Why Catherine’s Got It Bad…

As Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge are task companions, this would be an especially challenging lifetime for her. You will encounter your task companion during the course of your reincarnational journey more often than any other soul. Your task companion is never the same soul type as you are, and you are always in the same entity, whereas your essence twin will never be in your entity, though the same soul type as yours, but in an entity within one’s cadre.

Catherine is a fifth mature warrior soul whilst William is a 6th mature scholar soul. Task companion are always close in soul age but the relationship is always a tense one simply because you are paired with a soul whose circuitry is vastly different to yours, thereby leading to lots of misunderstanding, impatience and trust issues. It is always a working relationship. In this incarnation, obviously it is a working relationship; they are to navigate a royal dynasty after having been massively eclipsed by HM The Queen, whose reign for being so long has done just that.. a very tough act to follow. For another, HM The Queen’s reign has seen massive damage done to the monarchy, thanks to the dramas of her family and even prior to her reign – as per HM King Edward VII’s infidelities. The infamous clip from BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas in 2019, unmistakably validates that theirs a very caustic affair.

What is plainly obvious since her trip to Denmark, Catherine has had some expert minor plastic surgery that’s afforded a firmer more tight look that I call her Jubilee face; and there will be lots of extra smiling to do this platinum Jubilee year. First noticed on her Denmark trip, Catherine has developed an involuntary twitching at the right corner of her mouth and a compensatory lip-pursing has resulted. Further, her right eye which has always been smaller, darker and brooding, appeared unusually puffy with bags in the corner towards the bridge of the nose, especially so when she was in Denmark. Apart from the fact that the photograph above is ridiculously air-brushed, it does allude to the surgical tweaking that Catherine had recently undergone.

Both possessed of 9 in their numerology, TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge are not only self-toxic; they are also immensely self-toxic as a couple. 9 is the number of rejection – such persons reject others and in the process self, thereby rendering themselves toxic/self-toxic. Scholars are the most difficult souls to get along with, most especially when theirs is a chief feature of stubbornness, which William’s is. Fault-finding, difficult and never liking change; all scholars are notoriously prejudiced in perspective. They do not like change of any kind, the other, that which is different. Both William and Camilla, future Queen Consort are scholar souls; I rather suspect that the senior royal not named by Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex during the Oprah interview, is either one of these two scholar souls. Just look at the Cambridges row on the ride from Westminster Abbey and whilst on the balcony at Buckingham Palace on April 29, 2011, their wedding day.

I think it is further revelatory that Prince Harry declined to issue a statement when recently, HM The Queen declared her approval when stating that it was her wish that in due course, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall would be Queen Consort when HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales accedes. Notice, too, that now that HM The Queen has given her blessing to Camilla becoming Queen Consort, she is now photographed rather glowingly with photos tightly airbrushed. One other thing to note about Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall, she is mid-cycle mature-souled – as for that matter is Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, though, Meghan is an artisan; artisan souls are more often than not vastly misunderstood and way more shrewd than the average customer. Diana, Princess of Wales was a second level mature artisan soul. The mid-cycle reincarnational level only ever occurs during the mature soul cycle and it takes on average a single lifetime, though, it is not uncommon for it to take two lifetimes. The mid-cycle mature soul age exclusively occurs between levels 3 & 4 of the mature soul cycle.

Though the British media and now world media have engaged in the most odious sexism, pitting women against each other, the obvious racism notwithstanding, what people do not realise is that despite Meghan, Duchess of Sussex obviously having it really bad, just as damagingly, so does Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge have it bad. She did not ask to become the great white hope in the hideously racialised pitting of her against her sister-in-law – whether or not they personally get along which is no one’s damn business but tabloid media’s. No matter, how Meghan is vilified, demonised objectified by the most specious, egregious click bait tabloid stories, just as equally unfavourably is Catherine unrealistically portrayed.

Apart from the fact that Catherine is archly self-toxic, one would be a damn fool to not realise that her elevation as the great white hope comes at a cost. As Catherine is said to be the perfect princess, the most elegant, poised, never putting a foot wrong and pure class, the fact remains that the world over, everyone has become blinded to Catherine’s pain, which is only to Catherine’s detriment. Just as Meghan claimed in the Oprah interview that she was in exquisite pain during Archie’s gestation, so, too, with Meghan’s vilification and banishment from royal life, Catherine has grown in exquisite pain.

Again, as Meghan said during her Oprah interview, there is a complete misalignment between what one sees of the royals and what the reality of whom they truly are. Further, there is complete misperception between the reality of the British royals and what the kingdom’s somnambulant bigots in their collective psychosis choose to perceive. The video above is yet another perfect example, by looking at the comments, it is obvious that people simply choose to see what they want to see. This video is a perfect example of how Catherine’s exquisite pain is perpetuated. She and her husband are scuffed at, ignored and rudely dismissed by HM The Queen, yet it is obvious from the comments that all these sycophants care to perceive is the elegance, class and truly regal comportment of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. The Queen literally snaps at HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and dismisses them as milquetoast and positively none of the kingdom’s fawning subjects perceive the truth of the interactions.

HRH Prince William like every scholar soul with a chief feature of stubbornness does not fake his ennui for being saddled with Catherine, the perpetually gurning boor of whom he is so clearly, terribly bored. One gets the sense that William is long resolved, ‘as soon as granny goes, there will be an announcement in Parliament of our separation and inevitable divorce.’ Scholar souls are cold and ruthless like that; more assassins and guns for hire are scholar souls than not – as a rule, scholar souls don’t do emotions.

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge St. Patrick’s Day 2022, Commonwealth Thanksgiving Service 2022 & Belize 2022.

If this were to eventualise, you can be assured of two things: the kingdom’s walking dead would not have seen it coming and, somehow, they will look to blame the marriage’s dissolution on Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Of course, more painful than not separating and legally divorcing, is remaining married but emotionally divorced, of which there clearly are signs, a decade on from the Cambridges’ wedding.

In this rather revelatory clip, after HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge sticks the tongue at the fawning zombies, much as Prince Harry had done 3 decades earlier, look at Catherine in action. She is presented with the wooden spoon in the 2019 inaugural King’s Cup royal regatta and as all persons with energy body of 9 reject everyone, she nudges the spoon from the presenter’s grip and rids herself of him. Next, when the female sailor is invited to the stage by emcee Dan Snow to be awarded her bottle of Taittinger champagne, Catherine aggressively cuts her off and gets between the award-winner and her husband, HRH Prince William. This moves betrays Catherine’s warrior forthrightness; additionally, it betrays Catherine’s shrewd approach to managing her man and his roving eye and dick. Of course, during their closeness, at no point does William look remotely comfortable and he certainly does not physically acknowledge Catherine’s presence.

Last Autumn, at the world premier of yet another formulaic James Bond 007 film (yawn), the two senior most royal couples were in attendance. Once again, there was much reptilian hissing between the Cambridges; their lives are theatre and they have a very keen sense of stagecraft. THR Duke & Duchess of Cambridge arrive at the Royal Albert Hall and greet HRH Prince Charles and Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. Soon enough, the Cambridges start, or likely continue their rowing from the car ride in, hissing at each other and the hostess in black, sheer maxi soon takes off as she overhears their rowing. Catherine keeps looking at William, who looks down, keeps his distance from her and, of course, she is perpetually gurning. She is though never smiling, she is speaking through clenched teeth in that manner which she has skilfully mastered. As the 2 senior most royal couples mount the first flight of stairs outside the Royal Albert Hall, Charles followed by William went to their right and talked to the royal military personnel lining the stairs. Following suit, Catherine chatted with the personnel who flanked the left side of the stairs.

Meanwhile, Camilla simply made it to the top of the stairs and awaited them for the obligatory photo call. Finally, on arriving to join the senior royal couple, Catherine looked and noticed that William was nowhere on the stairs to join them; she cuts her eye at William and sighs wearily in a public display of the obvious froideur between them (35th to 45th seconds). To cover the awkward impasse, Catherine quickly begins chatting with Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall at which point William finally comes and joins them. Though on the outside of both duchesses, William soon has Catherine get out of the way and go stand on the outside of him. Of course, it was the correct protocol; however, if there were no tensions between them, William would not have used the opportunity to rudely put Catherine in her place and have her move.

What I positively love about this video, is that there are freeze frames, close-ups and slow motion moments wherein you get the gist of what is truly taking place. You see as they walk the red carpet that not only does Catherine flash William an icy glance but she is clearly hissing at him as they row as per usual. As they are at the top of the stairs for the group photo with the senior royal couple, the Waleses, William is observed, looking at Catherine intently with pursed lips whilst she turns to him and as they walk away from the camera, turns her head away and towards William to better hiss at him.

Even when William came to stand next to her, Catherine brushed him off as though fixing the cape of her gown. Catherine then skilfully recovered to make it look as though she had not expected William to be there.

Currently, on Jubilee tour of the Caribbean, sporting her Jubilee face, Catherine had me eagerly waiting as she never disappoints come St. Patrick’s Day. For all warrior souls, without exception, clothing is uniform; it is integral to how they approach all life – they are going into battle. For a fifth mature warrior soul, St. Patrick’s Day, Trooping the Colour and Remembrance Ceremony at the Cenotaph are three times annually when Catherine can be expected to be a warrior soul in her element. All warrior souls whether male or female are always well turned out for every occasion. Sat amongst the Irish Guard, for Catherine at soul centre, this is a very fulfilling, spiritually grounding experience. What I found telling this year is that there were no photos of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge downing a pint of Guinness with the troops. One sign of the strain in their relations has always been the hyper animation that Catherine exudes when they drink during a royal outing. William ever becomes clipped, starchy and as though horrified that at any second, she may prove embarrassing. Of course, a hearty drinker is a soul with serious issues to drown by drink.

Catherine’s mental health is fragile at best and unlike the Sussexes, she is trapped. She is held hostage by the racist boors of her island kingdom, who have rabidly made of her, the great white hope. Like every warrior soul, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is a fighter and the fact that she has a personal need of power and in perseverance mode, guarantee that by hook or by crook, she will survive. If William does not divorce her, either one of them as they are task companions, is quite capable of eliminating the other. All the signs are there and of course well after the fact, the obsequious biographers will opine at length at how they were ever aware of the strains of the Cambridges’ relationship. Naturally, to have covered up the rumbling fault line in the Cambridges’ marriage, the British tabloid media went to town on the American negro, blackamoor brooch and all – all the while protesting, claiming themselves very much not a racist society – in hopes that just somehow, the unthinkable could not be happening again.

Oh my god, can you just imagine if Meghan, Duchess of Sussex were to have walked ahead of her blood royal prince, as indeed she did many times, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex? Mais voilà, there were no such comments of outrage at Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge breaking protocol. Could it also mean that Catherine was just fed up, being around HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and thought to escape his toxicity; scholar souls can be rather ennuyant, truth be told. It seems from the second photo of their royal tour of Belize in celebration of HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee that Catherine is seething/hissing, yet again, as she walks ahead of William and he tries to stay her temper by placing his hand on her back. They certainly don’t seem to be in a good place. All that aside, Catherine – warrior to the core – sartorially excels in the elegant, sapphire blue lace Jenny Packham, which handsomely sets off her engagement ring, formerly owned by her mother-in-law, Diana, Princess of Wales.

Prince Harry, indeed, was quite right to break the cycle and take wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, son Archie, plus guy and Pula and clear the hell out of that out-of-control car (famille Windsor) from speeding headlong into the tunnel of the cursed island’s pantomime. Sorry, said Meghan, but I am not about singing the blues. Catherine’s got it bad and don’t nobody sees her pain…

Nina Simone Sings the Blues

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Bigot & the Gold-digger…

Thomas & Samantha Markle

Thomas Markle 18/7/1944 Monkey 9.7.7 = 5

Energy body 9. Self-toxic, combative, shit-disturbing and a bigot.

Mindset 7, reserved, inspirational, can see things – obviously, there are exceptions to everything.

Life path 7, he sees himself doing the honourable thing for the tribe at large and in this case, as his mind is compromised by bigotry; he is team white tribe all the way.

Soul/destiny 5, scandal is the hallmark of this placement of five, which is all about excess. He is the ham who will do and stoop to any level to stay onstage. 5 in the fourth position also always means sexual scandal of one kind or another. I suspect that his interracial marriage to Doria Ragland was seen by his family as a racial betrayal and his bringing shame to the family. Now in his waning years, he is agreeing with his family’s bigotry by attacking his daughter and all that she stands for. As a rule, it is inordinately rare that 7s of any kind, will ever speak ill of anyone or put a foot wrong with regards their public image. Case in point, HM The Queen – 21/4/1926 Tiger 3.7.7 = 8. Like The Queen, Thomas has two 7s and in the same position; however, all such persons are perceived as HM The Queen is. Thomas is the exception with such placement of 7s in his numerology.

Samantha Markle 24/11/1964 Dragon 6.8.1 = 6

Energy body 6, loyal, steadfast and puts family and health at the top of their priorities.

Mindset 8, the money number. All second number of 8 persons are motivated by money and making as much of it as possible. They will literally sell anyone, especially family, for monetary gain. During her second divorce, Samantha did do just that, she forfeited custody of her two biological children to their paternal grandparents for 10k$; Samantha sold each of her two children from that second marriage for five thousand dollars apiece.

Life path 1, Samantha is selfishly consumed with number 1 – self and her own selfish interest and that includes disposing of her two children for $10, 000.00 rather than being focussed on the most important task in life, being a mum – a loving nurturing parent to her two children that she carried and gave birth to.

Soul/destiny 6, not only is she a homewrecker, who abandoned her own kids and their older sibling from a previous relationship, Samantha will stop at nothing to interfere and wreck the lives of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex. I would not be surprised if during her lawsuit against Meghan her step-sister with whom she was never close, she does not seek to have custody of Archie & Lilibet. I wish she would be so blinded by her skewed numbers of 6, 8 and 1 because going after the children of a legitimate blood prince, whose father is the future Sovereign, would not turn out too well for her.

Nothing that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex said in her interview with Oprah Winfrey either mentioned Samantha Markle or misrepresented her upbringing as Samantha’s lawsuit alleges. Here you have two persons, Thomas and Samantha, who are blinded with jealousy and hatred of Meghan, for which they will stop at noting. So obsessed is Samantha with generating income for being orbitally connected to Meghan, she went all the way in her wheelchair to London, in hopes of preventing the royal wedding. The wonderful thing about her trip as she went to deliver papers to show just cause why Harry, Duke of Sussex, whom she has never met nor knows, should not marry Meghan, Samantha went to the entrance of Kensington Palace Gardens to deliver her documents. Of course, Kensington Palace Gardens is in no way connected to Kensington Palace.

Fame-hungry Thomas (5 & 9) and money-grubbing Samantha (8 & 1) have a symbiotic relationship; both know that for feeding on Meghan, they will readily garner support from the countless hundred millions of Whites and others who are violently opposed to Harry & Meghan having married. These same people will never, given the evidence of HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch, be convinced that Meghan and Harry were ever subjected to racism whilst senior royals living in London. For such persons, racism does not exist; Blacks are redundantly crying foul and playing victim and one is so done with that.

Of course, since 2017 when Thomas & Samantha have been keen on hijacking the limelight and thereby rendering the Sussexes as their opportune gravy train, not once has either gotten off their fat arse and gotten together. Samantha went all the way to England to intervene, in an attempt to stop the Sussexes’ marriage but cannot find the time or money to go see her fellow stalker and accomplice, Thomas Markle.

Just as it is obvious that Meghan’s parenting agreement is with Doria Ragland, so too is Samantha’s parenting agreement with Thomas Markle. They are both as despicable as the other and for positively no reason on Earth should be suffered in any litigation against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Harry certainly should turn around and sue both for stalking, harassment and defamation; he certainly could give ample testimony in a suit brought by Meghan against both Thomas and Samantha, the latter whom clearly she does not know and has no reason to know either person.

Samantha has all these rabid, bigoted Whites and others who so loathe Meghan, Duchess of Sussex that they support her in everything that she does and says; however, why pray tell did these same people not see to it that Samantha’s tell-all book, slandering Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, make it to the top of the New York Times bestseller list and stay there several weeks? Well, since that little venture failed, now Samantha has headed to the justice system with a frivolous litigation in hopes of making money off of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex whom she never hounded when she was an actress on Suits. The number of successful/famous actors, who have nothing to do with family when they make it, is more the norm than not.

Recently, that porcine fucker, Thomas, had the frig-all gall to refer to Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex as ‘her ginger husband.’ There is nothing remotely cool about that statement and it is just as racially charged as whichever senior royal wondered how Archie’s skin tone would turn out and being concerned how that would look within the royal family. Of course, along with that remark, there was HRH Princess Michael of Kent deliberately sporting the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s Christmas lunch in 2017, at which Meghan, Duchess of Sussex was officially introduced to the wider circle of the royal family.

Thomas Markle’s ‘her ginger husband’ remark deftly illustrates how in synch with the Cambridges this man is. It is in the Cambridges’ best interest that this man denigrates his own daughter; it’s great entertainment for them and the isle of small-minded bigots. Thomas referring to Prince Harry as ‘her ginger husband’ is no different to royal householders and likely some senior royals referring to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as ‘his nigger wife.’ It is the same reprehensible bigotry of which anyone possessed of 9 in their numerology is quite capable.

I have said it before and I will reiterate, the truest portrait of what the Cambridges are like, is to study the film, ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ Like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, Elizabeth Taylor had an energy body of 9. Born February 27, 1932; Elizabeth was a Monkey. 27/2/1932. 9.2.8 = 1. That’s not acting; it is Elizabeth channelling 9 energy with exquisite élan. That mindset of 2 is all about channelling; it is about losing yourself in the creative process and embodying that on which one is focussed whether actor, writer, dancer, painter. It would have been electrifying for anyone on set during filming of the Mike Nichols masterpiece. The reason for the comparison to Elizabeth is that like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, Catherine and William and closely bonded souls. Whereas Richard and Elizabeth are essence twins -think Romeo and Juliet, William and Catherine are that other combustible pairing, task companions.

Essence twins are always the same soul type whereas task companions are never the same soul type. HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is a scholar soul and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a warrior soul; he is an older soul than her – 6th mature scholar to her 5th mature warrior. One of Catherine’s primary needs is expression, which is in the tertiary position hence her creativity is not prominent; nonetheless, it is there and is explored in her photography. Task companions are always in the same entity and are like family members; however, essence twins are never in the same entity though in the same cadre. Task companions will encounter each other more than they will any other soul during the course of their soul’s reincarnational journey; as the nature of the essence twin bond is so all-consuming, they meet up more rarely than not.

As Catherine is a warrior soul, she is the more dominant partner in their bond; regardless their sex/gender when incarnate, Catherine will always be the more dominant of the two. Catherine is better equipped to be in the role that they have chosen than even William. Furthermore, the task companion bond is always push-pull. There will ever be lots of rowing, hissing but the sex is always next-level phenomenal. As William’s fourth number is 5, like his father, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and uncle, Prince Andrew, Duke of York and all persons with fourth number of 5, he not only has a roving eye but very conceitedly, thinks it is his damn right as future Sovereign to sex whomever he wants. This will understandably prove a great deal of stress for Catherine and it will most definitely cause her to resort to drink, not to excess but she could never be deemed a teetotaller.

Fresh Avocado Spread on Toasted Dark Rye.

More than that, numerology is the key to understand what makes incarnate souls mere mortals. Regardless, neither Samantha nor Thomas fool anyone; they are the most vulgar disfigurement of what their numerological portrait alludes to. Seriously, go ahead and sue Meghan, Duchess of Sussex whom litigant Samantha has referred to time and again as Duchass. Similarly, Samantha has been banned from Twitter for harassing Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Go ahead, please think yourselves entitled to either know Meghan, Duchess of Sussex or meet her children. Hell, as you clearly know all about American chutzpah, go on and sue for custody of Arche and Lilibet, even though litigant Samantha gladly relinquished custody of your two biological children for 5$k apiece. To paraphrase, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, that is a mighty loaded piece of toast to serve a judge.

All Blues Miles Davis Kind of Blue 1959.

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

And Then You Have The Frig-All Temerity…

Berry, Halle 14/8/1966

Michael: No, this is not the fragment who was previously Dorothy Dandridge.  This fragment is a second-level mature artisan – second life thereat.  Halle is in the observation mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she is in the moving part of emotional centre. 

Body type is Solar/Venus. 

Halle’s primary chief feature is skewed impatience and the secondary is stubbornness. 

The fragment Halle is fifth-cast in second cadence; she is a member of greater cadence three.  Halle’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – an entity mate of both Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Halle’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a slave. 

Halle’s primary needs are: exchange, adventure and freedom. 

There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin and 12 with Merlin.  ________________________________________________

As I am a sceptic, I looked on at Halle’s historic best actress win speech and though I trembled and cried, I was also detached and shrewdly aware why she had won. Indeed, she was the vessel, at long last, because months earlier the twin towers were felled and who knew what strange new nightmare we had entered. Just to be safe, what do you know, none-too-liberal, the archly discriminating gatekeepers in Hollywood decided that it fiinally was time to “let’s make like nice, whatta say, let’s give her the award.” Oh Please!

In a truly great American cinema, Dorothy Dandridge was just as deserving to have won best actress Oscar for “Carmen Jones” as was Elizabeth Taylor damn well deserving to have won best actress Oscar for her riveting performance in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Naturally, to cancel the threat of the very brilliantly talented Diana Ross, singer/actor, winning the best actress Oscar in 1973 for “Lady Sings the Blues,” she was pitted against my father’s paternal first cousin, the actor Cicely Tyson in “Sounder.” A Briton, Maggie Smith was a spoiler vote, so that the sizeable British voting members of the Academy, could cast her a vote rather than vote for either Black nominee. Then there was another foreigner, Liv Ullmann, when the Academy awards are an American awards rather than film festival – the difference is plainly obvious. All this left one other candidate for best actress Oscar, Liza Minnelli, who was just as vapid and untalented as she has remained. And thus, neither Cicely Tyson nor Diana Ross won a best actress Oscar that night in 1973 and, of course, neither would go on to do so.

Just look at the 02:13 mark of the featured video of Halle Berry’s best actress Oscar acceptance speech for her turn in “Monster’s Ball” in 2002, there was sat Helen Mirren, onlooking as though she were looking at this imposter freak, someone being allowed to take a damn award that rightfully ought to have gone to, Judy Dench. There sat Helen Mirren who did not stand up as Halle, an American actor, winning an American award, said, “tonight this door has been opened.” Helen sat there livid at Halle high-jacking the awards with all this affirmative action claptrap. Never mind the Briton small-minded bigot, at least Sidney Poitier (old soul sage) was present to witness the historic moment. Well, you can bet Prada-heeled Britons in Hollywood, went all out to quickly slam shut that door because why should ‘they’ have received such a prestigious award? They are not even RADA graduates. Americans fought a war to rid themselves of the tyranny of these people and their colonising conceit and arrogance. Let’s face it, a BAFTA award hasn’t the cachet of an Oscar; it should be of negligible worth if an American actor is either nominated or wins a BAFTA award. It is not an Oscar.

Why in the hell is American cinema being steamrolled and bullied into submission by these holier-than-thou poseurs? No Briton with the exception of Elizabeth Taylor, who was riveting and compelling in every role she ever played, been deserving of being awarded an Oscar. What right have Kate Winslet, Olivia Colman, Helen Mirren, Emma Thompson, to name far to many, to be in the same league as Katherine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, Grace Kelly, Mia Farrow, Meryl Streep to mention a mere few?

Ever since the fairy dust of Chuck & Di’s 1981 pantomime, arriviste Hollywood have been bowing and scraping as though these were pre-1776 times. Since that best actress Oscar acceptance speech by Halle Berry in 2002, there has been a plethora of decidedly non-American actors, walking off with an Oscar in a parade of spiteful arrogance. Why Kate Winslet has won a best actress Oscar is beyond me, her every performance is just plain, insipid… uninspired. Winslet and her foreign colleagues are void magnetism and merely use the snobbish hauteur of their British accent as their cachet for being perfectly entitled to an Oscar. Who are these people to be in the same league as Faye Donaway, Jane Fonda and Meryl Streep.

Let me tell you something, that award right there is the most bold-face looting in recent memory. Just like Angela Bassett was robbed of the 1994 best actress Oscar for “What’s Love Got To Do With It” so, too, was Viola Davis robbed of the 2017 best actress Oscar. Viola won best supporting actress Oscar for a role in August Wilson’s “Fences,” which won best actress Tony on Broadway; it is not a supporting role. They even tried to see if they could snatch it from Viola’s rightful clutch, as they did with Cicely and Diana in 1973, in 2017, by also putting Naomie Harris and Octavia Spencer in the mix. Not only was it insult enough to have been misplaced in the nominations category but there was a strong likelihood that Viola could have lost out, just so that she could be put in her place for being so damn good. Bar none, she is the best actress under 60 in English-speaking cinema. Period.

Seriously, though, what can one expect of Hollywood when they had the temerity to tear their arses in the world’s face by having you and me believe that the statistically impossible truly had occurred, affording a tie in 1968 to Katherine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand for best actress Oscar. An Oscar has been of negligible worth since. And as such, it has become a members only club, to keep Black actors at bay; indeed, they go looking elsewhere for actors to whom they award Oscars, chiefly to Britons. To hell with Mr. Darcy. American cinema, to say nothing of actors, are being robbed. Where are the films, telling the story of Cuban-Americans in Miami, Lakota families and their rich history in the north. There are a thousand stories to be had in each of the 50 states of Black, Latino, Jewish, Irish, Mexican, Cuban… all Americans and it is not being told. Yet, you have these arrogant Britons, dragging on a fag and copping hauteur, though no doubt more jizzed than a Grand Central Station urinal during evening rush-hour, grabbing an Oscar time and again and toffing up their accent to bedazzle the none-the-wiser, silly little Yanks.

The one thing that the past five years has taught us, is that Britons are alarmingly racist and not only are they more racist than Americans but unlike Americans, they refuse to admit to being racists. Whether you are black or white, you are American and Americans are second to no one. Period. Why is the acting heritage of American greats like Hepburn, Davis, Stanwyck et al being eclipsed by non-Americans, chiefly Britons, marching in grabbing an Oscar; obviously if an Oscar had comparably less cachet than a BAFTA, no British actor would time-waste, courting an Oscar. Indeed, the age of neo-colonialism is upon us. Helen Mirren is leaden and starchy and does Helen Mirren, time and again. Same with Maggie Smith, Judy Dench (the dame means nothing to Americans) Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Olivia Colman the whole lot of them, it is all third-tier smoke and mirrors by way of copping Toff hauteur and using voice (à la Dune) by way of that accent on the oh-so-unsophisticated Yanks. Hell, in 2016 Helen Mirren even argued that there was nothing possibly wrong with only one Black American female having won a best actress Oscar to that point, in the 78-year history of the Oscars.

There are two types of looting with which we are all familiar. One, Black people looting at the drop of the hat; it is expected and an excuse to be reviled by the rest of society. Secondly, though not readily admitted, planetary looting of which we as a species are wholly guilty, which will cause our civilisation’s ruin in due course.

Ah yes, then here we have the most invidious looting. Britons looting an American award because clearly the BAFTA award hasn’t the same cachet. The Academy awards are an American award; they are not part of a film festival, which by its very nature is open to all nationalities, they are a uniquely American award. Then, there is the most egregiously invidious looting: Whites looting Black culture because… well, one can. To fuck with you, Jazz is too good for you; to hell with you, you could not possibly have invented this… This is American music; if indeed it were American music, god only knows you would never have deigned to have afforded us access – like your Oscars – to the art form, which boasts an unrivalled pantheon of musical geniuses. But hey, stay over there in your parallel universe, making your trifling music, as if anyone Black, on returning home after racism’s bile being spat their way 1 to 1000 times for heading out the door could care less. Please go ahead, piss yourselves silly, thinking that somehow any Black has time to waste when at home, to listen to music of the people who hate us, who murder us because… well, one can. Stay there in your parallel universe, lying to yourselves about how great you are – greater wealth and market share does not make for superior art; it is merely damn good business as much as so as are drugs. Don’t, however, for nanosecond get carried away with your deluded, revisionist sacrilege, talking knee-on-our-neck odious crap, “Jazz has its roots in klezmer!” “Jazz is American music! Nope, not having it!

Red Azaleas Singing and Dancing Rock and Roll Music

Acrylic on Canvas

73 34 × 158 12 × 2 12 in.

Alma Thomas

1976

Provenance: Smithsonian American Art Museum.

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How could you possibly expect us to suffer you anywhere near Jazz? Your perception of us; indeed, your notion of what we are and how we should be perceived and celebrated, are as dumb-no-fuck, bug-eyed blasted coons at whom you get to laugh. An Oscar is nothing more than these TV singing competitions where the winner is determined by the votes of well-groomed Joe & Karen Bigot where the outcome will almost always be predictably White. Imagine that, the year that Jennifer Hudson appeared on American Idol, she did not win the competition. The Academy has deemed that Black women are not deserving of a best actress Oscar, anymore than they can damn-well sing. Imagine, Bette Carter, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan to name but a handful’s legitimacy, determined by the purely predictable, racialised bias of the Academy and its none-too-liberal members. There really ought to be litigation all the way to the U. S. Supreme Court to determine once and for all, if foreign-born actors are eligible to win an American award, the Oscar, when the awards are an American rather than a film festival’s prize. The very heritage of American cinema demands nothing less.

Jazz is Black culture. Jazz is Black high art. Jazz is Black spirituality. Jazz is the assertion of our humanity in the face of your savagery. Jazz music is the language of Black culture’s high-priests, its poets, its genius visionaries. Jazz… it’s about us.

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Why No Spencer Colouring?

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

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

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

________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Fleeing the Court of the Bucklebury Cannibal.

A few weeks ago, after I bike rode along the pathway between the two condo towers at Scrivener Square, I had the most awesome epiphany this past week… Back then, a white male about 6′ 4″ bike-riding ahead of me, was looked at by a tall, silver-haired white female well into her 8th decade. She had had nice work done through the years and having stood aside with umbrella in the downpour and watched him go by as I approached, she came over towards my ebike, her face becoming warped with hatefulness when demanding that I not ride through the path again, her bony warped right index finger stabbing at me – as it was raining and I wore my pine green poncho, my bodycam was not on display.

Breaking the snazzy ebike, I leaned in, doing a pretty damn good Betty Davis impersonation in Cabin in the Cotton, smartly shot back, “I’d like to stay and chat but I’m afraid you smell like a mouldy crate of rotten oranges…. bye now!” Hopping onto the spiffy machine, I merrily scatted through upper middle class hell, Rosedale, en route home whilst enjoying the rain, chill and fall of beautiful-coloured leaves. When will the moneyed classes ever realise that they occupy the most squalid ghetto; naturally, as that ghetto exists beneath their ears, they haven’t a fucking clue. Days later as I rode through the familiar streets of Cabbagetown, I suddenly realised the significance of the interlude with the septuagenarian which occurred outside the towers where previously Meghan, Duchess of Sussex lived when filming Suits here in Toronto. Honest to god, who the fuck on Avenue Foch knows that woman on the rainy Scrivener pathway exists or could possibly care?

Now with a thankful job relocation, a dog-walking female on Sumach with the warmest large blue eyes smiled at me as I rode past, vocalesing and said, “Jazz in the rain, how lovely…” My god, somebody wake me, this must be the most lucid of dreams. Then on the ride to work a couple of days later, as a couple diagonally crossed Sumach on leaving Riverdale Park and onto Carlton along which TV journalist, Valerie Pringle’s parents lived, they smiled and said hello. That was when it all fell into place. I had long been wondering whence the animus towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex came. I knew that their combined 9s were the focal point and though Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is the stronger of the two, I always doubted where the impetus for Meghan’s rejection lay. Yet there it was, not only was it a matter of race, which of course it is, it was also a matter of classism.

Like the petit, class-conscious burghers of Rosedale, I suddenly had all the clues fall into place and there it was. Not only is it a case of women being socially conditioned to mistrust one another and create rivalries where there needs be none; however, it was most definitely about classism. The affectations of the class-conscious parvenu royals – clan Middleton, is the most odious, damaging ill to beset the House of Windsor. There she was, Catherine, on the steps of St. George’s chapel and in a display that betrayed her numerology, upper middle class snobbery and overleaves, she made sure to stay clear of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s mum. Doria Ragland represents that most otiose of undesirables known to the white middle classes, she is black.

Catherine it was who saw to it that Meghan did not come close to her as they and families watched their husbands playing polo. Not once did Catherine’s children so much as go over to curiously interact with the infant Archie, who only happens to be their cousin. Of course, it is obvious from the distancing and rejection of Meghan by Catherine and family at the Polo that the Cambridge royal kids were groomed to not recognise Archie as family – the only cousin they have is Pipa’s offspring.

Indeed, it was the same Catherine who saw to it that Meghan was excluded from attending her sister, Pipa’s wedding by laying down the rather arbitrary law: women not engaged or married could not attend the church service. Nonetheless, there was HRH Princess Eugenie of York, who attended the wedding with her lover, Jack Brooksbank to whom she was not then wedded nor for that matter engaged.

The hatred, animus and dread that Catherine bore Meghan was always palpable. The introduction of the dubbed ‘Fab Four’ was a dud as Catherine sat there, saying nothing and unmistakably telegraphed how much she did not consider herself anything but a solo act with William as her sidekick. Sat there onstage expectant with her third child, there were times when she looked at William and openly ridiculed Meghan in her suppressed laughter. At Wimbledon, Catherine wore her shades and her best ‘fuck you, get lost’ smile, which she readily slapped in Meghan’s direction at every chance. This is the same Catherine who had made Meghan cry because little Ms. Social Snakes & Ladders Hoochie Mama had gone from middle class gurning wallflower stalker of the Bourbon bastard, to ahead of the aristocracy and given birth to the future Sovereign. At the Sussexes’ last Commonwealth Service at Westminster Abbey, in March 2020, Catherine walked up turned around avoided Meghan in an open snub and focussed throughout on Sophie, Countess of Wessex and never so much as acknowledged Meghan to say nothing of Harry, who until she gave birth to HRH Prince George of Cambridge, future Sovereign, perceived her as the sister he never had – what did Catherine care what Harry thought, she already had a brother and birthed a future Sovereign. William, his beloved mother’s son, did the honourable thing, knowing well the optics of the situation and acknowledged both his brother and sister-in-law. This vulgarly classist behaviour by Catherine towards Meghan, is precisely the sort of ugly parvenu posturing that an aristocratic woman like India Hicks or Diana, Princess of Wales would never have engaged in. For one, both persons are/were far more travelled, socially skilled and emotionally intelligent to know that one simply does not go there, especially when the monarchy is at the heart of a commonwealth of nations, which is racially diverse, for which one has to be at all times conscious and sensitive.

The impact of the damage that Catherine has caused with her animus towards Meghan, will have long-lasting, generational effects. Unlike Diana, Princess of Wales and India Hicks, two members of the aristocracy, neither would, for being of aristocratic birth, have behaved towards Meghan the way that Catherine has. Indeed, Catherine has unfairly, for being future Queen Consort, painted the aristocracy as racist, classist boors. In the immediate, it has caused Barbados to replace the Sovereign as head of state with a recently installed President. It will also see more predominantly black Commonwealth member states break away and appoint presidents as Barbados has recently done. Also, it is going to cause in a generation or two, the end of the haemorrhaging of Oscars to Britons when the award is after all an American and not an international one.

Just as she never is seen going anywhere near black children or having black children featured in school visits, Catherine has also seen to it that she has yet to tour a predominantly black Commonwealth member state. Recently, she, William and their children were in Kenya to film the conservation special with Sir David Attenborough, yet they saw fit not to have included an official tour of the Commonwealth member states in the region. She simply does not give a damn neither does she care what it looks like. Catherine will not touch a black child; all that, when her sister-in-law is a black woman.

Blissfully unaware, there was Catherine with her emasculated, over-sexed and sexually submissive Bourbon dolt, sat across the less than 20 foot aisle of the quire before some of the most keenly astute professional psychologists, the television auteurs and executives, who attended the Sussexes’ wedding. That’s all that television is; it is about knowing every nuance and angle and how best to manipulate such so that one can convey and lay bare all the ranges of human emotions and character desired. Clueless were the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge to the fact that Rev. Curry was a tool for laying bare their sketchy-as-fuck characters to the world and for generations to come at that. Sat there were they before persons who would have written out their colleague, the bride, Meghan Markle, in season one of Suits if she were a bully and not a team player. If Meghan as the Palace, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and sycophantic British media, especially the tabloid medium, would have you believe, were the bully that they allege, she would never have made it to season two of Suits; for being impossible to work with, Meghan would have had her character, Rachel Zane, written out of the show by way of being killed off, leaving town or some such. The Cambridges actually think that they are more aware and sophisticated than are Meghan and her television professional colleagues and industry executives, who sat across the quire from the Bourbon oaf and his cannibalistic hoochie mama – and all by virtue of something as quaint as being of royal birth in the British Isles.

Stalker to the core, until the day Catherine dies, Meghan will live rent free in the empty hall of mirrors between the vindictive, future Queen Consort’s ears. Having succeeded in banishing Meghan, Duchess of Sussex from the Kingdom, ruled by the mousy inarticulate Queen of torpid intellect, there was Catherine further cannibalising Meghan by wearing the same dress as Abigail Spencer wore to Meghan’s wedding to beloved Diana’s son, HRH Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex. This happened after Meghan’s triumphant reception at the Global Citizen’s concert in New York City’s Central Park. She was adored and the love for Meghan was palpable, despite the ritual lynching she receives from royal household mouthpieces like fetid tabloids such as DailyMail. The significance of Catherine wearing the identical dress as Abigail Spencer wore to Meghan’s wedding, is an invidious attack on Meghan, which precisely is the kind of ‘cunning’ tactic that a petty, shit-disturbing woman possessed of a first (energy body) number of 9 would indulge in. Abigail Spencer was born August 4, 1981; that’s right, the same day as Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and that is Catherine’s indirect way of stalking and unrelentingly bullying Meghan as she did leading up to Meghan’s wedding, which resulted in Meghan breaking down and crying but which the million little arse-eating, lisping queers in her court, rushed off to their tabloid mouthpieces like the DailyMail and spun yet another lie to further malign and slander the Duchess of Sussex, who happened to prove more popular and possessed of more star power than their mousy-as-all-fuck, cannibalising androgynous queen.

Meghan in New York City with briefcase whilst en route to speak and conduct discussions at the United Nations. Mere weeks later, the copycat, cannibalistic stalker Catherine carries a briefcase for the first time ever en route to making a speech or more appropriately en route to channelling mice at a séance – honest to frigging god. More importantly, as a dog can always be expected to lick itself, Catherine traipsing in with a briefcase, is also about throwing serious shade and openly ridiculing Meghan, that N-Word Yank, who had the nerve to come anywhere near the mousy little inarticulate, bitchy, shit-disturbing, classist boor of coalmining pedigree. Look at her guffawing with the two wee little closet queer minstrel leprechauns. Ever plotting and scheming; how she must love cocksucking a fag indeed.

Meghan wears a hat not usually worn at the Remembrance Sunday ceremonies at the Cenotaph in 2019. Now with Philip’s death and the Queen fast immolating, Catherine knowing that with the Queen’s absence in 2021 at the same event, she will be in the middle in the Queen’s usual position, rather than Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, because Catherine rather than Camilla is a future Queen Mother which Camilla never will be. So Catherine with another opportunity to cannibalise Meghan, wears a replica hat as Meghan’s two years earlier, in 2019, to telegraph her obsession and stalking of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Never before had Catherine worn a broad-brimmed, downturned hat to the Remembrance Sunday ceremony at the Cenotaph. Ever, like all women possessed of an energy body of 9, Catherine couldn’t resist to tear her flat arse in Meghan’s face. “That’s right, I am the one who wears that hat better than you and you will never stand on this balcony again. Now fuck off and stay gone….” How Meghan has that pernicious hoochie mama stalker – she whose stage presence can best be described as sodden cardboard… but it gurns! – of trifling pedigree and no class thoroughly possessed.

James Middleton eviscerates the enemy, Tom Bradby of ITN, at the 1:16:00 mark of the BBC’s coverage of the 2018 Royal Wedding of Duke & Duchess of Sussex.

HM The Queen has not yet died, to say nothing of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales still being very much alive, yet there is Catherine, having William demonstrate the future of the monarchy. No doubt in due course, James Middleton with two well-endowed brothers-in-law, every bottom’s dreams come true, will be styled the Earl of Boomf. On arrival at the Sussexes wedding in May 2018, there is James hissing and being adversarial with Tom Bradby as by then, it was known to the scheming Cambridges that Tom Bradby supported the Sussexes.

Of course, that support by Bradby for the Sussexes would culminate in Meghan’s confiding to Bradby in that incendiary interview whilst on their African tour in October, 2019. With both Prince Philip’s death and the Sussexes’ sit-down interview with Oprah, Catherine has stepped up her campaign of attrition against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Now that the Sussexes are not resident in any of the royal households – remind me again why Meghan refused to occupy the newly refurbished apartment at Kensington Palace next-door to William and Catherine but headed instead to Frogmore Cottage – Catherine’s inability to control the media narrative against Meghan has lost its grip.

So there was stalker Catherine, she most definitely not of aristocratic birth, playing catch up and alas, she has an original thought – she is going to conduct an interview. What does that Oprah know anyway? Of course, there was Meghan on Ellen, being adored and displaying a degree of emotional intelligence and charm, which no doubt caused the gurning, mousy silent film ingenue to chain smoke and wolf down a half dozen lima beans.

Back in June 2017, I was staying in Chelsea when on returning from a Royal Ballet performance, soon the mood was broken by the sounds of multiple fire brigade sirens peeling into the night. Looking out, the sky was ablaze with an orange beacon and with time calls came through that there was a tower on fire. The next day, HM The Queen arrived at the site of the Grenfell Tower fire, followed shortly thereafter by HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. There was no Catherine in sight. This past Remembrance week, 2021, there was Catherine, the little elitist kiss-ass, looking like everybody’s favourite little shabbos goy. Running and dispensing hugs, a thing her parvenu classist bigotry could never bring herself to do with the impoverished in her Kingdom. Imagine her dispensing hugs to the little people of Grenfell indeed. Meanwhile, there was Meghan, Duchess of Sussex “Boots on the ground” heading into the Grenfell community, volunteering, giving back and soon enough there was the Together cookbook to which she contributed in a bid to assist the devastated community getting back on its feet.

Why do the Cambridges think that America is yearning for a tour by themselves in 2022? Just as they outed themselves before the industry professionals at the Sussexes’ wedding, who were sat across the quire from them and the rest of the world, everyone knows damn well who is at the centre of the vilification of the Sussexes and chiefly Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Catherine, enabled by her bullied husband, and a frankly racist British tabloid medium, idly sat by and allowed the narrative of Meghan the bully who made her, Catherine, cry at the time of the Sussexes’ royal wedding in 2018, when it was patently not true. How then are you supposed to believe these godforsaken boors. Again, someone please inform the blissfully unaware Cambridges that America has not been a colony going on three centuries; there is no need for a tour of these utterly useless, clueless, racist boors. Go on, go tour all those predominantly black Commonwealth member states instead.

That’s right so says Billy shiny pate, which like St. Paul’s Cathedral’s copula is rather high and mighty but empty nonetheless. A head full of petty, perniciousness and bigotry that betrays his nineness – second number of 9 as per his mindset – how William perceives all reality. God only knows, there aren’t too many people in both India and Pakistan, which likely explains why he has toured both countries with his pale, one-dimensional gurning boor. Oh and let’s not forget that trip to Bhutan so that he could predatorily get close to one of his potential conquests. The royal rota and British tabloids truly are stupid if they think that persons, most especially Americans, are not aware how the Cambridges are given a free pass and all that is wrong with the status quo is Meghan. You banished her, resoundingly got rid of her without somehow no one in British journalism asking what role the Cambridges have played in the whole affair. Now with Meghan banished, the Great & Perfect White Queen has emerged and yet she still can’t get enough; on and on, she continues with her cannibalistic campaign of stalking Meghan and thereby betraying her guilt. Britons are simply small-minded, small-island simpletons if they can’t see that Americans are not readily fooled. One thing is certain, Americans are second to no one and they most definitely do not like to be attacked and treated unfairly by persons whom they successfully fought a war to be rid of. Americans are about being out there and being self-made and representing and my god, how Meghan has brilliantly succeeded in doing just that. She is the very epitome of the American dream and no amount of racist slander and trying to paint her as bully and liar is going to change Americans’ opinions of Meghan. And therein lies the explanation of Catherine’s obsession with Meghan. Meghan is American and self-made, did it all on her own with her own drive and inordinate talents. Catherine on the other hand, represents the British paradigm, you only matter for being of noble birth or if as in Catherine’s case, you did sweet fuck-all but stalk, fuck your way to a walk down the aisle at Westminster Abbey with the Bourdon bastard’s balls attached to your garter.

That crass, violent public display is what caused Meghan to cry. Meghan cried because incredulously and impatiently it was a way to take Catherine to task and address her monstrous vulgarity by asking, “Bitch why don’t you grow a pair and be a real woman… a fucking feminist?” Catherine is as common as muck and her using the race card to demonise and banish a more charismatic and popular sister-in-law from the kingdom via the lies planted mostly in the tabloid medium, is a keen example of Catherine being a product of the vulgar middle classes. There positively is no way that Diana would have been so callously brusque in her ongoing war with Charles when in public as Catherine was towards beloved Diana’s firstborn whom she, Catherine, has clearly emasculated as per the unedited contretemps which the BBC chose to keep in their show, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas – more like, Bullocks! It’s A Bullied Royal Christmas. Catherine does not give a damn; she has no class. William is irrelevant to her; if he died tomorrow, she would fast become Regent on William’s passing until HRH Prince George of Cambridge came of age and acceded the throne. Catherine knows and understands her power and in that sense, she has driven the narrative of cannibalising and driving Meghan from the kingdom and she doesn’t give a fuck what it looks like. She is of the middle class and as such erroneously gives the aristocracy a bad name; however, on closer inspection, Catherine truly cannot give the aristocracy a bad name – Catherine gives herself a bad name and no one else. She has certainly done more to damage and sabotage HM The Queen’s legacy than any other single member of the BRF and that includes HRH Prince Andrew of York’s proclivity for deflowering minor meat.

Just look at her family, the Middletons, at the Sussexes’ wedding. They stood there, an absolute island, isolated and onto themselves; they never so much as once spoke to anyone else because they had gone from coal mine to Palace faster than one could dynastically sneeze where monarchies are concerned. No more than lepers; frightfully middle class, they stood there without the aristocracy paying them any mind and of course dynastic parvenu, they stood there snickering at tout le monde.

At long last, someone has the balls to stand up to these slithering bullies and set the record straight. Naturally, the royal households: Buckingham Palace, Clarence House and Kensington Palace all shrill and moan in protesting the BBC’s The Princes and the Press. Finally, the fissure has revealed itself to paraphrase Andrew Marr and unmistakably, the slithering saboteurs’ faces will finally be unmasked to all of Britain. That’s right, Catherine, no matter what you do, being a future Queen Consort & Queen Mother does not enable you to escape the karma of your numbers. 9 in the first position and in time, for all history, Catherine will be exposed as a shit-disturbing boor and a petty middle class bigot.

As for William, much like King George V, with whom he shares the exact same numerology, he hates Americans as George V hated Wallis Simpson and all Americans – ergo his loathing of Meghan, who serves to show up that androgynous sodden cardboard, Catherine, for all she is – nothing… beyond her ability to gurn with sociopathic élan. Furthermore, William will go down in history as William the Oaf, completely and utterly unaware as when he shot off his clueless mouth, criticising Jeff Bezos for going into space rather than working on climate change then having to suck up to self-made American, Jeff Bezos at Cop26 because… he’s a frigging, goddamn tactless fool. William is looking for funding for his Earthshot Prize and more importantly, he would rather Jeff Bezos not retaliate by throwing funds at the very American, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and the Sussexes’ Archewell Foundation. William is milquetoast and his partner in crime is a petty classist boor, to say nothing of bore, who is rather ill-equipped to be on the world stage in any meaningful capacity. Never forget that whereas Harry has only one brother, William has two; his older brother, like William will in time, is a Sovereign. There is no randomness or coincidences when it comes to genetics; there is no fluke in the current Crown Princess of Spain, having the same teeth and gum aesthetics as William. Yes, Diana strayed but the timeline plus when and with whom she strayed, is falsified to hide the very real fact that HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales is not William’s father.

Prince William and Kate Middleton in Dublin - Dublin Live
That's The Spirit! Will & Kate Sample Shots At A Harvest Event 🥃 •  Celebrity WotNot
Kate Middleton Shimmers in Mint Green While Serving Beer With Prince William  in Northern Ireland | Entertainment Tonight

Catherine’s got that alcoholic’s dead eye. Always, she loves a good stiff drink in public – just imagine what goes on behind closed doors – and at such times when in public, she is always aggressively playful and in so doing further emasculates William, who at all such times becomes catatonically wooden. But y’are Blanche, y’are a fucking dump! That’s right, just another common as muck, middle class boor. What’s more, she’s just a coal-mining Bucklebury hoochie mama and she sure loves her liquor! Having resoundingly stalked and cannibalised poor William, as she hustled and stalked the backwoods runway in Scotland, what else was she, Catherine, of no discernible class or sophistication to say nothing of intellect and stage presence, to do but turn icy hoochie mama and cannibalise Meghan with the aide of the rabid castrati who work the royal biography, journalist racket – most of whom have a 9 somewhere in their numerology.

Sad really, but unwittingly they and Catherine are blissfully unaware that they are doing nothing but undoing much of the work done by HM The Queen, for which, of course, they ever turn around and start laying blame at Meghan’s door for causing HM The Queen so much grief and distress in her twilight years.

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pink Chair I & II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

Last February as I made my way by subway to the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing arts, the season’s latest opera was on that night – of course, what I then did not know, was that the rest of the opera season would eventually be cancelled – the most jarring thing occurred. A young Amerindian male with the glossiest black mane, took two steps back on the TTC train platform and dropped his black gym bag. “Are you fucking talking to me? No bitch, I’m talking to you! Did I invite you into my country?” The rage and the booming power of his voice was arresting. The tall effete Caucasian male tried brushing him off as though he were so much raped and abandoned non-whitedom. Before I knew what next, The five-foot-nothing, proud Amerindian punched his adversary square in his girly man face. Crying out like a right candy-arsed sissy, the Caucasian weakly protested, all whilst rushing backwards. My proud Amerindian brother was just getting started. Of course, I, who have grown soft for making peace with being a black male in this racially suffocating society, cried out when the first punch landed. Bam, another punch to the face as the much shorter warrior defended his land, his people, pride and history. “Yeah you, did I fucking invite you to my country?” and another blow. Bloodied and cowering, the all-mouth, cowardly closet cocksucker was resoundingly handed his arse and put in his rightful place.

The opera, Hansel & Gretel, was beautifully staged – set in the stark isolation of Toronto condo living. I was, though, never fully engaged as I spent the next several days readjusting to having had that young warrior shaman heal my spirit by his very proud actions and the conviction of his words. The next several days, I kept returning to the incident with the proud Amerindian. My reaction at the time had stunned me and in hindsight, I kept revisiting why I chose to be so upset at the attack on the arrogant male, who was being pummelled. He had taunted and dismissed the Amerindian male – a socially aggressive behaviour from whites with which one was long familiar. I realised that so many times in situations as then, we as blacks are programmed to sublimate and ‘take it’ rather than defending oneself from the hideous ugliness of the spiritually stunted.

Then something quite remarkable happened, the murderous lynching of George Floyd in callously stark veracity that cell phone ubiquity has afforded in the modern age. The event was seismic; the raw brutality of the racial predator on the hunt was so glaring, so jarring that it set ablaze protests across the planet. Indeed, the cell phone, like the beating of Rodney King, has been able to capture the ugliness that is whiteness which prior to, meant that one could lie away and grin away with exquisite triumphant glee, fucking with the enemy – an enemy on whom one preys never having been preyed on by that enemy. Slowly, the exoskeleton with which one straitjackets oneself in order to make peace and to be a black man peacefully making it through one day to the next, began losing its grip.

Scenes like in the early days of lockdown 2020, I was in line at Pusateri’s at Yorkville Avenue and Bay Street to pick up a couple of bottles of VOSS water. Old, ugly as fuck, the woman in line ahead of me turned around and began screaming at the top of her hateful lungs in a scene that could easily have been played by her in South Africa. She demanded that I get the hell away from her because I was clearly not practising proper social distancing and remaining more than two metres apart. Of course, this had nothing to do with the coronavirus pandemic but everything to do with her seizing an opportunity to be a hate-filled racist boor. As much as I wanted to readily turn rapaciously vituperative and tell her to try 2 metres below ground; instead, I took two operatic steps back and coolly and eloquently boomed with scathing condescension, “Look at you! On your hind legs and everything! Seriously though…” With that, after having laughed a vulgar dismissive breath, I impatiently strode to the back of the line to be rid of the fugly parvenu boor. Everyone, staff and clients, froze. She, of course, squawked and grumbled as I focussed my discriminating attention to a conversation via Whatsapp video about dinner with my transitioning spouse at our art-filled home, who on the eve of Bob Marley’s birthday, two decades earlier, I wedded at Montréal’s Palais de Justice both decked in gold-threaded, crisp white linen Yoruba agbada with her a matching gele. As can be expected of cowardly fare, the anaemic-looking young couple now two metres in front of me, simply ignored the social dustup by hungrily face-fucking in their best escapist Bonobo turn. Naturally, the old harpy got from the line to kvetch to whomsofuckingever and when the cashier asked if I wanted a bag, I declined, telling her that I would rather be kind on the environment. Turning to leave the tightly spaced store, I paused and shot down her evil glare by raising both VOSS waters, one in each hand, and shouted, L’Chaim! That ought to have left her pissy knickers smelling louder on leaving the store.

Soon enough, the acts of racially predatory social aggression became more frequent and pronounced. There was the incident one cool morning where a hirsute covering of blond furred redhead stopped jogging in front of me, grabbed a hold of my bike’s handlebar and began screaming as though I were both blind and deaf as he demanded that I keep the hell off the sidewalk. It wasn’t enough that cell phones had exposed their murderous ugliness but as though to protest, whites have grown more emboldened with the affront of blacks and Black Lives Matter movement to demonstrate and demand change.

By early June last year, 2020, I had had enough, each morning on the ride to work through tony Rosedale, I was being accosted by various burghers of the beautifully tree-lined streets – then again, which Toronto residential neighbourhood street is not beautifully tree-lined. There was one Jew in particular, who caused me to go out and get the above bodycam. Each morning, as I am a creature of habit, he was in the habit of leaving the sidewalk to come into the middle of the street, approach as I bike-ride to pepper me with hideous racial slurs and demand that I keep the hell out of the neighbourhood. Good morning, Shithead! Good morning you black piece of shit. Get out of here! Finally, one morning, having quite had enough of him and his special brand of ugliness of spirit, I told him to go fuck himself to which he incredulously demanded at the top of his lungs, unlike his usually sotto voce delivered insults as he approached the bike, “Get back here! Get back here now! I’m talking to you. Come back here now!” The nerve of some people. That last incident occurred on a Friday and thank god for Jeff Bezos, by Monday, I had me a bodycam. So as my special kind of fugly, hairy back and arsed nuisance came bopping off the sidewalk, ready to be racial predatory white male asshole number 1 billion, 500 million and 99, he caught sight of my bodycam, lights on and all, and like the bipedal, über poilu Rottweiler-hybrid that he is, he readily retreated for the cover of the sidewalk. I have never seen him since and, of course, I had ignored everyone’s advice to take another route to work. What the fuck for? As I am born in the year of the Rat, I am no different to any other rat; we live firmly self-aware that rats fear no one.

A few months back in between spells of too much snow, I abandoned my bike and elected to take a ride. On the way home, as I go from job A to job B, I told the unibrowed, wild-eyed driver that I was in a bit of a hurry and would show him a shortcut to my place. He again said nothing, just as he hadn’t as I got into his ride and said hello. Though, I wore a colourful silk mask over the daily disposable N-95 mask, his shitty ride I swear, smelt like what no doubt just-fucked camel pussy does. Told to take a left off Yonge onto Roxborough, finally not surprised was I when he proved a short-tempered fuck whose pointy fingers on that wheel had me dismissing him as so much forgettable small-cocked fare. He barked rather than spoke that he followed the GPS, which had called out to make a left onto Crescent so many metres ahead south down Yonge Street. Thus, we ventured, clearly grudgingly for him, along Roxborough and as we approached, I announced that I wanted him to make a right turn onto Wrentham to Crescent. Immediately, the über-poilu beast, which made me think Ursa hybrid, stepped on the gas drove east past Wrentham, down the hill and pulled onto Mount Pleasant without so much as having looked left in the process. As it was rush hour, there would be no left turns south of Bloor along Jarvis which Mount Pleasant becomes before Gerrard Street East or possibly Shuter Street East. To be sure, I was more than a little bit pissed off when telling the inbred, short-fused jackass to turn off of Mount Pleasant, onto Elm and turn right at Sherbourne North as had been intended. “You fucking idiots, who the hell are you people to talk to anybody like you own something?” Then he violently broke the car, just north of South Drive and demanded that I get out of his car. Coolly, I got out and left the door open and when he swore at me and demanded I shut his fucking door now, I told him I thought I would do him a favour and air it out, seeing as how it stunk of camel… the camel-fucker did not, of course, get the insult. Readily, I pulled out my camera and told him, ‘yeah come out here and get some of this.’ He got out of his shitty little car, cut the beady eyes at me, slammed the door shut, told me and my people to go fuck ourselves to which I replied, “happy black history month to you, too…” By the time I got onto Sherbourne North, my Samsung S20 had died. Naturally, thanks to coronavirus, I had no cash and there was no way to call a cab or Uber. In this neck of the woods, a random taxi was a nonstarter.

Foreground Bloor & Parliament in St. James Town, to right distance, Yorkville, Centre distance, One Bloor East currently tallest condo at 76 storeys, at Yonge & Bloor, Centre mid-distance Sherbourne to Church (east to west) Upper Gay Village or more pretentiously south Yorkville (ha!).

Doggedly, I decided to simply walk it home, just as I got unto the Sherbourne Street bridge, I began experiencing an anxiety attack. Years earlier, I had witnessed someone leap from the Jacques Cartier bridge that spans the St. Lawrence in Montréal. Suddenly, out of nowhere as anxiety attacks tend to function, I was in the grips of crippling fear. I knew that there was no way that I could cross the bridge, even to try and make it back seemed a feat, there was a sudden desire to start running, which I knew that I could not do. A young Amerindian couple in the city, for the first time it turned out, crossed the bridged, going south on the west side – same as me. I explained my dilemma and asked if they would call me a cab. The proud warrior-looking man, barely into his 20s insisted that I simply conquer my fear by walking beside him and his beautiful girlfriend. I tried…. I wanted to. I could not, though, as I began shaking… just the sheer weight of why I was there in the first place simply for being black and asking the driver to take a preferred route – it all seemed so absurd, yet it is an indignity that one endures at every turn in a million ways every frigging day in this society. The warmest eyes winked at me as he smiled and the Beck taxi came up the bridge made a U-turn and the young warrior closed the door on me, wishing me well. Eventually, I got home late and when I was done job B where I fundraise in the arts and remain unrivalled, I wrote a detailed account of my ride with the bigot who kicked me from his car and was summarily refunded. As if Jazz the blasted motherfuck were invented by unibrowed, camel-fucking, hairy back-and-arsed dreck.

Days later, and still black history month, I was riding my bike through the wet streets of Rosedale where the snow melted fast after the latest snowfall. As I emerged onto Crescent Road from the footpath which Scrath becomes, to cross the bridge that spans Mount Pleasant Road, a white female in a black, skin-tight, jogging suit was way in back of a group of jogging white males whom I had seen with fair regularity. She was clearly not part of their group. Jogging in the street as she was, she moved to the side as I approached and then with the arrogance of the truly somnambulant, aggressively called after me in a tone that was both accusatory and possessive as I moved past, “Excuse me, where are you going?” That morning, I happened not to be wearing my bodycam as when I got downstairs, realised that the snow had sufficiently melted such that I could actually ride my bike rather than take a cab. Without so much as missing a beat, I broke hard and stood straddling my bike when reaching into the shallow depths of her sphinctered psyche, “I’m going to your house to fuck your man!” She stood there arrested, catatonic as my use of language was both vulgar, rapacious. “That’s right, I’m gonna hog-tie that fucking cocksucker of yours and fuck him good… Yeah, you wanna come watch? Come on!” Arrested in place, her eyes welled up as mine remained unflinchingly enraged, her lizard-thin upper lip actually trembling. With that, I resumed riding my bike to job A to which I was already running late. In this the age of Trump, some whites at every chance, turn racially predatory at the drop of a hat.

Then there are the casket fugitives; these blasted tiresome, overstayed boomers, who simply will not stop showing off and just crawl the fuck in their caskets. What other generation but boomers would find a new way to show-off in their smelly diapers and drug-wasted dotage? They, these lost souls forever hurrying about way off-piste, are ever bitching and at times raising their silly poles at me, demanding that I not ride on pathways but dismount and walk. Once confronted by a turkey-necked mannish boor, I leaned in and asked near-inaudibly, “Don’t you tire of breathing? Go on, go chill the fuck out in your casket”

And then November 3, 2020 turned into January 6, 2021 as that porcine pathological compulsive liar – America’s biggest loser and racist swine, finally left the stage with crooked tail between his fat thighs with the Eurotrash escort cum parvenu snob in tow. The cold-blooded murder of George Floyd, staged or simply instinctual racially predatory behaviour, like the big fat coward that he is, having miserably failed at leading and taking command of the pandemic, Trump latched on to the murder of George Floyd to win the vote. That’s right, it was all about not haemorrhaging the white vote; thus it became all about cops and law and order – all code language for white privilege and racist white supremacy. Well, it did not fucking work! Fuck you!

Not only did Trump fail to steal the vote by declaring Marshall law and leading an insurrection on the Capitol, he and his racist ilk’s poster boy for racially predatory murderous scum was convicted on all three counts. George Floyd’s murder occurred at the Pluto opposition in Capricorn and thus the past four hundred years of murderous racially predatory blood sport of blacks finally led to George being anointed as the One. That’s right, for the first time in 400 years, a cop has been found guilty of the murder of a black male. For blacks, America the past 400 years has been nothing but a giant game reserve where they are hunted with the arrogant impunity of police getting off time and again when murdering blacks. Let that sink in for a moment. America the land where whites can murder whilst dressed up in the hunting gear of the police uniform – all the while, other whites the world over perpetually on holiday having predatory sex with minors whilst everyone looks the other way. Thanks to his murder, and trophy-hunting racial predator Chauvin having been found guilty of murder, George Floyd became a martyr who has broken the long 400 year tradition of the justice system in America condoning the racially predatory murder of blacks at the hands of police. Pluto in Capricorn indeed. The hijacked American justice system where blacks are corralled to spike the profit margins for BlackRock shareholders… talk about genius, indeed.

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

Recent ride through Rosedale because of whose venal classist/racist aggression, I have taken to wearing the bodycam. As ever, Jazz permeates my every breath; how could it not when my father’s first cousin, the recently deceased actor Cicely Tyson was wife of Jazz genius Miles Davis? A new friend with lots of past-life history, asked why I am always singing the same Jazz tune when cycling; it is a form of meditation, I shared, as I move from job A to job B. By vocalesing and singing a favourite Jazz tune, I am getting refocussed to the task next in hand – fundraising in the arts… at which I am damn good. In the above clip, at the 06:24 mark, one can clearly see the septuagenarian white female with bags in hand, walking north in the southbound bike lane. Likely she chose to do so to avoid being too close to persons on the kerb. Either way, her choice and no business of mine. Minutes as I got further down Sherbourne Street, at which point, I had stopped recording, as I was now going south in the northbound bike lane a total of 3 white female passing, violently yelled and called me every kind of asshole imaginable. White females are ten times more likely than white males to be verbally abusive in such situations; however, non-white, non-black males and females almost never engage in such predatory social aggression. The idea that I am going to time-waste by yelling at someone for simply going in the opposite direction of the usual flow of bike traffic in a given lane is beyond absurd. So fucking what? Last winter before getting the bodycam, there was a white male in early forties with about 4% body fat running north in the northbound bike lane along the Sherbourne Street bridge. As I approached at a leisurely pace, I could tell that he was wearing air buds and not wanting to surprise him simply rode pass saying and doing nothing. Shocked, though not surprised, was I when he upped his jogging pace and began running alongside on my right. Yelling as though a drill sergeant, he began calling me an asshole and demanded to know why I had not used my fucking bell when passing him. Not jogging on the kerb was he, nor was he jogging towards oncoming bike and vehicular traffic; yet, he and his perceptions had perceived me as being at fault for riding alongside and passing him without having given him warning of my approach. This world is overrun by truly blind assholes, very well-armed, truly blind assholes.

A few days ago as I hopped off my bike with time to kill between jobs A & B, I slipped into the reconstituted shrine to Canadian ice hockey which became the flagship store of Loblaws, another of the Weston family’s retail gems. On entering, there was a police officer just inside – a new pandemic feature. Tall, handsome and of South Pacific heritage, the male officer engagingly greeted me, willingly, I ambled over and he commended me on the bodycam. Said he, every person of colour ought to be wearing one; indeed, I agreed, it amazingly affords one peace of mind and a harassment free ride about town. He laughed when told of how hostile the burghers of Rosedale can be, adding that he was not surprised in the least at the account of in-your-face open bigotry.

With nimble vivacity me and my paniers whisked through the place, emerging minutes later with organic ginger, beautifully pungent organic turmeric, Ocean Spray’s Cran-Grape drink – this drink screams sugar is the drug y’all – and of course, the most exquisite cheddar cheese. Whether at tea, with pâté or dark chocolate, the President’s Choice (Loblaws house brand) aged 5 years crumbly cheddar cheese is as musky and satisfying as a full Moon night spent indulging rugged mansex in the moss-saturated bois of Vancouver’s Stanley Park. Slipping outside, as I loaded up my paniers on my trusty brown Schwinn Gateway, the four bottles of VOSS water made the paniers hard to close shut – larger than the VOSS available in Yorkville, who needs Pusateri’s and Yorkville’s parvenu pretentious bullshit anyway?

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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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Well, Of Course, They’re Frigging Racist!

Time and again, the British tabloids, media and royal sycophants keep repeating that there is no racism within the BRF and that it is rather a damning allegation to have made on the part of the Sussexes in their sit-down interview with Oprah Winfrey on CBS. What the hell are these people on about? There she was Princess Eurotrash of Flat-Arsedom, going full gansta in her blackamoor brooch; yet, there is no racism within the BRF tabloid sycophants loudly protest.

Of course, right on cue, along came the knock-kneed, flat-flooted Bourbon, displaying his frightful lack of awareness, tack… to say nothing of intellect. Indeed, let’s take Meghan & Harry detractors one and all to task as well they damn well ought to be. Please know this, if you don’t like black people… fuck you!

That’s right, Britons are not in the least racist. God only knows, it is at American baseball, basketball and football games that fans make monkey noises, make Nazi salutes and toss bananas on the field/court… indeed. From top to bottom, whether emboldened royals ie HRH Princess Michael of Kent to chavs and others at a football game, Britons are hideously racist and this need to deny their ugliness is betrayed by their need to sublimate all that by forever masquerading the aristocracy in cinema and art as though to entice and beguile the wayward, rebellious kin across the pond.

Petra…. seriously. Unlike you, Meghan married a blood prince. You, however, fittingly wedded a greasy-looking, conman with obvious substance abuse issues… Come on, you actually laid there and had that walrus slither atop you and pass out after another drunken orgasmic fit… Ew fucking ew! Moneyed trash is still trash… you are but another bigoted, spiritual blackhole aimlessly flitting about from beach to yacht to shopping whilst waiting to finally lay your casket chic looks in a casket. Not surprisingly, that chaviola father of Petra’s has proven himself, vis-à-vis Lewis Hamilton’s phenomenal F1 success just another moneyed bigoted pigmy.

Child, after a lifetime of being all god’s children’s favourite windup fool, there you’ll be all smiles and perky only to hear St. Peter say, “Do me a favour, go on over there and grab that candelabra, I could do with some light…” Honest to fucking god, self-loathing fools are the most contemptable of fools. Leave Meghan alone… you know nothing, save looking for another opportunity to make yourself beloved by those for whom Billie Holiday sang Strange Fruit.

A veritable chavfest of pretentious elitist boors. Imagine the fuck-all temerity of these jackasses to insist that CBS and Oprah postpone the Meghan & Harry interview out of consideration of Prince Philip, HRH Duke of Edinburgh, spouse of HM The Queen, being hospitalised. Naturally, it never once occurred to these ugly-of-spirit, racial predators how their unrelentingly racialised aggression in the media against Meghan & Harry was affecting not just the Sussexes but HM The Queen and her spouse Prince Philip, HRH Duke of Edinburgh. For nine long excruciating months, they badgered away at the pregnant Duchess of Sussex for having dared to have wedded at the apex of their racist society but to go on and start breeding mongrelised royal blood, was simply untenable an affront.

There is not a single white female who would have been racially preyed on by the British tabloids the way that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex has been. Whilst this racially predatory feeding frenzy has endured, not a single protest ever emanated from the BRF or the Royal Households on their behalf. The tabloids knew that in an archly racialised society – apeing black footballers on the field – the business of open racial animus towards the Sussexes was big business…. indeed, not since the phenomenal business that Diana represented for them, had they enjoyed such profits. What neither the royals nor the tabloids had envisioned, was the Sussexes not playing along; they had never fathomed the notion that an American, a black American, would simply pick up, take her blood royal prince and son and relocate to a society where for being a self-made woman, a self-made black woman, she could be challenged, engaged and supported rather than being eclipsed, dehumanised, demonised, silenced…. lynched. No star ever takes second billing to a dull as sodden cardboard ingenue of neither awareness nor discernible intellect… ditto Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. The problem with the British tabloids and media who cover the BRF were how homogenous they are; with the exception of BAME Roya Nikkhah, this semi-feral herd of racist cattle are overwhelmingly white, which means that everything that they plotted and schemed about meting out to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, was gleefully done with a racially predatory agendum – it is in the nature of the rabid beast.

By extension, both Oprah Winfrey and Gayle King have relatively demonstrated what a racially suffocating society Britain is. There simply aren’t any paths to success in British media for blacks as in the case of American society. This all begs the question, why again when America has ceased being a British colony, is there a need to lionise British actors in American cinema and all but relegate and ghettoise American actors to the hinterland that is television – although what with the devastating restructuring that the Coronavirus pandemic has caused, Netflix and by extension all cable, have become the newly dominant medium rather than cinema.

Thomas Markle deftly validates the Michael Teaching knowledge that from lifetime to lifetime, you have only one parenting agreement with one of both parents. Obviously, in the case of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, who was formerly Margaret Beaufort, Doria Ragland is the parent with whom she has the parenting agreement in this life and that’s that. In a manner which deeply rips off the scab of American racism, Thomas Markle in essence treats his own daughter as property… as a mere runaway slave, who needs to be punished at all cost for disrespecting him and not staying her arse on the plantation where she belongs. It can never be forgotten that Thomas is possessed of a 9 in his numerology which would make him just as archly bigoted, conservative and interfering as the Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.

There are two families in each lifetime; the one chosen by soul into which to reincarnate and once incarnate, the onus is on one, to use the greatest discretion in choosing in whom you trust and such persons are family. Sadly, Samantha is like 7 of 10 white females who simply hate Meghan because she married a blood prince; this reality has proven an affront to their lifelong cherished fantasy, indeed, their sacred notion of whom a prince should marry – clearly, it should not be a black woman or else the white female tribal psyche goes on the warpath… as most definitely it has. Meghan has never been perceived by Samantha as anyone but the otiose, nappy-headed bastard who needs to be pinched, bullied, spat at and reviled at every turn and Samantha in her blind rage, was not going to miss her chance to get on the stage before the world and remind us all what ugly malaise of spirit this thing called white privilege is and how it thoroughly immolates thusly focussed persons.

What more proof does one need? Thank you, Master Archie Manners for doing right by your namesakes’ honour; your slight of hand was truly masterful. The whole lot of these blasted dogs have been exposed and as for Victoria Arbiter, she needs to be fired by CNN. Sorry, it is the vicious lynching of the American Duchess, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex by this group of racial predators, empowered by the hideous Bourbon-Bucklebury duo, which drove Meghan to being suicidal.

See this right here; these blasted fucknuts would like to have the world believe that there was no racism to which Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and by extension Harry, Duke of Sussex were subjected and that because the Sussexes chose to have a private moment whilst being counselled by the clergyman and romantically take their vows, which could not have been legal, thus it was a lie, somehow, everything else was a lie. Well see here duckies, the big, flat-arsed princess Eurotrash’s racist shade-throwing could not possibly have been racist, right? Bullshit! Not only was it vile, racist cowardly social aggression, it was also completely and utterly sanctioned by the Cambidges who do no give two fucks, which is precisely why HRH Prince Charles was not allowed access to HRH Prince George for long months after his birth. These are the same Cambridges who leaned forward across the quire aisle from the keenly observant and savvy Mulroneys at the Sussexes’ wedding to hiss and ridicule as well persons possessed of 9 can be expected to do. One should never forget that as a mature soul warrior in perseverance mode with a primary need for power, Catherine knows and understands full well her power.

The moment that Catherine gave birth, and to a firstborn who proved a prince no less, she immediately became the second most powerful woman in Britain after HM The Queen. This is precisely why she showed her power by retreating to Bucklebury and refused her father-in-law access to her child and future sovereign as this was a direct snub of Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall who at most would be Queen Consort, though, never Queen Consort and future Queen Mother. Hers was the second most valuable womb in Britain, she had given birth to a future sovereign and fuck everyone else… all the social/classist aggression that she had endured was, like an irritating mirage, suddenly collapsed into nothingness. Like Camilla, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex could not eclipse, challenge Catherine… What other response could one expect of an inarticulate mousy woman of another who is articulate, self-made, charismatic and unacceptably non-white. Again, all women with a 9 energy body are the biggest shit-disturbers, saboteuse and are fiendishly controlling. I love the official portrait of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge at the National Portrait Gallery as it truly captures the complexity of a mature soul warrior in perseverance mode with a primary need of power. She was wedded at her Saturn return and it is at that point that you truly start manifesting, who were born to be. Power corrupts and it is obvious in Catherine’s face in the later photos in the above set. Seven years into her marriage and mother of a future sovereign, Catherine was power mad at the point of the Sussexes wedding and there is no way that she wanted Meghan at court anymore than she suffers the non-threat of Camilla who will never be Queen Mother.

Some fucking how, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex was supposed to have endured the unrelenting racially predatory harassment never before experienced by any other black woman in history and, somehow, these bipedal dogs were in essence braying, “Come on, you’re a nigger, come on play along, come on, you can take it… it’s only a poplar tree, what’s the big deal? Why are you afraid to be lynched? It’s your birth right; this is your role in our national sport… we decide and you are not allowed to be in our fairy story. It’s your history to be lynched for fuckssakes. Stop whining and fall into line.” And whilst all this endured the culpable Cambridges, used tampon et al simply sat around inebriated and somnambulant, chuckling, “one ibble dibble, two ibble dibble.”

Sharon Osborne, fired! Now get out of America. Piers Morgan, fired! Fuck you, you rabid racist coward. Victoria Arbiter, CNN needs to fire this charlatan Briton and soon; that exposé by Archie Manners is all one needs to get a fair assessment of these clowns, claiming to be royal expert this and royal expert that. These same clowns in a post-Oprah CBS Interview are claiming victory as the Sussexes poll numbers have plummeted. Seriously, the Sussexes now live in America; trust you me, neither they nor Americans give a rat’s arse about what island-dwelling xenophobic bigots think. No matter how you keep grasping at straws, the Sussexes are well out of your lives – they do not give a blasted damn.

This now frees you up to focus your jaundiced tabloid and fabulist biographies on the rest of the royals… you know, the one with a proclivity for minor fare. Then there is the knock-kneed, flat-footed Bourbon oaf whom you have yet to have a million body language experts opine about the royal brushoff during Mary Berry’s A Berry Royal Christmas Special. That’s right, their marriage is a volatile, shattered affair, which was just as plainly obvious during the BBC Christmas baking special as it was the day of their marriage a decade ago as they rowed all the way up the Mall and whilst on the balcony at Buckingham Palace. Even their miserable-looking kids betray the froideur of their sado-masochistic arrangement.

William is a flawed, weak oaf who hasn’t a clue. Catherine, however, is as rapaciously shrewd as they come. This is why the day after Oprah’s Interview for CBS with the Sussexes when asked by the reporter if the royals were a racist family, William walked right into the trap and spoke up, declaring: We are very much not a racist family.” Catherine, though, pretended not to have heard any of it and simply kept on walking away – indeed, she knew it was best to run away as every coward does. The Cambridges are the architects of it all and unfortunately as he has had to be screamed at and brushed off time and again by Catherine, William stupidly fell for the bait and shot off his mouth where he most definitely ought not to have.

This Betty Carter tour de force, Thou Swell, deftly sums up the superior strategists that the Sussexes are to the Cambridges. Meghan was a Queen Mother too and what is past is present is always future. I played this tune for a couple of hours after William outed himself as the Sussexes intended in their interview with Oprah for CBS, enjoying the deliciousness of their groove which like Jazz, is sophistication most rare. Jazz touches those for whom it is native, it is breath, like it does no one else… go on ape the culture all you want but we both know that, like Billy flat-foot, it don’t mean a damn thing…

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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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

4.3.4 = 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Lady Eve 2.0.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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