All these years later, I have finally had an initial dream encounter with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. It occurred as I slept during mid-day on Friday, January 27 whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my 11th house. As per usual, Henry (fifth-level mature warrior soul) was in the dream and as ever, he was sat at the top of three steps to a large wooden structure. Not surprisingly, here as in every other dream encounter with this fifth mature warrior soul, Henry was barefooted, unpretentious and again, I marvelled at how hirsute his arms were. There were a couple of men visiting them and the one who did most of the talking, had an American accent. He was strongly advising the couple to acquire the surrounding lands, to the tune of thousands of acres, to their property which was about 100 acres. Opposite the wooden structure was a stand of trees with a small body of water hidden within the growth.
The second man chimed in and he had a toff’s accent; he expressed concerns about what would become of the expanse of land where clearly the polo pitch was located. Henry made it clear that the pitch was not going to be relocated and the very enterprising American was pointing off to the left and beyond the pitch that they could grow food staples for their business. Just then, Archie could be heard calling out to his mum. We all then moved inside and there I’d eventually see her; my first dream encounter with Meghan.
This building was massive and like all dreams set on the astral plane, not only were there lots of exposed woods and high ceilings; my senses were truly awakened in this rather bucolic and lucid dream. As with astral plane-focussed dreams, there was no natural light flooding the interior. We got in and the place was set out like a chalet with seating arrangements that encourage socialising and circulating. What soon became apparent was that this was a lifestyle store as much as it was a log cabin. Products were casually on display without their placement being the conventional hard-sell of a boutique. Over in one corner a door opened and out walked Archie (7th level mature priest soul), who here appeared about 10 or 12 – I have no children of my own so it is always hard to gauge children’s ages. Archie had a big curly afro and carried a large wooden tray with lots of jars of honey. A strong-willed female child (likely Lilibet Diana, third-level mature sage soul in dominance) could be heard in the room through which Archie arrived. Forthright, he placed the tray on a counter and began passing them to his father, to be placed on the shelves behind him where there were other jars. The jars were all glass with an ornate monogram and no paper markings; they were also of various sizes.
Everyone turned and looked and said hello as a warmly smiling Meghan (mid-cycle mature artisan soul) entered through the same door as Archie moments earlier had; she also carried a tray of honeys as she entered. I was completely stunned to see her and realised that I was having my first dream encounter with the very iconic and well-fortified Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. She was poised and as solid and powerful as the Empire State Building is singularly granite.Whereas Archie carried honey-filled jars that were small and seemingly sampler jars, Meghan’s jars were large and of varying sizes. Placed on the counter, there were jars that contained honeycombs; however, most of the jars contained honeys that were infused with ginger, lemon, orange, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. Still there were others that contained lemon flowers, orange flowers, rose petals and removing the lid from one jar, Meghan offered it to me for a sniff whilst slyly smiling. Reaching forward, I maintained eye contact with her as she anticipatorily waited. I took a long, full-lunged sniff; instantaneously, I was just as lucidly awakened as second earlier whilst looking at her smiling eyes, on closing my own. The magic of dreams indeed; the particular large jar of honey proffered by Meghan, had been infused with the most fragrant elderflower imaginable!
As I never get out of bed before fully recalling dreams dreamt, I then realised that this dream was casting light on the fact that this was a lifestyle and wellness business with each bottle monogrammed with the same elaborate calligraphy. I had a sense that the property may well have been in the English country side, though, it could just have easily been in New Zealand, the American mountain states, or even Canada’s B.C. interior. The American was talking about iced wines; this on awakening could also mean a vineyard here in Ontario. One definitely did not get the sense that this property was in California. The American advisor seemed to be pushing for a vineyard to be planted, but definitely there was to be an expansion of the small orchard – 20 acres or so, which supplied the ginger and various fruits and berries that infused the honeys some of which were blond, others richly dark.
Waiting for me to finally wake up, my FTM transitioning wife brought me a large bowl of hot porridge infused with dates, figs, raspberries (especial favourite) and bananas – the smell of which I cannot abide; their skins make me salivate and grow nauseous. Beaming, I then shared that I had just had my first, very lucid dream encounter with Meghan to which she, a mature soul warrior, also seventh level mature like yours truly but a cynic, faster than lightning striking the CN Tower shot back, “Well, it’s about damn time!”
Sing It Natalie! So many people in Vancouver were introduced to Jazz thanks to my West End apartment 365 overflowing with Jazz 24/7 blasting from the open windows. Vocalese Queen, Natalie was an entity mate (fifth mature artisan soul). Several months after she passed, just as with HLM The Queen, I dreamt of her passing over – in the latter’s case, a year prior to her actual passing. And oh lord Jesus, astral plane homecomings for most Blacks is usually a masquerade of celebration with music saturating every fabric of the astral plane. Natalie took to the stage and performed acapella and until that dream, I had not heard vocalese so stratospherically exalted and complex!
Will you just look at that, the Enola Gay’s cargo bay doors have opened! Incoming! This calls for a Fortnum & Mason hamper; this is serious tea!
Numerologically, these are the numbers for SPARE & HRH Prince Henry’s war with the Windsors. 10. 01. 2023 Tiger 1. 2. 9 = 3. The first royal memoir by a royal rather than a kiss-me-ass royal biography by one of these blasted sycophants who could never, unlike Harry’s memoir, have their specious drivel simultaneously launch in 16 languages.
1, energy body, this is a warrior soul with a score to settle. He is going to, like every mature soul and warrior soul, wage a campaign that is all about restoring his honour. Now that The Queen and his and Meghan’s entity mate has departed, he will feel positively no qualms about producing the receipts. 1 is in your face and brutally raw and uncompromisingly truthful. Like me, Henry has an attitude of scepticism; we are blunt, upfront, confrontational and will be unrelentingly vituperative at the drop of a hat. Harry is into this to protect his family and that means, defending his wife who was racially attacked by HRH Princess Michael of Kent with her unbelievable bold racially predatory, offensive blackamoor brooch worn for all the world’s media to see to The Queen’s 2017 Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace.
Mind of 2. This is someone that has much to say and will be most indefatigable in prosecuting his case! Not the least bit surprised should be anyone that Henry’s memoir runs past 400 pages. Also, a book that’s dropping on a day when the mind ruling it is two, this means that it is ruled by all that is rapid fire, quicksilver, brilliant. Most of all two is associated with artisan souls and there is no soul more nimble, strategic and clever than an artisan. Artisans input on 5 channels. Meghan is an artisan soul as was Diana, Princess of Wales. You will never win in a campaign against the intellect of an artisan. We may seems spacy but long before we head off to do battle, we have gone through plans A through Z where mere mortals simply will vet from plan A to D at most. Artisans are complex and are always misjudged, illegible.
Slaves and priest souls input on two channels. That would be the late Queen. The fact that she had seven in the second/mind position means that she read people with uncanny accuracy. Also, The Queen could see auras, the dead and all that beyond-the-veil arcana but she would never disclose this to any one save lifelong ladies-in-waiting and only a few of these persons. Warriors, Kings and Scholars input on one channel, this can leave such souls as coming off at times as thick but they are superior strategists and also more than passingly confrontational. Prince George is a King soul, which is most rare. Catherine, HM King Charles III, Prince Philip and Prince Henry are all warrior souls and all mature souls. I suspect that HRH Princess Anne Princess Royal may also be a warrior soul. Both William and Camilla, Queen Consort are scholar souls – I cannot stress enough how utterly arrogant and stubborn such persons can prove. Artisans are paired with Sage souls on the expression axis; however, sages input on three channels. This greatly facilitates live performance artists being able to channel through the creator’s vision by speech, song or dance. Creative artists are more often than not artisan souls; however, Pablo Picasso was a seventh young soul warrior.
Life path of 9, Harry’s memoir’s will be a campaign of high flying ideals and righting injustices, whether it is his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’s murder or his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s lynching as the most hated Black woman in history. Henry will be unsparing in defence of his high ideals. Lastly, with a destiny of 3, the number which rules media, publishing and the written word, quite remarkably, Henry’s memoir will go down to be just as revolutionary as HM King Henry VIII creating the Church of England rather than being at the mercy of the Church of Rome. Henry’s memoir is going to, for the first time, cause the public to turn on the tabloid media which has been predatorily harvesting off the royals and no single royal earns the tabloids more money than his wife, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. They make billions in inciting anti-Black racism towards Meghan and at no time do any of these entities, tabloids and alleged royal experts ever mention the racism to which Meghan was subjected. If you think for one nanosecond that HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s blackamoor brooch incident was a singular, isolated incident then you truly believe that that blasted anti-Semitic idiot actually walked on water rather than on a Plexiglas runway an inch below the lake’s surface.
This campaign is masterful. No royals. No alleged royal experts, no tabloids. No one, all of whom are the Sussexes’ detractors, and sworn enemies as that vile Jewish anti-Black racist, Tom Bower recently admitted, “It’s Meghan I’m after!” know what Harry delivers in his memoir ahead of the general public. SPARE will callously lay bare the hideous underpinnings of the British monarchy: tabloids, courtiers, household staffers, royals and their need to prey on others whilst turning a blind eye to the antics of other royals. Cutting the Sussexes loose after the contents of Harry’s memoir become global headline news, will only further expose their duplicity. The tabloids will be exposed for what they are: the trolling, lynching, race-baiting agents of the BRF.
Here’s to the Sussexes as they go forward from strength to strength. After SPARE, let’s hope the British tabloids would stay in their provincial backwaters and focus their attention on the real tea, as there is no “there” there for them to truthfully report on with regards the Montecito ducal family. Go on, report on Catherine and Sir Ben Ainslie and could little Damian be their love child as William has his own love child with the Chatelaine of Houghton Hall. And what of Charles and his teddsie wedsie, what does he suck on when cuddling with his teddy whilst Camilla broods at Ray Mill and his equerry keeps him stiff with drink, warmth and jousting that stirs the birds in the topiary close by. Indeed, who pegs whom and is it reciprocated… now no longer at Anmer Hall clearly it continues but definitely not at Adelaide Cottage. Think of the billions you could be making for merely telling the truth rather than inciting anti-Black racism as you have fiendishly engaged the past six years of lynching season. For everything there is a season and sooner or later the truth reigns above it all.
Continued success to Meghan, Duchess of Sussex on her Spotify podcast, Archetypes. It is a beautiful exposition of a superior intellect. Too, congratulations on the nomination at this year’s People’s Choice Awards.
Never mind Q’uoontifah & that lost anti-Semitic idiot, I damn well love being Black every moment whether lucidly awake in dreams or when awake!
As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
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 BAFTAaward. 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 3⁄4 × 158 1⁄2 × 2 1⁄2 in.
Provenance: Smithsonian American Art Museum.
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.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
More and more, the hideous burrowing larvae at this rotten artichoke’s core becomes exposed. Respect is earned and never a birthright. When incarnate anywhere in the physical universe, the most important asset to possess, is intellect. So you don’t like blacks, and who pray tell are you to the people for whom Jazz is culture, high art and everything?
So never mind Archie’s skin colour; what about his hair colour? All along the Sussexes have cleverly hidden from view Archie’s hair colour, indeed his true identity; he was photographed being returned home from preschool, wearing a large toque. Also, at Christmas 2019, he was photographed with his proud pa whilst on Vancouver Island, wearing a toque to coverup his flaming Spencer mop. He was filmed on Oprah Winfrey’s interview with his parents in a manner such that much of the colour was edited from the film, making it appear as if filmed in black and white.
Last Christmas’s card was an illustration where the colour was a smeared auburn. Archie was filmed in sepia holding ballons which yet again, left his identity ambiguous. Then after having dropped the race bomb on the Oprah Winfrey interview, Archie’s shock of red hair is finally revealed. Just as Meghan executed the most elegant display of controlled anger, during which time in her sit-down interview with Oprah Winfrey, she never once mentioned Prince William, she went one further and subtly taunted Prince William by having HSH Prince Alex Lubomirski reveal to the world Archie’s true ‘colour’.
Not only does Archie have the Spencer redhead gene – like his cousins George McCorquodale and Louis Spencer Viscount Althorp – but unlike William and his three offspring, Charlotte having the same hairline and forehead as her uncle King Felipe VI’s two daughters, Charlotte unlike Archie is not a redhead. Archie’s freckled mother, Meghan Duchess of Sussex, has the redhead gene as well as his father; and both Archie’s maternal grandparents are likely carriers of the redhead gene.
William being the obvious Bourbon lovechild that he is, only has the Spencer redhead gene; he did not inherit said gene from his father, King Juan Carlos of Spain – notice King Felipe VI and his offspring do not manifest the redhead gene. Sadly, William’s bullying, emasculating wife, Catherine, does not have the redhead gene to pass on. So in the end, Archie by being born, further revealed William for the Bourbon lovechild that he is.
Just look at all this staged tomfuckery, passing for good old-fashioned, wholesome family togetherness…. mon blasted cul!
Indeed, on recently watching the Oprah Interview during the holidays, I realised that by conspicuously never once mentioning William, Meghan thereby outed him. Elegantly, Meghan unmasked Catherine for the monster that she is by clearing up the lies of just who made who cried. Of course, it was Catherine, she of the 9 energy body with a task companion husband, William, who has a 9 attitude – toxic specimens to the core.
The tabloid medium vilification of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, speaks to William’s grudging, petty, malicious nature. At the time of William’s wedding April 29, 2011, the media spun the story that Sarah, Duchess of York was not invited to William’s marriage to Catherine because HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh did not speak to Sarah and did not want her present. Seven years later, HRH Prince Philip was still alive, yet Sarah, Duchess of York attended Harry’s marriage to Meghan because Harry wanted Sarah present; it was after all his wedding and not HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh’s. Of course, if now what we know of Andrew, Duke of York’s sexual proclivities and legal troubles were then rumoured, William damn well would have seen fit not to have Andrew attend his wedding in April, 2011.
It was William who told American, Dave Clark that he did not approve of him and would not be permitted to wed, HRH Princess Beatrice of York. Indeed, conveniently enough, as he wished not to be overshadowed at his wedding by Harry, Chelsey Davy was told to get lost. Indeed, she could attend the wedding, just not as the fiancée of Harry’s. This is how controlling and petty William is… indeed, how all 9s are. All true to his numerology and second number of 9, his mindset, William is snobbish, prejudiced, interfering and obstinate.
In another of William’s moves, there was Pippa Matthews at 2021’s Carol Service at Westminster Abbey; however, she was not accompanied by her spouse James Matthews. William would never want him there, since Matthews senior, David, is legally accused of sexual assault, involving a minor, in France. To say the least, it was also obvious that William has never suffered his wife’s brother-in-law, Spencer Matthews as he was flatly dismissed at Pippa’s wedding to Spencer’s brother Matthew in 2017.
True to form, William has used an arsenal of fellow 9s to do his dirty work of sabotaging and bullying Meghan out of the picture. Little did the Bourbon dolt know against whom he was dealing. From Lady Colin Campbell, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Piers Morgan and Thomas Markle Sr., they all did his dirty work whilst he hid, like the wizard of Oz not too well, out of view. Without doubt, they have all been sanctioned by William, in his obsessive animus towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, as they are all possessed of 9 (save Princess Michael of Kent) as are he and Catherine.Everyone of these nines, like all nines, are the most blasted conceited boors imaginable. Quelle fuck-all joie indeed. Good god, who in their right mind but a toxic 9 energy body (just like Catherine) like Thomas Markle Sr. would be obsessed with sabotaging and slandering their own child? Remind me again when Doria Ragland was out vilifying her own blood. Everyone of these people, Thomas, Lady Colin – that blasted big-handed, dick-tucking, Trenchtown jaggabat, Piers Morgan, both princely Kent males et al, are merely manifestations of both William and Catherine’s well-guarded true nature in all their 9 toxicity.
Chief weapon in William’s arsenal is the listless, inarticulate, talentless, gurning, hyper-competitive ghoul, who will stop at nothing to try and outdo Meghan, especially since Meghan so elegantly outed her by stating that, she is a “good person” (ha), as in William most certainly the fuck is not. Stay tuned, like all racially predatory, obsessed-with-blacks white females, look for Catherine next year to release a Jazz album… Lawd Jesus! Of course, this little mad turn of hers, even more risible than Diana, Princess of Wales’s dance with Wayne Sleep, had been pre-taped because god only knows, there must have been 2 million and 9 takes to get the blithering off-key errors edited and enough gurning captured. This staged bit of madness only deftly illustrates how utterly small-time Catherine truly is, to say nothing of shit-disturbing, petty and sabotaging. So, Catherine, you lamely banged on a keyboard, well, so too my dear could Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee, Bubbles, who also gurned throughout.
Of course, as the BBC currently is at war with William and Catherine, trust royal correspondent, Nicholas Witchell to take a swipe at William as HM The Queen does not let slip the opportunity to tell off William as they were gathered last year at Windsor Castle. This was a report by Mr. Witchell on Christmas Eve 2021, which included at the 01:19 mark an outtake from HM The Queen and family on the steps at Windsor Castle during Christmas 2020. At the time, last Christmas, this was not aired; however, if you are going to come out and act as though you are already sovereign, the BBC is swiftly going to put you in your place as damn well they ought to.
Naturally, the unflattering clip, which brazenly lays bare HM The Queen’s dismissive rage at that damn incompetent fool Bourbon dolt, was beautifully edited and immediately followed by a glowing review of the Sussexes’ Christmas card for 2021, which was released the day prior as was their card for 2020 also released on December 23. With 2 & 5 in William’s numerology, sooner or later infamy and dark secrets of a sexual nature will be whispered about; however, as with BBC’s interview with an implicated Prince Andrew, the BBC will not think twice to ruthlessly go after William.
That’s right William and Catherine, you may control the narrative vilification and slander of Meghan through the sleazy tabloids; however, you will never win in war against the BBC – they are real journalists, who will not think twice, just like HM The Queen to put you in your damn conceited place. Sooner or later, William’s body will be lowered through the floor at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. Starting that day, history, which is callously unforgiving, will cease being sparing with the truth of just who this stubborn, controlling, pernicious, interfering and petty human, William, was.
There was William sat such that he could have an unobstructed, hawkishly predatory view of Meghan so that later, back at Kensington Palace, he could lace into her about every blasted thing that she said and did as a mature scholar soul with a chief feature of stubbornness and an attitude of 9 can be expected to do. Naturally, it is precisely because of William’s volatile toxicity why Meghan made it perfectly clear to Harry that they were going to have to move to Frogmore Cottage rather than live next-door to the perpetually rowing Cambridges with their toxic 9 numerology.
If equally self-toxic Catherine can’t stand William, why indeed should the Sussexes have moved in next-door to them at Kensington Palace, let alone remain in the kingdom when HM The Queen does not have another 20 to 40 years on the throne.
Provoked, the BBC will not pussyfoot in a fight with William. Respect is earned and with no discernible intellect, you can bet your bottom dollar that the BBC will not be threatened by a bully to say not of a damn fool. Sycophants do not abound at the BBC. As royals happen to be human, the BBC is keenly aware that William too shall pass and as such is no threat to the fourth estate, of which the tabloid media are not members.
Blind with prejudice of a people, how can a fool ever be expected to perceive the beauty of all humanity. Go on, sit there openly ridiculing before the entire world and time itself a very people, you damn Bourbon fool; history is never kind to those who know nothing of truth. Jazz is the very essence of a people about whom you know nothing and can never be expected to perceive their humanity.
I share here the above dream, which was dreamt in July 1997 of Diana, Princess of Wales. It was the eve of my move from Vancouver to Montréal and a month before Diana’s tragic death. At the time of the dream, which was set on the astral plane, Diana was clearly resigned to her fate. Also, as is obvious from her concerns for William’s safety in the dream, as she was imminently about to pass, Diana was worried that anything should happen to her firstborn, William. Naturally, if Charles were not William’s father, there was a real danger that Diana’s firstborn could altogether be removed from the picture. The moment, mere weeks later, that I heard of Diana’s car crash, I knew that she would perish; I knew then the meaning of the above dream.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
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.
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.
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!
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 warriorin 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!
One thing that the marriage of the TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex has revealed, is just how hideously racist Britons are. Naturally, as all bigots especially the most invidious racially predatory will have you know, ‘It has nothing to do with race!’ The DailyMail has made an industry of acting as a de facto wing of the EDL in its campaign of destroying the marriage of the Sussexes.
Every single day its gaggle of writers launch another volley of hate to feed their hate-filled multitude of devotees whom they simply abuse in their quest for more advertising revenue. Last week, their legions of bigots were gleeful when not only was the Duchess of Sussex not at Royal Ascot but neither was her husband. Naturally, the rumour was that Her Majesty The Queen had banned the Sussexes from attending Royal Ascot. Of course, last year when Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge was on maternity leave, she did not attend Royal Ascot. Furthermore, not once did her husband attend Royal Ascot. That is the tradition.
Naturally, when these photographs of this year’s Royal Ascot emerged, the plethora of bigoted DailyMail trolls were celebratory of how happy and wholesome everyone looked. Of course, they were commenting on the homogeneity of the group; their was even talk that the RF looked so much happier without the American in their midst.
The following day, it was announced that the Royal Foundation was disbanding. This not only gave cause for wild celebration by the DailyMail trolls but in hindsight, it was speculated that the group looked as happy as they did at Royal Ascot because at that point, the dissolution of the Royal Foundation would have been known to all. This was seen as more proof that HM The Queen did not want Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex around Indeed, clearly, the Sussexes were headed for divorce and it was only a matter of time before there would be an announcement to that effect.
By no means was tabloid culture then what it is today; however, there was no getting around the fact that there was unrelenting animus that was decidedly racist towards Yoko Ono because she was non-white. Of course, at the time as now and is always the case, there was strident denial that there was prejudice involved in the animus towards Yoko Ono. Heaven only knows that Linda Eastman was not a Briton, yet she was not reviled and hated for being an outsider as was Yoko Ono.
So intense was the racial animus towards Yoko Ono that John Lennon had to relocate to New York City to seek peace away from being unrelentingly reviled by Britons, who were nothing more than unmasked Klansfolk; though there were three other wives, Yoko Ono was solely to blame for the demise of the Beatles. Indeed, Britons have John Lennon’s blood on their hands for having racially preyed on this man and his wife to the point where he had to flee and take refuge in a land where guns rule. Paul, Ringo nor George had to flee England because Britons did not approve of their choice of a wife.
Neither Linda Eastman nor Montréalaise Autumn Kelly were subjected to the same animus as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex for being outsiders marrying much-loved Britons. True, every woman marrying into the BRF experiences blow-back. Sarah Ferguson, Camilla Parker-Bowles, Catherine Middleton and on and on. Truth be told, neither Linda nor Autumn were subjected to similar animus as Yoko or Meghan simply for being Caucasian and therefore, deemed acceptable.
Britons may well succeed with running TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex out of town as they did John Lennon and Yoko Ono but know this, Tungsten has got powerful players in her corner. For starters, if the Sussexes were exiled, Oprah et al have the power to have her appointed as honorary chairperson of the Academy Awards – some such title of an American-British film society – not the American wing of BAFTA – which would see Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex each year present the award for Best Film at the Academy Awards.
More to the point, when are Americans going to stop kowtowing to Britons because of the latter’s archly over-compensatory inferiority complex, of all things, masquerading as posh, sophisticated, superior and aristocratic. Why should an American actor, after having graduated with distinction from Julliard sit by and watch yet another English actor waltz in and claim the American award for best actor in a film which was not even an American production; this has repeatedly happened in the past. And so like Britons it is; they are the only island dwellers in the English-speaking world who never lose their god-awful accent regardless how long they sojourn abroad. Whether five years or fifty, you can also count on the expat English to maintain their posher-than-though English accent. Some may be readily charmed/fooled by all that posh posturing but it is so much obvious BS.
Glenn Close did not win the Best Actress BAFTA in 2019 that honour went to Briton, Olivia Colman in The Favourite. Ever possessed of this obsequious need to suck up, the Academy and its members voted Olivia Colman Best Actress at an American Awards show when the production was not an American production and Glenn Close was not going to win the Best Actress BAFTA and did not. One thing is clear from her acceptance speech, Olivia Colman is a one-hit wonder and will never win an Oscar again, just as Matthew McConaughey never will; after all, his Best Actor award was by default – so great was the need to deny Chiwetel Ejiofor an Oscar for his masterful performance in 12 Years A Slave.
When Britons prove themselves such ugly racist boors as with Yoko Ono and now Meghan Markle, why indulge, suffer or tolerate these people overlong? Throwing Oscars at them because they talk as though they’ve got a horse’s hoof stuck up their arse, there is nothing much to celebrate when one’s claim to fame is having subjugated 2/3s the world way back when and having enslaved and or brutalised those persons.
Of course, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex chose not to move next-door to the Cambridges at Kensington Palace. For one, there is every reason to believe that the Cambridges’ marriage currently is nine parts façade and with a numerology attitude of 9, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, apart from not being the sharpest tool in the box, is also conceited, stubborn, bigoted and intolerant and also is in tight with those pompous-arsed minor royals the Michaels of Kent et famille who with their racist perspective were none-too-shy about showing their true colours, blackamoor and all with Meghan suddenly in their midst and to whom they would have to curtsy.
A den of racial predators is no environment in which to bring up black children and that would also include those generational members of Kensington Palace staff, who would think nothing of being openly racist towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and her children, For Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex the minor royal Micheals of Kent are no different to Samantha Grant and Thomas Markle Jr. She endured the racially predatory bullying in childhood, which is precisely why she has absolutely nothing to do with them and with damn good reason. Trust you me, there is not a single black person on this planet who would suffer any such environment. It is not human, not civilised and a goddamn waste of time.
Carping on about how much better Cressida Bonas would have been as a wife to HRH Prince Henry of Wales, is a moot point. Who knows, perhaps, Harry was being forced into the relationship so that his older brother could have access to Cressida’s older sister, Isabella Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe. Is it any wonder why Sam Branson keeps his wife as far away from the isle of England as possible. Of course, had Harry married Cressida, this newfound media love for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge would not have eventualised. She would be portrayed, even more so, by the DailyMail as workshy and they would even up the practise of only printing photographs of her when her face is at rest, which is a decidedly hard affair. For being blonde, blue-eyed and with an artisan’s fey beauty, Cressida, had Prince Harry married her in May 2018, would currently be eclipsing Catherine, who is now being seen as a fashion icon. No matter how DailyMail repackage and champion Catherine, she is a relative dud when publicly speaking as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has time and again proven. The Duchess of Sussex’s commanding performance at the 2018 British Fashion Awards at Royal Albert Hall truly was a study is grace, poise, elegance and commanding stage presence. You’ve either got it or, as in Catherine’s case, you don’t. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is quite confidently aware that a mic is Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s kryptonite.
The DailyMail and its gang of racist boors can vent and gloat all they want but if HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex were to have married a conservative Muslim and converted, for fear of ending up with their fetid skull on the small of their back, every one of their cowardly racist boors would know to keep their damn mouths shut. Of one thing they are certain, fucking with blacks will earn you no serious repercussions. The DailyMail‘s hacks have proven that England is the isle of the original hooded klansfolk; they are just a little bit more evolved to the point where their hoods have become invisible but no less ugly are they. In the end, who could give a fuck; the boors of the isle of England most certainly did not invent Jazz and speaking of which…
After having pored through this year’s TD Toronto Jazz Festival lineup, I knew that there was only one show that I cared to attend. The Diana Ross show at the Sony Centre though tempting, however, the centre is just too cavernous a space. Jazz needs the warmth and intimacy of a smaller venue. Besides, I knew damn well that coming the day after the Pride parade, there would be queens aplenty in the audience. Most of them would be expecting the usual Diana Ross show; however, this was going to be a Jazz show.
As ever, I did not attend Pride parade, never have. Back in 1986, Merlin and I hauled arse to a dinner party in the Annex where an artistic director associate of his, held court. Frankly, neither men liked each other but for professional reasons one endured much. Among the group of 8 souls was a redhead interior decorator from New York City who was the most vile dirty-arsed bigot conceivable. Naturally, with yours truly present, he just had to wax overlong about what a scourge on human civilisation blacks the world over were.
Merlin stealthily reached across my plate and removed my steak knife from the plate and placed it to his left as I sat on his right. Finally, when we got home by cab as Merlin sought to shift my mood by playing some Miles Davis, I went and retrieved a pair of scissors and demonstrated to him on returning to the living room, “That’s it, I am cancelling my membership in Gay society. God only knows it is not as if these blasted, motherfucking lisping, bottom-feeding people invented Jazz.” For me what really settled it, was the redhead boor’s decree, “Sorry dear but there is no black in the rainbow.”
Of course, a couple of years back the Black Lives Matter delegation, which had been invited to march in the Gay Pride parade, were booed, heckled and pelted with unopened water bottles. That very day on my way home, I was also attached and it was much fuelled by the general anger at having had the Black Lives Matter contingent in the parade. To this day, the pride community are still mad at the Police and had banned them from participating in the parade, all because they allowed the Black Lives Matter group into the parade. Even though the group had been invited, they were treated by spectators as though they did something as irresponsible as simply showed up and high-jacked the parade.
The above photograph was the look for the opening act, one of those regrettable experiences, which alas the Canada Council foists on one, god only knows why. Banal and as sexually intriguing as a live webcam set up on a couple of koala bears in repose, some things just have to be endured to get one through to the real deal. As my date, an ageing Jewish actor/writer with the most wicked sense of humour is always great company, we sat in the back row, all to ourselves, in fits of delicious giggles – we were poring through online photographs of Céline Dion parading in haute couture in Paris in the lead up to Paris Fashion Week; when asked what I thought of her whacky, over-the-top, beyond desperate behaviour, I flatly put in, “it ought damn well to be kept leashed and staked out back.”
Next, it was my turn to come undone when no sooner than having slipped in the breath mint that he whispered, “those are the new mint-flavoured super laxatives, I was telling you about.” How soul-gnawing is emulative institutional Jazz whose practitioners know nothing either of blacks or black culture? Hell, even after the bass solo, there was no applause from the house.
Finally, like a lover with the most foul breath but whose girthsome jousting simply won’t be denied – then the malodorous rogue leaves and you shudder in disgust and return to breathing like a human rather than a goddamn humpback whale – the opening act vacated the stage and when the stagehands were done, only the grand piano was left. Out then walked Cécile McLorin Salvant with a puckish accompanist and it was readily obvious that there is an indelible soul connection between the two, which speaks to intimacy most rare and also more than a dozen past-life connections. Even Cécile’s body had changed, she looked more lived in, she was getting good loving and it showed.
Before proceeding, let me just state that this was the most phenomenal and best Jazz concert that I have ever attended. From Hoagy Carmichael, to Barbara Streisand, to Bessie Smith, every song was her own and every song was a master class in musicianship and phrasing. Then two things happened that blew me even further away; firstly, she sang, Midnight Sun. This is a song that for me as long as I live, will always evoke the most pleasurable memories of living at John Hirsch and Brian Trottier’s Moore Park Home at 187 Hudson Drive in the summer of 1990 after Merlin had passed and I reinvented self and took the time to travel. Until this concert, no one had ever done a better version of Midnight Sun than Sarah Vaughan, whose version daily played at that lovely Moore Park home.
Secondly, Cécile paused and asked if anyone in the audience was French, to which there was a boisterous response and then she asked to sing a song in French. By the time she was done, I was reduced to tears, even my usual jaded friend was blown away. At the conclusion the house went wild and I was reminded of those years living in Montréal and attending all those summer festivals across the province.
Let’s see Canadian, Diana Krall sing en Français in this supposed bilingual country and I am not talking any of that tawdry attempt at French musicianship as with the likes of Emilie-Claire Barlow et al. Unlike those frauds who suffocated the blackness out of Jazz in the 90s and beyond, Cécile is the real McCoy. The primary musical instrument in human civilisation is the voice and when it comes to Jazz, not only is it a language that is the extension of the griot tradition, nothing sounds like, feels like, moves you like the instrument that is the black voice; there simply aren’t any comparisons. This is the voice, the instrument, when on walking through your door can revivify and empower you like no other instrument can and most especially so after having experienced racial animus for the 14th millionth and fifty-seventh time in this lifetime.
During the course of the show, her accompanist did something that I had never before witnessed, Sullivan Fortner got from the piano stool to reach inside and pluck on the strings, making for all intents the most beautiful mbira imaginable. Sullivan proved himself the perfect accompanist to Cécile and it was clear by the end of the concert that these two lovely, magical and gifted souls have thankfully found each other and how we are better for them being in the world. The love and harmony they share, was as rich and smooth as the warmest honey satiating the palate. Even the encores were concerts onto themselves. If there is anything that can be said to be good, to have come from Roy Hargrove’s passing, is that it created the opportunity for both Sullivan and Cécile to form a most productive collaboration.
As we left Koerner Hall, both of us giddy with joy for having been richly inspired, there was a guy outside the theatre, hawking the program for Jazz FM. Brusquely, I declined taking one, I soon explained that I had no desire to be associated with the Jazz radio when they went and hired someone whom Merlin dismissed back in his early on-air days as VJ at MuchMusic as a smug bigoted asshole. Indeed, an ageing leopard does not his spots lose. Just for writing a few hit songs and having made a few million dollars changes nothing. As Merlin always said, “a man changes clothes and nothing else.”
Though last year, there were three good concerts during the Jazz Festival; this year, one only needed to have attended one concert and boy am I richly inspired for having done so. On parting, we both agreed that it really was an awesome concert; more than that, we admitted that it was high time that we saw Rocketman before it goes to video.
Michael: This fragment is a fifth level mature artisan – second life thereat. George is in the power mode with a goal of growth. An idealist, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Venus/Mars.
George’s primary chief feature is subdued arrogance and the secondary impatience.
The fragment George is fifth-cast in third cadence; he is a member of greater cadence four. George’s entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – this is a cadre mate of Arvin’s and Merlin’s.
George’s essence twin is also an artisan and he has a sage task companion.
George’s primary needs are: expression, communion and power.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 14 with Merlin.
Music is a language and Jazz is the language of a people; it speaks to no one else like it does us. No other music readily restores one’s humanity and sense of self like Jazz does. Interestingly, when a student at ballet school, I lived the most famous quote uttered by Diana, Princess of Wales in that Panorama interview that she gave to Martin Bashir: “There is no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.”
That is why during my two hellish years in Winnipeg, the music of Jazz is what saved me. Interestingly enough, three musicians I looked to during that time more than any others; years later, I would discover that they are all cadre mates: Natalie Cole, John Coltrane and George Benson.
With the passing of cadre mates Natalie Cole and Roy Hargrove, it is high time to celebrate and pay homage to George Benson while he remains focussed here and now.
Keep on flying right whether in the most blissful of dreams or the waking state’s unforgiving grittiness… then again, it is also maddeningly beautiful!