Grenfell… Obvious PR & Neptune Square

St. Paul’s Cathedral Service of Thanksgiving at Platinum Jubilee Celebrations

Look at Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s reaction just after the 40 second mark. She turns and looks back and over to her left across the aisle at the Sussexes, then remarks ‘wow’ on returning her gaze ahead. Of course, before doing so, she nervously looked at her husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. That look from Catherine validates her obsession with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, having bullied her and been engaged in a campaign of harassment that they never foresaw, turning out as it has. William, on the other hand, is the most stubborn, difficult, conceited prick you can possibly hope to come across; he is feared, just as every White male with power is always obsequiously deferred to rather than not. Both William and Catherine are mature souls with primary chief features of stubbornness with a secondary of arrogance; they will never change their position on the Duchess of Sussex.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge at Grenfell Tower 5th Anniversary Ceremony

Both acutely uncomfortable for being amongst poor, undesirable minorities, William kept looking at the program rather than interacting overlong with the two Black males to his left. Meanwhile, Catherine perpetually flicked her hair as it was a way of keeping her hand from extending to the little people. She was acutely uncomfortable being there and looked in desperate need for at least a couple of fags. Furthermore, there were two reasons for being there, it is where Meghan had made her mark, reaching out to the displaced Grenfell residents, which resulted in the Together cookbook. The Cambridges would have insisted on attending the event, rather than the Wessexes, as it was a way to further tear their flat arses in Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s face. A keen photographer, Catherine knew to directly look down the way into the camera, channelling her best mean-girl, gloating fuck-you stare. Just remember mousy inarticulate wallflower, Louis is the product of your hatefulness; he is not Meghan & Harry’s child.

Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, HM The Queen & HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales

Honest to god, Elizabeth looks truly spent. History will not be kind to her as it will be deemed that she cared more about corgis and gee-gees than the perpetual masquerade of scandals that marked her reign. Either Fleet Street has the goods on her or she fears them. However, her inability to seize control and right the ship from the earliest days of her eight-decade reign (she is in the 71st year) with Princess Margaret’s relations to the latest with the racism at the heart of the Windsor royals – it saw the exit of the Duke & Duchess of Sussex which they and Fleet Street have treated as though it were owing to some action on the part of the either Sussex. The mere fact that they think this, was borne home by having that flat-arsed racist kinder Nazi boor, Princess Michael of Kent, sat unorthodoxly close to HM The Queen’s two senior most heirs at the platinum jubilee service at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 3, 2022.

Camilla, HRH Princess of Wales

Charles was made to marry Diana, whom they all could not stand and treated like dirt, because they had to cover the reality that there was a relocated illegitimate, sequestered in the colonies about whom one had to be mum. Of course, to have her way, Camilla stayed in the picture, how was this even possible if not allowed by HM The Queen, and bullied Diana and secured her position by threatening full discloser by proffering the lie that James Hewitt, rather than Charles, was Harry’s father. She is cunning and they buckled because had she gone with the other option, the truth, there would be a scandal afoot that they would rather not contemplate, to say nothing of confront.

Catherine at Grenfell & Meghan at Invictus Games the Hague

Just as Catherine cannibalises Meghan at every opportunity, so too did Camilla cannibalise Diana, drove her out of the picture and finally had her exiled on a tiny isle at Althorp. So let’s call her what she is, having successfully cannibalised Diana, none of this Duchess nonsense; she is Camilla, HRH Princess of Wales, the anti-feminist. That’s all one needs, women cannibalising women. Had regurgitating, chain-smoking, flat-arsed über mean-girl, Catherine not driven off the infinitely more charismatic, self-made, accomplished, articulate and intelligent Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex would rightly have been at the Grenfell fifth anniversary gathering. So hard-faced Catherine sits there, fucking the camera with her callous stare exclusively intended for Meghan and, of course, just so that Meghan would not mistake the intention, what does old ashtray-breathed do, she wears Chanel sandals just as Meghan had months earlier in the Hague whilst attending the Invictus Games with her ruggedly handsome entity mate and life partner, Prince Harry – father of two very beautiful and loved children neither of whose gestation was passed in a crucible of hatred, exhibit ‘C’ reincarnated Shaniqua, HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge, Straight the frig out of Compton. At the end of the day, Catherine is as petty as she is because, observe to whom she is wedded.

Durek Verrett & Princess Martha Louise of Norway

One good thing that’s come of all this, is that the Norwegian royals will not be seen to be a bunch of racist arsehats like the Windsors. Martha Louise and her fiancé will be allowed to live their lives like two adult humans in love.

William y Juan Carlos

The best way to hide a secret is to do so in plain sight, fools perceive nothing. Just think, Prince Charles always wanted a daughter but if Diana were to have a third child and it also proved a redhead, like Prince Harry’s two children, it would not be Harry’s parentage which people would today be questioning. There was way too much at risk, thus, William was protected.

William’s Geniture

Neptune conjunct the ascendant; you have no idea who the hell you are dealing with. These persons are completely opposite the well-cultivate façade that they project. Neptune is the planet of deception and it is what you get first and foremost; you can be deceived if you so choose. His very role in the fairy story is that of being what generations of gaslighting will have you see in him. These persons are the biggest con artists and they do not give a fuck about you, the enthralled. His Sun in Cancer is conjunct the descendant the planet of the life partner/wife. There. too, is the Moon in Cancer and also conjunction the Sun and descendant. This is the perfect portrait of Catherine; she completely controls and dominates this very compromised man – his mother’s violent early death is paramount in this internal dynamic. Moon and Sun both oppose Neptune. It is bad enough that his Sun opposes Neptune and is opposite the ascendant – he is a detached individual and certainly this is ideal for a scholar soul; he is not here to be Diana 2.0. Most of all, Moon opposite Neptune brings with it hidden machinations, the scope of which one could never have fathomed and these are issues that always blow up well beyond one’s scope to properly stage-manage and control once the combustible goes nuclear. The Moon is the wife/life partner as represented by Catherine but she also represents the Sun. At the core of it all, William reincarnated into the House of Windsor to afford Catherine access to the crown. Had she been born female and Diana’s firstborn, she would have been passed over in favour of Prince Harry. Catherine wanted to be female and the best path to the throne was via her task companion, the weaker of the pairing, William. That Neptune conjunct the descendant speaks to the massive deception around whom William truly is and why Diana had to be removed for attempting to pull the same move against the Duke of Lancaster for a second time as she dangled a very probable marriage and family with Dodi, starting a rival dynasty rooted in another of the Abrahamic faiths. Faced with another disastrous family scandal, what was HM The Queen to do but anoint Camilla, so that she can get back to being happily focussed on corgis and gee-gees.

Catherine plays silly games and both Cambridges ever will; for being possessed of 9 in their numerology and task companions, ever will they keep pushing the envelope. The Cambridges have been greatly facilitated by their Fleet Street henchmen; however, make no mistake about it, they will once Elizabeth II is offstage, turn on William. He will attempt to irreparably curtail their powers once his sexual scandals blow up and they, as karma would have it, will cause him to rue the day he took Fleet Street vipers to bed. With Mercury trine his Mars/Saturn conjunction, one sees how thoroughly William has Fleet Street in his thrall. They, however, by the very nature of the beast (Saturn) will exact their pound of flesh. A Saturn return is 27.5 to 29.5 years; expect adverse effects/fallouts for the Cambridges with regards Fleet Street/Media at large as per their diabolical deceitful, racist campaign against the Duke & Duchess of Sussex.

Kinder Nazi Adorned with Blackamoor Brooch

2017, Cambridges’ racist agent, Princess Michael of Kent, begins their campaign against the Sussexes going public beyond the palace walls. She then attends the Sussexes’ wedding in May 2018. Finally, to make the point unmistakably clear, the flat-arsed, kinder Nazi Princess Michael of Kent is sat closest to Charles & William at St. Paul’s Cathedral during the Sussexes’ only public appearance during HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee. Saturn return, 30 years max to the blackamoor brooch’s first appearance 2017, is 2047. At 2034, William will be 51 and experience his Chiron return; he will be smeared and caught up in uneclipsed scandal of some form. By 2042, William is 60 years and his second Saturn return, where repayment of karma created during the incarnation is addressed and for William, it will be rather public. 2062 and William is 80 at the midpoint of the Neptune return, which means all the façade, deception and conceited arrogance are fully unmasked and there is a complete reversal in how this man is perceived, either way history always takes care of all egotistical follies. What kind of kingdom will there be to celebrate in 2066 and the start of the second millennium of the monarchy when William is 84; it will be year of the Dog, during which he was born. Indeed, will it be HM King George VII at age 53 then sovereign? With a fourth number of 5, William is guaranteed to be exposed via sexual scandal and unmasked as a racist; the blackamoor brooch scandal is most definitely the means by which this will fully be accomplished, thanks to having been conceited enough with going with his racist campaign against “that woman;” at that point, Princess Michael of Kent will be long dead and what would have been the point? HM The Queen’s Christmas lunch, 2017, the Sussexes wedding, 2018 and HM The Queen platinum jubilee service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, 2022, this troika of events have sealed William’s fate.

A Couple Who Find Each Other Toxic

AT the summer solstice, 2022, we have William at 40. Well guess what, that would mean that his natal Neptune’s transit is now square his natal ascendant and descendant. This would mean that Neptune is now in a very difficult square to the natal Sun/Moon conjunction at the descendant. These task companions are truly at their most tense, combustible breaking point. They have quite frankly, bitten off more than they can chew both with Prince Louis and their racist campaign against the Sussexes.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge – Happily Wedded My Arse

Regardless his conceit, William is human; one of seven soul types, incarnate and caught up in the throes of his numerology and astrology, neither of which he has to date used at their higher octaves. Oh well, you live and you damn-well learn. Major transit squares in the lives of public persons usually means dramatic upheaval and shock. In the case of his mum, Diana, Princess of Wales the very day her Pluto transit was square, she died violently. In the case of William’s mum, hard aspects to Pluto usually means assassination. Do not forget, the official word is that there was a catastrophic car crash… and that’s that. Obviously, if Diana’s assassination needed to be covered up then there would be an official conclusion that would at all costs dismiss assassination as ludicrous and the lunacy of conspiracy theorists.

William’s Sketchy As Fuck Neptune Conjunct Ascendant Unmasked

William’s racist obsession with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, whom he refers to as “that woman,” is because she is too powerful and more dynamic and charismatic than his androgynous, mousy broodmare, Catherine. William wanted no repeat of Prince Charles’ grudge and resentment of Diana; however, at this stage, this is exactly what has transpired. Rather than Diana being maligned and ultimately annihilated, Meghan has been maligned as never before a royal has been; however, Harry sensibly made the right call and got his wife away from that nest of murderous ghouls.

Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex
HM The Queen

It’s been a very long run and she did much to perpetuate the Windsor mystique; however, William has already begun the job of blowing the lid off that carefully honed beguiling image of brand Windsor. William & Catherine’s racist attack on the Sussexes has unwittingly served to destructively manifest the results that neglecting family over the family business does come at a cost to HM The Queen’s legacy. The kingdom that HRH Princess Elizabeth of York inherited on acceding the throne on February 6, 1952, is a vastly different kingdom than in time William will inherit on acceding after his father, HM King Charles III – in due course. Most noticeably, it will be a kingdom, which will prove unruly thanks to his involvement with the blackamoor brooch. Certainly, as recent events at the heart of HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee betrayed with the cancellation of a film deemed blasphemous, William’s racist karma will be played out in a kingdom vastly different and less deferential than that his grandmother encountered at the start of her long reign. In having lasted as long as she has, HM The Queen has left her heirs, one in particular, impatient, conceited and intent on getting on with his birth right. Catherine and William have already doomed their reign to rather dark and choppy waters ahead.

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge with 9 energy body is the personification of bully in the two portraits above. One hangs in the National Portrait Gallery, the other smartly dresses in clothing designed to best veil her dark persona. No one made the future Queen Consort and wife of bigoted William cry. No one ever could.

After the the rude dismissal at St. Paul’s Cathedral on June 3, 2022, there needs to be no more looking back. Yes, love him to bits and you’ve been through thick and thin; however, you have children for whom you have to be a beacon of love and togetherness, which is a script that was alien to the milieu into which you chose to reincarnate. There is more than an ocean between you now; there is no bridge that could ever span the divide William and Catherine created in racially vilifying and disrespecting you and your family. To hell with them, the isle of racist boors is no place for a family ruled by love.

A Love Supreme. John Coltrane 1965

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

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

4.3.4 = 11

mini meghan2

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

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

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

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

meghan geniture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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