Category: Composers

The Best-Laid Plans of 9s!

Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment
Thomas Markle Sr. 18.7.1944 Monkey 9.7.7 = 5

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.

St. Paul’s Cathedral, London England

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?

Thomas Markle Sr. on YouTube

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.

HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Blackamoor brooch December, 2017

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.

TRH Prince & Princess Michael of Kent, Sophie Winkleman (Lady Frederick Windsor) & Lord Windsor

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.

Duke & Duchess of Sussex, Archie & Lilibet (in utero)

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.

Ragtime Scott Joplin

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!

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Pro(fessional)s & The Con(artist)s.

Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment
The Con(artist)s Exposed

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.

Archie Manners 19.5.1993 Rooster 1.6.1 = 8

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.

Con(artist)s

Ingrid Seward, Editor-in-Chief Majesty Magazine

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.

Angela Levin

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.

Victoria Arbiter 5.4.1974 Tiger 5.9.3 = 8

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.

Richard Fitzwilliams 14.10.1949 Ox 5.6.2 = 4

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.

Dan Wootton 2.3.1983 Pig 2.5.8 = 6

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.

Thomas Markle, Duke of Mexico @ Trooping the Colour balcony 2022

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.

Dickie Arbiter

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.

Lady Colin Campbell 17.8.1949 Ox 8.7.3 = 9

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.

April 14, 2022

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.

Lady Frederick Windsor & Prince Harry Duke of Sussex

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.

HRH Princess Michael of Kent in blackamoor brooch, Christmas 2017

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.

Eamonn Holmes 3.12.1959 Pig 3.6.3 = 3

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.

NBC’s Hoda Kobt & Prince Harry

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.

Prince Andrew Escorts HM The Queen at Westminster Abbey

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.

Tom Bower 28.9.1946 Dog 1.1. 3 = 5

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.

Tina Brown 21.11.1953 Snake 3.5.5 = 4

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.

Piers Morgan 30.3.1965 Sheep 3.6.9 = 9

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.

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Royal Ascot, 2018

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.

Pro(fessional)s

Hilary Mantel 6.731952 Dragon 6.4.4 = 5

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.

https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-51703856

https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/meghan-markle-was-too-good-to-be-true-says-dame-hilary-mantel_uk_5e5e3f2dc5b63aaf8f5d0bf7

https://www.thesun.co.uk/fabulous/11094609/meghan-markle-prince-harry-royal-family-uk/

https://www.pajiba.com/celebrities_are_better_than_you/hilary-mantel-sees-racial-element-in-criticism-of-meghan-markle.php

Roya Nikkhah

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.

Katie Nicholl

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.

Emily Nash

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.

Kate Williams

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.

Nicholas Witchell

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.

Gyles Brandreth 8.3.1948 Rat 8.2.6 = 7

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.

Tom Bradby

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.

Chris Ship

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

Camilla Tominey

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.

Robert Jobson 23.3.1964 Dragon 5.8.1 = 5

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.

Russell Myers

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.

Beautiful Lovers: Duke & Duchess of Sussex

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.

Bitches Brew Miles Davis

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!

_______________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Why No Spencer Colouring?

Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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.

Royal fans expressed their annoyance over not seeing Archie's face again after Meghan Markle and Prince Harry released a new picture of their son to celebrate his second birthday (pictured) in May this year
This photo of a pregnant Meghan in March 2021, was another example of when the Duke and Duchess of Sussex decided to not show Archie's face to the public
Last year, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex opted to share an illustrated Christmas card - leading to some disappointed fans calling for the couple to show Archie¿s face (pictured)
However, in 2019, the couple appeared more than happy to show their son's face, making it centre stage in their festive greetings image
On his mental health series The Me You Can't See, co-created with Oprah Winfrey, Harry showed several new images of his two-year-old son, seemingly showing his front
While on Ellen, Meghan decided to share one showing Archie's back
Prince Harry and Archie pictured in Canada in 2019. The Duke and Duchess of Sussex's son's face can be clearly seen in the photograph, shared in an end-of-year review by the couple in a 2019 clip
Prince Harry (pictured) has once again showed how well he's embracing his relaxed LA lifestyle by going barefoot in a trendy Christmas photoshoot
Heavily pregnant Meghan Markle pictured taking son Archie to school (photos)

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’.

George Edmund McCorquodale - Genealogy
Meet Prince Harry's cousin Louis Spencer - the man who will inherit Diana's childhood home - Mirror Online

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!

There’s a “good person” alright.

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.

Sarah Ferguson reveals who really invited her to Prince Harry and Meghan Markle's wedding | HELLO!

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.

Princess Beatrice and Dave Clark out in London. | Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie Have a Night Celebrating a Very Different Queen! | POPSUGAR Celebrity Photo 8
Did Queen Elizabeth Forbid Prince Harry From Marrying Long-Term Girlfriend Chelsy Davy?

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.

The Middleton family showed their support for the Duchess of Cambridge this afternoon as they arrived to watch her host a Christmas carol service at Westminster Abbey
Pippa Middleton Wedding: Spencer Matthews with William and Harry | PEOPLE.com

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.

Jamaican- British author Lady Colin Campbell, 72, was briefly married to Lord Colin Campbell - the son of Ian Campbell, who was married to Margaret
Meghan Markle 'did not contact father for his 76th birthday', claims half-brother - Mirror Online
Piers Morgan Cleared for Criticizing Meghan After Oprah Interview - The New York Times
The Queen and the royal family have a reason to celebrate! | HELLO!
Mrs. Kingston, Lord Frederick Windsor (9 & William confidant), Princess & Prince (9) Michael of Kent.

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.

HM The Queen tells off Prince William.

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.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is 50955911-10241995-Prince_William_looked_in_good_spirits_as_he_enjoyed_a_night_out_-a-15_1637837089080.jpg

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.

Prince Philip's coffin lowered into Royal Vault in never-before-seen TV moment - Mirror Online

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.

Meghan and Harry in new royal split from William and Kate | Metro News

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.

Diana-Princess-of-Wales-Nelson Shanks 1994 oil on canvas
Diana’s Resolve… Extra-Human Tall Whites Arrive.

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.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is 50955911-10241995-Prince_William_looked_in_good_spirits_as_he_enjoyed_a_night_out_-a-15_1637837089080.jpg

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

________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pink Chair I & II

Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Within days of George’s 44th birthday on February 9th, 1990, I had been to his McCaul Street loft, which looked east to the buildings lining University Avenue. There, on the top floor’s tiny balcony, we would retreat for some privacy, late at night and suck each other off with his son spying on us… ever he spied on us and it became a definite source of one of our many volatile breakups that George wanted to watch whilst his son and I fucked. I am not about doing anything that I find repugnant. George’s son’s legs are ridiculously bizarre; the space between the knees and ankles inordinately short – he also has too much gum for my liking. Did not matter to me that he was very thick and big; I was not playing. End of discussion. 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 all mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

8.1.2020 = 8.9.4 = 3. Checkmate!

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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. 

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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.  

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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.  

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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?  

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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?  

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

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

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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. 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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