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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: CNN

4.3.4 = 11

The Lady Eve 2.0.