince William, she went one further and subtly taunted Prince William by having HSH Prince Alex Lubomirski reveal to the world Archie’s true ‘colour’.
Not only does Archie have the Spencer redhead gene – like his cousins George McCorquodale and Louis Spencer Viscount Althorp – but unlike William and his three offspring, Charlotte having the same hairline and forehead as her uncle King Felipe VI’s two daughters, Charlotte unlike Archie is not a redhead. Archie’s freckled mother, Meghan Duchess of Sussex, has the redhead gene as well as his father; and both Archie’s maternal grandparents are likely carriers of the redhead gene.
William being the obvious Bourbon lovechild that he is, only has the Spencer redhead gene; he did not inherit said gene from his father, King Juan Carlos of Spain – notice King Felipe VI and his offspring do not manifest the redhead gene. Sadly, William’s bullying, emasculating wife, Catherine, does not have the redhead gene to pass on. So in the end, Archie by being born, further revealed William for the Bourbon lovechild that he is.
Just look at all this staged tomfuckery, passing for good old-fashioned, wholesome family togetherness…. mon blasted cul!
Indeed, on recently watching the Oprah Interview during the holidays, I realised that by conspicuously never once mentioning William, Meghan thereby outed him. Elegantly, Meghan unmasked Catherine for the monster that she is by clearing up the lies of just who made who cried. Of course, it was Catherine, she of the 9 energy body with a task companion husband, William, who has a 9 attitude – toxic specimens to the core.
The tabloid medium vilification of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, speaks to William’s grudging, petty, malicious nature. At the time of William’s wedding April 29, 2011, the media spun the story that Sarah, Duchess of York was not invited to William’s marriage to Catherine because HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh did not speak to Sarah and did not want her present. Seven years later, HRH Prince Philip was still alive, yet Sarah, Duchess of York attended Harry’s marriage to Meghan because Harry wanted Sarah present; it was after all his wedding and not HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh’s. Of course, if now what we know of Andrew, Duke of York’s sexual proclivities and legal troubles were then rumoured, William damn well would have seen fit not to have Andrew attend his wedding in April, 2011.
It was William who told American, Dave Clark that he did not approve of him and would not be permitted to wed, HRH Princess Beatrice of York. Indeed, conveniently enough, as he wished not to be overshadowed at his wedding by Harry, Chelsey Davy was told to get lost. Indeed, she could attend the wedding, just not as the fiancée of Harry’s. This is how controlling and petty William is… indeed, how all 9s are. All true to his numerology and second number of 9, his mindset, William is snobbish, prejudiced, interfering and obstinate.
In another of William’s moves, there was Pippa Matthews at 2021’s Carol Service at Westminster Abbey; however, she was not accompanied by her spouse James Matthews. William would never want him there, since Matthews senior, David, is legally accused of sexual assault, involving a minor, in France. To say the least, it was also obvious that William has never suffered his wife’s brother-in-law, Spencer Matthews as he was flatly dismissed at Pippa’s wedding to Spencer’s brother Matthew in 2017.
True to form, William has used an arsenal of fellow 9s to do his dirty work of sabotaging and bullying Meghan out of the picture. Little did the Bourbon dolt know against whom he was dealing. From Lady Colin Campbell, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Piers Morgan and Thomas Markle Sr., they all did his dirty work whilst he hid, like the wizard of Oz not too well, out of view. Without doubt, they have all been sanctioned by William, in his obsessive animus towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, as they are all possessed of 9 (save Princess Michael of Kent) as are he and Catherine.Everyone of these nines, like all nines, are the most blasted conceited boors imaginable. Quelle fuck-all joie indeed. Good god, who in their right mind but a toxic 9 energy body (just like Catherine) like Thomas Markle Sr. would be obsessed with sabotaging and slandering their own child? Remind me again when Doria Ragland was out vilifying her own blood. Everyone of these people, Thomas, Lady Colin – that blasted big-handed, dick-tucking, Trenchtown jaggabat, Piers Morgan, both princely Kent males et al, are merely manifestations of both William and Catherine’s well-guarded true nature in all their 9 toxicity.
Chief weapon in William’s arsenal is the listless, inarticulate, talentless, gurning, hyper-competitive ghoul, who will stop at nothing to try and outdo Meghan, especially since Meghan so elegantly outed her by stating that, she is a “good person” (ha), as in William most certainly the fuck is not. Stay tuned, like all racially predatory, obsessed-with-blacks white females, look for Catherine next year to release a Jazz album… Lawd Jesus! Of course, this little mad turn of hers, even more risible than Diana, Princess of Wales’s dance with Wayne Sleep, had been pre-taped because god only knows, there must have been 2 million and 9 takes to get the blithering off-key errors edited and enough gurning captured. This staged bit of madness only deftly illustrates how utterly small-time Catherine truly is, to say nothing of shit-disturbing, petty and sabotaging. So, Catherine, you lamely banged on a keyboard, well, so too my dear could Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee, Bubbles, who also gurned throughout.
Of course, as the BBC currently is at war with William and Catherine, trust royal correspondent, Nicholas Witchell to take a swipe at William as HM The Queen does not let slip the opportunity to tell off William as they were gathered last year at Windsor Castle. This was a report by Mr. Witchell on Christmas Eve 2021, which included at the 01:19 mark an outtake from HM The Queen and family on the steps at Windsor Castle during Christmas 2020. At the time, last Christmas, this was not aired; however, if you are going to come out and act as though you are already sovereign, the BBC is swiftly going to put you in your place as damn well they ought to.
Naturally, the unflattering clip, which brazenly lays bare HM The Queen’s dismissive rage at that damn incompetent fool Bourbon dolt, was beautifully edited and immediately followed by a glowing review of the Sussexes’ Christmas card for 2021, which was released the day prior as was their card for 2020 also released on December 23. With 2 & 5 in William’s numerology, sooner or later infamy and dark secrets of a sexual nature will be whispered about; however, as with BBC’s interview with an implicated Prince Andrew, the BBC will not think twice to ruthlessly go after William.
That’s right William and Catherine, you may control the narrative vilification and slander of Meghan through the sleazy tabloids; however, you will never win in war against the BBC – they are real journalists, who will not think twice, just like HM The Queen to put you in your damn conceited place. Sooner or later, William’s body will be lowered through the floor at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. Starting that day, history, which is callously unforgiving, will cease being sparing with the truth of just who this stubborn, controlling, pernicious, interfering and petty human, William, was.
There was William sat such that he could have an unobstructed, hawkishly predatory view of Meghan so that later, back at Kensington Palace, he could lace into her about every blasted thing that she said and did as a mature scholar soul with a chief feature of stubbornness and an attitude of 9 can be expected to do. Naturally, it is precisely because of William’s volatile toxicity why Meghan made it perfectly clear to Harry that they were going to have to move to Frogmore Cottage rather than live next-door to the perpetually rowing Cambridges with their toxic 9 numerology.
If equally self-toxic Catherine can’t stand William, why indeed should the Sussexes have moved in next-door to them at Kensington Palace, let alone remain in the kingdom when HM The Queen does not have another 20 to 40 years on the throne.
Provoked, the BBC will not pussyfoot in a fight with William. Respect is earned and with no discernible intellect, you can bet your bottom dollar that the BBC will not be threatened by a bully to say not of a damn fool. Sycophants do not abound at the BBC. As royals happen to be human, the BBC is keenly aware that William too shall pass and as such is no threat to the fourth estate, of which the tabloid media are not members.
Blind with prejudice of a people, how can a fool ever be expected to perceive the beauty of all humanity. Go on, sit there openly ridiculing before the entire world and time itself a very people, you damn Bourbon fool; history is never kind to those who know nothing of truth. Jazz is the very essence of a people about whom you know nothing and can never be expected to perceive their humanity.
I share here the above dream, which was dreamt in July 1997 of Diana, Princess of Wales. It was the eve of my move from Vancouver to Montréal and a month before Diana’s tragic death. At the time of the dream, which was set on the astral plane, Diana was clearly resigned to her fate. Also, as is obvious from her concerns for William’s safety in the dream, as she was imminently about to pass, Diana was worried that anything should happen to her firstborn, William. Naturally, if Charles were not William’s father, there was a real danger that Diana’s firstborn could altogether be removed from the picture. The moment, mere weeks later, that I heard of Diana’s car crash, I knew that she would perish; I knew then the meaning of the above dream.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
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. 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 plough 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 plough 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 allmine.
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.
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Yes! That’s how you ride the slithering seven-headed dragon to the hounds!
Ah, there they are, gliding along in Sandringham, trying to cover Catherine’s brushoff of her nuisance husband, William, during BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas Special by having the image of wholesomeness. What affair with Rose Hanbury? BS! Come on, you must be having a laugh! Rose’s husband lives in Paris with his (male) photographer lover, so his being at Sandringham is so much PR pablum.
That’s right, bring in the black woman and she can cover those forever impoverished Commonwealth backwater countries that one has no intentions of ever setting foot in, Catherine & William that is. Too bad, though, that you did not take the time to treat that black woman as nothing more than dirt. Rushing to DailyMail and meeting with its editorial board to keep dumping on that upstart American. Why should the Sussexes have done Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace in 2019 with Archie in tow, only to have the likes of that flat-arsed, no-calved reptilian freak, blackamoor brooch and all, greeting Archie along the lines, “well aren’t you just the most adorable little monkey.”
If you think that HRH Princess Michael of Kent is the only open bigot in the BRF or the Royal household then I am sure you also believe that the Prince of Rome really does care about the little people. Today, 8/1/2020 was a most auspicious and powerful day for TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex to have launched their new website http://www.sussexroyal.com and to have seized power from the British media. Indeed, this master stroke by TRHs is a fitting homage to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s beloved mother, Diana, Princess of Wales. They sought to own, victimise, exploit Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex as previously they had Diana, Princess of Wales. Not for nothing was the soul which previously had been Margaret Beaufort, Tudor matriarch going to lay down and get shafted by damn fools – fools too who new arsenal, which they had not previously employed against Diana, Princess of Wales, race.
For 14 long and excruciating minutes, Bishop Curry hogged the spotlight; however, in doing so, he also weaved magic that was likely never intended. Alas, there were in the quire at St. George’s Chapel, the most shrewd strategists you could hope for, American mavericks and a handful of shrewd power players from the Gersh Agency, to say nothing of George & Amal Clooney and as well Oprah Winfrey. This inevitably gave way to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge revealing what a clueless oaf he is, whilst Sheku Kanneh-Mason performed Schubert’s Ave Maria. The same oaf who had to be told how to properly sit in the carriage on the day of his wedding, to the same oaf who neurotically brushed the back of his left hand after his crass wife had rudely dismissed him before the world, which of course the members of the Royal Rota chose not to run with.
This woman, Meghan, showed her true mettle in slaying that smug dragon, the Royal Rota, which somehow assumed that it was invincible and could exploit, rule and demonise the product of 400 years of enslavement and dehumanisation by the very society which ought to be damn well lucky those enslaved descendants are as forgiving as they are and do not perpetually harbour erotophonophilic thoughts of severed, hateful empty skulls. No said Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, I will not be racially preyed on, demonised, vilified and made millions off of as were my ancestors. How she has proven a mirror into which the isle of rabid racist hooligans have had to gaze and runaway screaming.
Retaliate by taking away their HRH status and there will be a number of predominantly black Commonwealth nations that will just as readily throw off that final yoke of colonialism. That is a legacy of which HM The Queen is most proud. She would do it but it would cost her dearly. The royals have stood by and done positively nothing whilst Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was being fed on by semi-feral jackals of the royal rota.
They were smugly celebratory and began the ousting of the American by the Cambridges’ performance at Royal Ascot in 2019, a performance which clearly had the backing of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. The Royals and their courtiers have myopically assumed that the game and the way it is played, is the only way. Wrong! At Christmas, the Sussexes were further being sidelined by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales accompanying TRH Duke & Duchess, George & Charlotte of Cambridge to church in Sandringham.
There are Americans involved and the Windsors laid themselves bare as they sat across the very narrow aisle of St. George’s Chapel’s quire from self-made power money. Who are the Windsors to persons like this, who shrewdly see the value and monetary worth in everything. William to them is just lazy money – he was born into it and beyond that is a fairly clueless oaf. There sat Meghan, serene, confident on her wedding day as she sat opposite some of the most shrewd legal minds going and they knew her… the Windsors are nothing to such persons.
Now that the Royal Rota has been frozen out and its flame extinguished, they can now focus on the business of gossip. What are they now to do, continue their newfound narrative of praising Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge or revert back to their comfort zone of detesting Kate Middleton?
With this release of http://www.sussexroyal.com TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex have slain a formidable dragon – a hideous though weak seven-headed monster. This heroic move and act on their part has done a great deal to avenge the pain and injury, which this blood-hungry seven-headed dragon (Royal Rota) enjoyed at Diana, Princess of Wales’ expense. HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his able and reincarnationally accomplished Queen, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has proven a modern day St. George who together have slain a seven-headed dragon that bullied his mother into her grave. Go on, try publishing a million photos and print your lies about them now… going forward as of this day, 8.1.2020 = 8.9.4 = 3, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex have avenged Diana’s death accomplished in their bold defiance to finally allow Diana, Princess of Wales to rest truly in peace.
Whatever shall the royal rota do now? More to the point, does it really now matter?
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