Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

21.08.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Game show host: Famous Quotes. “Bullocks! That is not a fucking clit!”

Game show host: Contestant, respond either A or B to which you think is the correct answer. Who was this said about when seen naked for the first time by her future husband, was it A. Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown or B. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex?

Contestant: A!

Game show host: Right, you are!

From Alanna Plattapuss, to Pierre-Karol Gorgon, all week long they and the OTT vicereen – she of none-too-dubious gender and the likely need for a surrogate’s services, carped on with their usual vitriol against, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Just imagine the temerity of the Trenchtown sketel, likkle jagabat rass, carping on about Meghan not being royal and a hustler who needs a new act and all that, commandingly boomed with the rolling vowels and vulgar cocksucker mouth to boot. Then by the end of that week, along rolls the weekend full of karmic retribution et voilà Lord Porchester’s sprog was back in the news for those proclivities of his that has him favouring veal and other minor fare.

Diana, Princess of Wales gave good face; she went in, shook hands, did the doe-eyed routine and sold millions of copies to say nothing of raising funds. I was in London’s Chelsea the night in June 2017, having just returned from Covent Garden where I discovered, Natalia Osipova, when what sounded like several fire trucks, raced through the streets of West London.

The next morning as Grenfell dominated news everywhere on the tube, I watched as first HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge followed after by HM The Queen, visited the site of the horrific towering inferno. Soon enough, having done their duty, they were gone.

Will someone please ask that blasted cross-dresser, masquerading as a woman, toff or god forbid royal, what is not admirable, to say nothing of royal about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex? First order of business, after having so handsomely given good theatre as she commandingly ascended the west steps of St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle to join her warrior-souled entity mate, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with whom she has enjoyed relations in 20 past lives, Meghan goes and meets with the victims of the Grenfell Tower tragedy.

Now, here is where she goes one better and is the true evolution of all that Diana, Princess of Wales represented, she not only meets with them, however, she devises a scheme whereby those victims can experience a continued sense of community and in the process, she created a cookbook which as part of her charitable endeavours, has greatly assisted these victims in need. Say what you want, but Diana, Princess of Wales never did any such thing. A copy of said cookbook has repeatedly sat on my kitchen counter as I have prepared meals from those recipes.

Yet, there is that blasted jagabat, Vicereen Bianca as pompous and full of shit as they come, hopping on the bandwagon in hopes of earning a few more pence so she can go shopping at Poundland to fill Castle Chav, for which she plays chatelaine whom no one on Avenue Foch to say nothing of Kensington Palace Gardens could care less about. With that cookbook, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did something that Diana, Princess of Wales and no other royal before her had pulled off or could, she effectively greatly humanised and endeared the royals to not just the Muslims of the Commonwealth but to the 2.5 billion Muslims the world over. Too, it matters with her biracial ambiguity that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is able to fluidly straddle ethnic, racial and religious lines where others in the royal family cannot.

Someone please remind Vicereen Bianca, Monsieur Gorgon et al who are so quick to racially foam at the mouth that after having been booed at Royal Albert Hall and Princess Michael of Kent, having sported the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s Buckingham Palace Christmas lunch in 2017, all the more reason why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex would require being sat alone with her two friends at Winbledon without having persons close to them so that she can enjoy a social situation without having the average garden variety bigot make cutting, racially predatory remarks about her for being within earshot. If you think that this is something which every black does not endure on a daily basis then you are free to go outside and see the Virgin Mother in the next cloud formations – funny how these delusional people never see comeback pussy when cloud-gazing,

Never once have Gorgon, Vicereen Bianca, Plattapuss et al made mention of that outright racist attack on the part of Princess Michael of Kent. First of all, for her deliberate racist action, she should not have been suffered at what also happened to have been a black wedding on May 19, 2018. Not only did she not represent, by her racist attack, HM The Queen, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal but she did not represent her husband, HRH Prince Michael of Kent and his mother, Princess Marina and her family the Greek and Yugoslav royals. For god sake, stop claiming to know what Diana, Princess of Wales would have thought or how she would have gotten on with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex when she, Vicereen Bianca cannot produce a single photograph of herself and the late Diana, whose son, Meghan’s loving husband, ought damn well to know more than the fabulist royal, to say nothing of arch-fantasist, or any other racially predatory, vile, obsessed arsehat.

With Jeffrey Epstein once again white hot in the media, far be it from Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Alanna Plattapuss and snivelling pompous racial predator par excellence, Pierre-Karol Gorgon who has conspicuously fallen catatonic with revelations of rather unseemly behaviour becoming of royals from the Earl Porchester’s minor proclivities and the minor royals’ being pimped out by crass parvenu fare from the Far East. Just imagine the field day these clowns would have if it were Harry & Meghan? Funny how they have all fallen silent. What a shame that Madame Safra did not expediently have Vicereen Bianca dispense with as so resoundingly Mr. Epstein has been. Alas, why should Madame Safra have when the Vicereen Bianca herself is fucking nobody…. let her live and suffer… indeed, a fate far worse than Epstein’s…. Poor, pompous miserable-arsed Vicereen Bianca über poseur (definitely not poseuse) having to drag arse through life in search of that can’t-come-soon-enough casket of hers.

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All their racially predatory braying, regardless how much they protest it having anything to do with race – the cowards never concede the obvious, this has all been seen before. The same mass hysteria Doria Ragland was familiar with in the 70s as the racial predators foamed and raged at bussing in Massachusetts. Earlier, too, in the 60s, just as now with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Doria would remember the water canons and dogs in George Wallace’s gallant South.

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Just know this, no matter how much you vilify, demonise and slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is going nowhere. Social media and the amount of open racist animus that is directed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s way is not in the least surprising. Social media is merely an evolution of behaviour on the part of non-blacks when privately looking at television. One of the things I realised and it was something that Merlin actually pointed out to me when we were in the early days of our relationship in Manhattan: when whites are looking at television and someone black appears on the screen, their response will 9 of 10 times be negative. This can run from simply turning the channel, leaving the room or simply engaging in conversation and ignoring the television such that the black person on screen simply is not heard. There is nothing more infuriating than trying to look at a live television concert or event, like an awards show and the moment someone black walks out on stage, the negative noise pollution starts up. At one dinner party, on the Upper West Side, Merlin had invited Frederick Jones to come along as Merlin met with a set designer friend of his. Every time that someone black appeared on screen, the character assassination would kick off. Of course, it did not take too long before gifted milliner, Frederick Jones simply got up and walked out as more yapping ensued when Gladys Knight and the Pips began singing. At this point in life, I never look at television, when rarely I do, in the company of non-blacks; it is simply not worth the ghettoised racialised response, which manifests each time.

She, Meghan, and more importantly her soul when incarnate as Margaret Beaufort, not you Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Pierre-Karol Gorgon et al made possible Christ’s College Cambridge and St. John’s College Cambridge as a result of her soul’s effort in a past life. For being a fierce feminist in that illustrious past life as Tudor matriarch, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I, has a women’s college, Lady Margaret College, Oxford in her honour been established. Nothing you do here and now can invalidate that soul’s past accomplishments, no more than it can prevent her soul’s agendum in this lifetime.

Of course, it is understandable that with the discovery of King Richard III’s remains in 2012 with their reburial at Leicester Cathedral in 2015, we would discover that William Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III as the hunchback monster was misguided. Indeed, it is not coincidental that Richard III would resurface within a couple of years of Meghan Markle’s ascendancy. Meghan’s soul, then Margaret Beaufort in her bid to secure the supremacy of the Tudor claim, had Richard III demonised. Now returned, and also mid-cycle mature-souled, Meghan finds herself beset with open animus. As much as this is in part due to rabid open racial animus, let’s not avoid facts, it is also because mid-cycle mature lives tend to come with a bit of self-karmic drama and some degree of infamy.

For having slandered Richard III, returned here Margaret Beaufort’s reincarnated soul, who is now now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, finds herself despite her considerable accomplishments when Margaret Beaufort, opposed and rejected. Nonetheless, she is possessed of a Venus/Solar body type, which means that she will, in time, transcend the current open animus and prove immensely popular and well-loved. Moreover, another mid-cycle mature-souled member of the House of Windsor happens to be Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. She too, owing to whatever went down in past lives, relative to this one, has seen her tried by fire, vilified and demonised; yet, she has handsomely weathered the storm of rabid gutter snipes being bitter bitches to emerge as one of the most loved, warm, august-souled royals. What’s not to love, she champions literacy, literature and hands out the Man Booker Prize each year!

All that aside, no matter how these race-baiting agitators vent, rant and instigate, they will change nothing. Their campaign has been so doggedly juvenile and at every turn, they fail. It all began with the Straight outta Compton missive and it has been one racially charged attack, assumption, innuendo-filled report after another. All have been transparently specious: There will never be an engagement; The Queen would never allow it. Then, indeed, when it happened, HM The Queen was dismissed as clearly demented. Meghan is not fit to be a royal. She has been married three times before. She is actually 41. Samantha is secretly raising her bastard child. She is just a z-list actress. She is a yacht girl, She was not properly vetted. She is a narcissist. She is vile; how could she not speak to her father? Doria is a felon and was imprisoned. She abandoned her dogs. She was living with Corey and seeing Prince Harry. I hate Prince Harry. Oh Harry what have you done? All that The Queen has worked for! That was not a royal wedding. All that gospel crap and all the celebrities; it made a mock of royal weddings. There was clearly tension in the marriage when Meghan brushed off Harry whilst sat in the quire at HRH Princess Eugenie’s marriage. Eugenie’s was a real royal wedding. Meghan’s dress was a disgrace and it did not fit.

Days after having decided that there was trouble in the Sussexes’ marriage, there was the announcement of the pregnancy; this was readily followed by Meghan being attacked: she is selfish and narcissistic, for having announced the pregnancy at Eugenie’s wedding; this of course when they had no idea when the rest of the Royal family was informed of the pregnancy. She bleaches her skin. None of those celebrities at her wedding know her. It was the worse wedding ever; definitely, it was not a royal wedding. All that money on clothes and she never looks good; they are all ill-fitting clothes. Thank god, she is such a terror that the queen has banished her to Frogmore Cottage, right next to Wallis Simpson’s grave. Prince William can see through her. She has caused nothing but trouble in the royal family. They need to be banished. She is Wallis Simpson reincarnated (never mind that you first have to die before reincarnating; Wallis died in 1986, five years after Meghan’s birth. Moreover, there is usually anywhere from 15 to 30 years, roughly twenty before most souls reincarnate). Harry doesn’t smile anymore. Harry is lost. Harry is pussy-whipped. She is not pregnant. Pillow gate. Stop clutching that bump. There is a pillow, see how it moves. She is not pregnant. She is definitely using a surrogate. Oh my god, she is writing notes on the bananas, who does that? Who does she think she is? Thank god William was born first. Kate is a real princess. Catherine is pure class; never puts a foot wrong.

This campaign of race-baiting and hatred is but a macrocosm of the microcosmic dynamic which is acted out in families all too often. A perfectly balanced child is projected onto and bullied into fitting into some ascribed persona within the family’s iconographic dictates. Bob the little devil or Miranda the little Lolita when in fact, these archetypes have nothing to do with the subject of the projection. Daily attack articles and specious speculative articles in the print medium to further incite the public to hatred changes nothing. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is phenomenally popular across the Commonwealth, in particular amongst blacks. This need to vilify Meghan is rooted in the collective psyche of white tribalism, which feels itself tasked with having to remain top baboon as it were as the white population in Western Europe contracts and is further stressed by the burgeoning Islamic population in its midst. This need to play soap opera with the royals is part and parcel of that dynamic need to be on top… and always winning, One must ever be in control and be first, better than and all that maya. This is why Simon Cowell has become phenomenally wealthy; he is simply tapping into the tribal zeitgeist. Cowell knows damn well that regardless how good a singer is, he can depend on the predominantly white audience be it in America or the UK to choose a white contestant over a non-white any and every time. This phenomenon precisely is why Jennifer Hudson did not win during the year that she appeared on American Idol. There is a grudging need to bar, hamper and eclipse the non-white other, in favour of one’s own. If this truly racialised paradigm existed in the 1960s, there would have been no Aretha Franklin, no Patti Labelle, Chaka Khan et al – simply too black. Indeed, in this racialised caste system, the global paradigm does exist just as much as the current environmental collapse such that were Henry to have chosen a Chinese, East Indian or Jewish bride, though, there would have been pockets of disapproval, it would have been comparably muted at best and nowhere near the lynch mob intensity that animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become, thanks in large part to the orchestrated propaganda produced by racially predatory boors like Pierre-Karl Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss and Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown.

Of course, in all of this, they keep focussing on Meghan as they are so perplexed by the rumbling tectonics in the Cambridges’ marriage. Recently at the revived King’s Cup Regatta 2019 at the Isle of Wight, there was Catherine being her steely warrior-spirited self. After receiving her wooden spoon for placing last, the female who placed second along with William her husband, took to the stage and on receiving her champagne tried to get next to William and in a move that was pure warrior canny, Catherine shimmied with lightning ease into place and thereby blocked the woman from getting close to ‘her’ man. Throughout their stay on the stage William made no mistake about telegraphing how utterly disinterested and fed up he is, having to be stuck with Catherine. Naturally, none of this will ever be reported by the likes of Pierre-Karol Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss, nor will there be another shrill blast from the pompous ass, Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown herself (himself). Every warrior is the dominant partner in any relationship and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is no exception that is why I am fully confident that she will fare better than Diana, Princess of Wales did; moreover, Diana an artisan was doing battle with her warrior partner, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

William is immensely innately arrogant for being a scholar and his astrological stellium and his attitude number of 9 are precisely why in the above clip, he does not bow to HM The Queen. He sees himself as a Sovereign – as in all time is present; since he will be sovereign in the future, simultaneously he is sovereign in the past since birth and now. William with an attitude of 9 is incapable of not holding grudges and he very likely regards both his father and paternal grandmother as having been complicit in his mother’s demise.

William like every scholar incarnate will wander but he will always be miserable being with Catherine because she will suffer no Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall – herself a scholar soul. This is why though things got a little too chummy at Houghton Hall, it will only ever be whispered about; the chatelaine of Houghton Hall will never displace Catherine as future Princess of Wales. Try coming between task companions and good luck with trying to displace that task companion, who happens to be a warrior – not happening.

In the meantime, William will just have to merrily go roving along as is his scholarly and princely wont to find other prey. Just as Melissa Percy had no intention of sharing either her man or her bed, so, too, strong-willed, warrior Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge will never be dislodged by another. Thus Thomas van Straubenzee is on to marriage number two, which will no doubt leave William with continued full access to both his loyal public school special chum and Thomas’ blissfully unaware blonde walker.

Fascinatingly enough, as the days drift by after Jeffrey Epstein convenient expiration, there is a gnawing, burgeoning silence as that vile, toxic bigot remains conspicuously silent, News of the World vile snob and bigot, Gorgon. Please dear god, let his name appear just once somewhere in association with Jeffrey Epstein, The Trump-loving, nasty racist parasite… just one photograph; that is all it takes to have the tables turn on that fucking nez brun, snivelling twat, Pierre-Karol Gorgon. These racial predators who use the print medium to race-bait as they know law number one being, familiarity breeds contempt. Yes, indeed, every day multiple scathing articles against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

What more proof does one need that these gutter snipes are purely racially focussed in their agendum of attacking Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex? Somehow, the very real spectre of paedophilia raises its can’t- shake head and not a peep out of these persons, who so claim to love their venerable institution, the Monarchy. How or when pray tell has Meghan been a paedophile or when did she take funds from crass, foreign parvenu fare? No indeed, not a single winded turn, grandstanding with faux indignation of Meghan being unsuitably common and a dark blemish on royalty that must not be suffered overlong.

Indeed, this is a civilisation where one does not have to think; you are simply groomed to form opinions on anything. Naturally, it is a culture that prides itself on being negative; one sees being negative as a good thing. After 60 years of television, the same negative, readily racially predatory animus towards blacks had a new outlet in being able to comment, anonymously no less, on the internet – just as one has done for 7 decades in the privacy of one’s home when looking at television. With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, we have reached a new plateau in mob rule… Indeed, it is a new form of lynching wherein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become surrounded by a forest of burning crosses as these non-blacks in their lust for blood and addiction to hate have never been more ecstatic. And everyone of these people will let you know that it has nothing to do with race and they all, for one being black, have to mention out of the blue how, they can’t stand or they just hate that Meghan.

Who has time for anything but apathy when seeing Notre Dame Cathedral ablaze indeed. Enough of giving a damn; no more of this Pray for Paris fare on social media… just not worth it. The week following the Jeffrey Epstein suicide, homicide – you decide – old Gorgon goes into hiding and is conveniently on a break – goodness knows, unless he is in hibernation en route to Mars, there is no reason why News of the World potty-mouth should not be foaming at the mouth about unroyal-like conduct. Alas, there is more acrimony against the Sussexes, while the Cambridge’s privately jet to Mustique and they to Spain, though, the Sussex’s trip is less taxing on the environment, the Sussexes are labelled eco-hypocrites.

Then to top off the week, new polling numbers show that Catherine is now more popular than Meghan and even Harry, thanks to Meghan’s negative impact has slipped in popularity. Well guess what Einsteins, Diana Krall was more popular than Natalie Cole, Shirley Horn, Nancy Wilson and Betty Carter combined. Simply put, tribalism is more pronounced with Caucasians than any other group. They will ever hate, hiss and boo Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in the United Kingdom; indeed, no predominantly non-black Commonwealth nation has yet extended the Sussexes an invitation, though, HM The Queen, appointed them Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors – a title which was largely due in part because HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge has yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation and with an attitude number of 9, numerologically, nothing would get him to budge on touring such countries. Naturally, with the marriage of Henry & Meghan, though, he has previously toured those countries, predominently non-white, non-black Commonwealth Singapore and Malaysia have invited the Cambridges to tour autumn 2019, in an obvious move to show their disfavour at Henry having married the black woman.

What would move Elton John to make this impassioned post to his Instagram account about the racially predatory abuse that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are being subjected to? Elton John like model, Lauren Hutton, James Middleton, Madonna and every gap-toothed adult Caucasian was in his immediate past life black. Not surprisingly, Elton was the only non-black on the AIDS charity anthem of 1985, That’s What Friends Are For. The abuse has gone way beyond the line and one can no longer idly stand by and say nothing.

There she is Madonna and if ever one needed validation that this is someone who is completely at ease and accepting of blacks’ humanity, you need no further proof. There are people the world over, not least Hollywood, who would find it extremely uncomfortable being in the same room as someone black. Madonna’s extended family and the love between her and David Banda as well as all her other children is all the validation one needs that in her immediate past life she was Bessie Smith and prior to that, a few lifetimes before, 17th century Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

“Race is everything and yet it is nothing…” a phrase Merlin often repeated during our seven years together at the incidences of racism which he witnessed for being my lover. Naturally, Canada has yet to invite the Sussexes on a tour – though, one can hardly be surprised at that. 70 million Britons may hate Meghan’s guts but there are close to a billion blacks in the Commonwealth for whom the Sussexes will always matter. Meanwhile, there were no body language experts waxing overlong about William’s aloofness at the King’s Cup Regatta. The fact that Gorgon, Bianca et al are not writing about the obvious problems in the Cambridges’ marriage does not mean that it does not exist. Goodness, they have just spent a whole week in the 24/7 news cycle of 21st century online news media, making positively no mention of Jeff Epstein and the troubling connections that the Earl Porchester clearly had with the conveniently deceased paedophile whose autopsy showed from the broken neck vertebrae that he was a likely murder rather than suicide.

150 years hence, historians will look back at the Cambridge’s marriage and point to whatever drama unfolds between now and then and point to their rowing en route to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey and Catherine’s rude dismissal of William whilst they stood on the balcony being celebrated and William’s fate was being sealed. Who cares how adored you are by outsiders, being trapped in a miserable marriage must be sheer hell. No need to gloat about how more popular Catherine is than Meghan, which would not be the case had Henry married blonde Chelsy Davy or Cressida Bonas. Indeed, if Henry had married a Chinese, East Indian or Jew, though, there would doubtless be resentment, it would by no means be so rabid and unrelentingly feral.

The fact remains, when and where it matters most, it is a public role and all the scathing, derogatory, race-baiting articles notwithstanding, Meghan’s commanding performance at the 2018 British Fashion Awards was a salvo which illustrated why she has more star power than Catherine and no amount of hatred is going to change that. It has been cruel to watch how Catherine is being jousted to get out there and suddenly make speeches.

God lord, the poor woman is not then and never will be in her element; she is glorious at being Catherine, future Queen Consort, sporty and ever steely but being speech-giver is no forte of hers – never has been, never will be. The sad thing about Meghan’s speech at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is that it has been heavily edited and only now carried by the Royal Family’s YouTube channel. It is almost as if, Meghan cannot to be seen to be outshining Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge; moreover, I think that palace mandarins may have deemed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s speech too political.

One should never forget the song which the Kingdom Choir sung as the newly wedded TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel Windsor Castle, This Little Light of Mine. No amount of racial animus or hatred will ever be able to eclipse the light of the soul which, when previously incarnate, was the Tudor Matriarch, Queen Mother to Henry VII, grandmother and favourite adviser to Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I.

Good god! Talk about true hypocrisy! Where in the hell are Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown and that louche bigot whose unsavoury deeds precipitated News of the World’s demise, Pierre-Karol Gorgon? That’s right, not a peep out of them. This is the same royalty that they have been defending against the likes of the descendant of enslaved Africa and a hustler to boot, being deemed not fit to be royal. Imagine that, the black woman excoriated with coded language like hustler well at least she is not a blasted paedophile! There is damn value in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being welcome as she was by HM The Queen and her gracious father-in-law, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, she is articulate, intelligent, strong-willed and has commanding stage presence; she is indeed the beau idéal when one wants to address and engage the Commonwealth, which is predominantly brown and black.

Well at long last Pierre-Karol Gorgon has come out of hiding! What does the no-balled fucker do, he blithely goes back to excoriating TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and pretending as though the biggest story in the House of Windsor has not reared its ugly head yet again. Yes, clueless, dickless one, keep caterwauling like the true castrato that you are but ignoring the elephant in the room, does not make it go away. There you go, karma has served up Epstein’s corpse go on carrion, no need to be bashful, go ahead and start feasting on the real story to be writing about and growing incandescent with rage. Fucking no-balled racial predator, you try convincing the rest of us that Meghan is not royal enough and your animus is not in the least rooted in racial hatred.

Your racial animus towards HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having married the black woman notwithstanding, do be very careful what you wish for. All this talk about: I cannot support this royal family anymore, they are nothing but hypocrites, nothing but scroungers. as soon as HM The Queen dies we need a referendum on the monarchy; we need to become a republic. In case you have not noticed, your marvellous empire Britannia is no longer a realm of white tribal homogeneity. Within your midst are persons who will never assimilate and within a generation of having declared a republic, you will end up with a succession of presidents, who will not look like you and who will want their religious laws, and get their religious laws become the law of the land. These presidents will have been groomed from birth to perceive you as the enemy who must be vanquished… go on keep being blinded by hatred of the black woman and see where it gets you.

But enough about bothering with blasted racial predators, who as karma would have it, has backhanded them good and hard with Jeffrey Epstein’s convenient, though by no means ended, demise. Now the drama royal, truly gets underway in coming months. Go on, likkle jagabat, let’s see your cocksucker mouth gag with indignation, feigned or otherwise, about the bold audacity to have mere paedophiles in one’s regal realm. Go on, we know you can’t afford to go grouse-hunting, time to eat crow… blasted fraud.

In the meantime, I have pre-ordered my very own copy of Master Andrew Lownie’s deliciously indulgent exposé about one of my favourite rats, Earl Louis Mountbatten… Oh Louella darling, clutch your pearls, lick your lips, it’s going to prove a true bibliophilic gourmand’s wet dream… and infinitely better fare than that trifling garbage that ought rightly to have been pulped! I cannot wait to read this book! When Merlin was first hospitalised with full-blown AIDS, at Toronto’s St. Michael’s Hospital in January 1988, he began ferociously re-reading every book that had brought him the greatest pleasure; this is someone who concluded reading a book each day. One of the books he shared with me as he knew what books I most loved, was this wonderful book about Mahatma Gandhi’s life; of course, one of the first films we saw together was Gandhi at the Ziegfeld in Midtown Manhattan way after midnight, after we had been to dinner, fucked like rottweilers then headed off into the night, holding hands – a thing which back in 1982, you most definitely could not then have done in Toronto, and saw a film that moved us to tears. There within the covers of that biography, I discovered the most ravishingly fascinating couple, Louis & Edwina Mountbatten. Now, there was a true vicereen!

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Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

08.07.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Girl with a Pearl Earring, Oil on Canvas Johannes Vermeer 1665.

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Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Doria Ragland. HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl Dumbarton. Jane, Baroness Fellowes. Lady Sarah McCorquodale. HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.

As I stated to a dear friend, “Doria is all the Queen they need in that photograph!” Not for a second do I buy the notion that HM The Queen stayed away because, when it is all said and done, she does not approve of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Her Majesty also did not attend HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge’s christening last year.

It is so immensely satisfying to see HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex matured into fatherhood and his numerological double-sixthness is validated by his open warmth, love and protective care of both his wife and his beautiful baby boy.

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Archie, a seventh-level mature priest soul; he is infinitely more evolved than either his parents, or the Cambridge’s for that matter. He is, though, the same soul age as his paternal grandfather, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, however, Charles is a seventh-level warrior to exalted role priest, Archie. This man is going to perform a rather dynamic role within the history of the House of Windsor.

Much has been said about Prince William’s demeanour in this portrait. Without doubt, both the Cambridges attended Archie’s christening with an agendum of their own. I don’t know if William put his wife up to her power play but I do know this, it was decidedly vile and you can bet your bottom dollar that none of this went unnoticed, nor for that matter will it go unchallenged by Meghan – she who was Margaret Beaufort in a past life.

So, William threw shade. Quelle surprise ça. William does as William does. Born on the summer solstice of 1982, he has a geniture that is most unique; it comes with an intense stellium. That is not necessarily a good thing; with so many planets closely concentrated, this gives him a tendency towards short-sightedness and in his position as future Prince of Wales, he takes very seriously his role as future king and acts autocratically at every turn. He did not invite his aunts to the christenings of any of his three children. William did not invite, Sarah, Duchess of York to his wedding. After the birth of his firstborn, he decamped at the Middletons in Bucklebury and avoided his father, the future king. As with most people with a numerological attitude of 9, which is the hardest number to master, he does things more often than not for spite.

Of course, he could not be more different to his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who is born in the year of the rat, like his father and his paternal great-grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. Rats, I am one, are deeply loyal and will always be inclusive of family to the point of appearing sentimental. This would be especially pronounced in a rat like Harry who is a warrior soul and such souls are deeply loyal. So, too, is HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales a warrior soul and also, HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh a mature warrior born in the year of the rooster like Meghan. Warriors forget nothing and do not readily forgive insults – a pity William in his myopic blissfulness remains unaware of this.

Saturday, for Archie’s christening, true to his warrior/rat spirit, Harry had his beloved mum’s sisters present at the christening just as Jane, Baroness Fellowes read scripture at his beautiful, historic wedding to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Every rat would do exactly the same. Well there were TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge smugly telegraphing their ennui for all the world to see. As a warrior soul, I would not have expected such a gutter snipe move on Catherine’s part on Saturday.

As this was Harry’s firstborn’s christening and he was so deeply bonded to his mum, Catherine who had never worn those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’, to any of her three children’s christening, rather than loaning the earrings to Meghan by way of affording them to Harry so that his lovely wife could wear them as they would mean so much to Harry as his mother had worn them for his christening, instead, there sat Catherine feigning hauteur whilst smugly smiling to those in the know. Indeed, this was Catherine’s star turn, which was just as vile as HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s infamous blackamoor brooch outing in December, 2017.

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Positively nothing that these courtiers do is happenstance. In essence, in wearing those earring of Diana, Princess of Wales’, which she had worn to Harry’s – and William’s for that matter – christening, Catherine was in effect saying to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, as much as Harry would like for you to have them, seeing as you are straight outta Compton, there is no guarantee that you’ll return them. No matter, as long as I wear them, Diana’s spirit will be present. This was a very cruel and low blow and not the sort of dirty pool that warrior souls engage in. I am betting that William put his wife up to it; however, as Catherine’s right eye has become increasingly pained and umbraed in the past few years, she is clearly deeply stressed by the pressures of being married to William, who also happens to be her task companion. Notice the way that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wears her hair at Archie’s christening; the high headband, with the hair fully pulled back and the headband ruby-coloured to best set off the pearl earrings, worn by Diana, Princess of Wales at her sons’ christenings. With the headband, there is no chance of Catherine luscious main covering the pearl earrings, the choice of which are to telegraph much to those courtiers in the know.

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Catherine’s right eye since HRH Prince George of Cambridge’s christening in 2013, has become pained, saddened and distant. I also suspect that she may have become anorexic from the stress of being wedded to William who as a scholar soul is void emotional depth and can be expected to be keenly spiteful.

In this clip for William’s christening, at the five second mark, Diana, Princess of Wales turns to the left to look and speak to Charles who wanted to mop up William’s dribbling and it is then that you see that Diana is wearing the same earring. It is not lost on me that clearly Diana is being rude to Charles when he offers to wipe away the dribble. Of course, William was christened on August 4, 1982; it was Charles’ beloved grandmother’s 82 birthday, which is precisely the sort of gift that a rat would present his much loved family member. Ironically enough, on that day, it was Prince Charles’ future daughter-in-law’s first birthday, the admired and adored Tungsten.

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At all three christenings for her adorable children, Catherine did not wear those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’. I am sure that if she wanted to, William would have decided against it as there is nothing sentimental about him and scholars by their nature are not given to being sentimental. Three different earrings for all three children’s christenings. I think that it would have been especially cruel if Meghan had thought to ask her husband, Prince Harry to request those pearl earrings that Diana wore to his christening, only to have William veto the request then turn around and have his wife parade them at the christening – this of course would play beautifully to those courtiers like the Michaels of Kent et famille; it is precisely the sort of petty spitefulness that would have made Meghan put her foot down and insist that they relocate to Frogmore Cottage and away from the vipers’ nest that Kensington Palace so clearly had become for the Sussexes.

Of course, wearing the earrings would be seen as further rejection, coming so close on the heels of the disbanding of the Royal Foundation. Not to worry, as an American and Black American, you can bet your bottom dollar the very shrewdly canny Tungsten will have a rebuttal. Besides, who is Catherine to Meghan, she is a mousy little thing, who did not walk the aisle at her wedding alone; indeed, how Meghan must sniff and look sideways from beneath raised, bored brows every time Catherine has to go gag on a mic as William pushes her to be more relevant and not be eclipsed by the Compton interloper. As for William, Meghan is likely little bothered by a petulant, spiteful man-child, who has to be told not to sit with his back to the horses on entering the open landau on his wedding day.

Just as including his aunts, Harry would have thought to have his wife wear the earrings that his beloved mum wore to his christening. This is the sort of warrior/rat thoughtfulness that saw Prince Charles salute his beloved grandmother – another rat, though, a second-level mature slave soul – by having his firstborn christened on her 82nd birthday.

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HM King Henry VIII’s ruthlessness was the result of having been mentored and much loved by his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort – Matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty… kingmaker. Well, that soul who was then Margaret Beaufort is back and did not return to be anyone’s pushover, as her entrance unaccompanied at her wedding in May, 2018 demonstrated. A mean-spirited move, it most definitely was on the part of both William and Catherine by having Catherine wear earrings, which I am almost certain, Harry would have requested of them that his mother’s pearl earrings be loaned to his wife as a continuation of that rat/warrior reference and homage to both history and his beloved mum. Naturally, such a request would have been a perfect opportunity for William to have been callously spiteful as he has proven time and again with others – Sarah, Duchess of York, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, his father.

Naturally, the media did not portray Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as having been duplicitous by having worn the earrings that Diana, Princess of Wales wore to Harry’s christening. Why on earth had it never occurred to Catherine to wear those earrings to any of her children’s christenings? Just imagine if Meghan had done any such thing, it would have garnered an excessive response of outrage on the online tabloid portals with their legions of bigoted trolls.

Indeed, lynching Meghan is now big business, just imagine, even that Trenchtown jagabat came yammering that can’t-shake mid-Atlantic accent of hers as she opined on both Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. Running off at the mouth as though she knew Diana, Princess of Wales. Would that she would just shut up and crawl into her casket… I want a damn good return on that godawful, and justly pulped, ode to specious slander – a copy of which sits in my library, awaiting her exit. She no more knew Diana, Princess of Wales than she does or ever will know Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

At the end of the day, the real masterpiece, worth more than a gaggle of Vermeers, is the product of the love that Harry and Meghan share; it has resulted in the most beautiful baby boy, Archie, the Earl Dumbarton.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support. Here’s wishing you the most gloriously lucid dreams. I love you more.

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Yoko, Meghan & Cécile.

03.07.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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For your ongoing support, I am ever grateful. Buy my glorious books, the incomparable series with Michael overleaves appendices; truly, they are human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.

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Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

30.06.201909.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Diana, Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

On the eve of what would have been her 58th birthday, I share a dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales. At the time of the dream, July, 1996, Diana was then incarnate and would be dead less than 14 months later. The dream suggested Diana, parenting a male child of mixed race heritage. Naturally, at the time of the dream, she was not then yet involved with Dodi Al-Fayed. Years later, whilst living in Montréal and transcribing the 250 audiocassette recordings of my dreams which spanned a decade, I happened on the dream. By the time of the transcription, Diana was dead and so, on poring through the dream I thought that the male child in the dream to whom Diana seemed a mother, must have been a child of hers and Dodi’s.

Fast forward twenty-three years from the dream in question and I am beginning to think that this exceptional male royal child was actually a dream of tuning into a future in which Diana was serving as protector of her beloved son’s own baby boy, Archie Harrison. The skull of the baby boy in the dream who seemed like a son of Diana, Princess of Wales’, is exactly shaped like that of Archie, Diana’s grandson by way of her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his black wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

Alas, another dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales. This one would involve moving into a probable reality scenario which may well have eventualised had she not tragically died thirteen months after having had the dream.

*Then again, it may well have been tuning into a future which has now come to pass wherein, the interracial Sussexes have a male firstborn. END.

As with the dream of July 9, 1993, in which I would have a most rapturous astral plane encounter with task companion, Merlin, here too there would be lots of train travel. This means of transportation, I have come to realise is employed by the soul when one is questing and traversing the astral either to past, future or probable timelines.

In this case, I had clearly dreamquested to a probable and non-too-distant future for Diana, Princess of Wales. Sadly, it was not to be. Obviously, in this probable near-future astral plane dream, Diana, Princess of Wales was fulfilled and had gone on to start a second family and was mother to a rather precocious son; a son whom I might add was clearly at least fourth level old-souled.

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1996 and the Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house. The house of death wherein is posited my retrograde Saturn, gave interesting insights to things as they might have unfolded as others’ agendum precluded Diana, Princess of Wales’s life becoming more of an inconvenience.

*Then, too, as time has unfolded, this rather prophetic dream was actually tuning into a probable reality which has become the collective future of human civilisation and one which we enjoy today. Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their incredible baby boy, Archie Harrison. END.

Of course, at the time of these dreams, I was then resident in Vancouver’s West End. The dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and seventeen and to be found in volume XXII of the dream opus.

There was much sturm und drang in parts of the dreams as it mirrored the vicious tectonics, long after Merlin’s passing, being played out legally and otherwise with persons whom I am so glad to be finally rid of. Chief among them that STD-riddled, dominatrix poseuse and fag-hag to boot, who quixotically saw herself cast into the world to play Merlin’s protector and saviour – the dreams of lost village idiots… indeed.

At the end of the day, Merlin never liked her and rightly so considered her a damn idiot. At his passing, he had nothing to do with her; hence the fool spent the next two-plus decades being bedpan-changer of Merlin’s betrayers – a poor play at atonement that.

Enough about knock-kneed caribou roadkill; the journey endures. Besides, the bond with Merlin could never have been successfully broadsided.

Come now my magical darlings, mischievously sport that wry smile known only to kindred spirits, slip into a luxurious plié, take my hand and let’s have ourselves a delicious group flying dream. We are better for sharing this journey together; for your support, I love you more.

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Whilst heading down a street in what was undoubtedly Toronto, in this the first dream, it was then daytime. The street seemed like the one just around the corner from the Underground Railroad Restaurant, on King Street West, to the west of Sherbourne Street – Frederick Street. Going down Frederick Street’s incline, I noticed along a back lane that there was a large building. Too, I noticed a great many persons from past workplaces. The building seemed to be an annex to the main workplace as I had known it.

One of the first persons whom I recognised was Milton Bloomfield. He was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and powder-blue short-sleeved shirt. Excited to see him, I bounded over and went around to the back entrance. Immediately, I began seeing persons whom I had completely forgotten about. Indeed, some of these persons looked as though they were definitely astral plane habitués. In particular, one old White male had that outré habitué look to him. I was simply astounded to have seen some of these persons. Truth be told, I had not thought of so many of them long in ages.

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

Such a very pleasant discovery of things past, it turned out to have been. That aside, I resumed my search of Milton Bloomfield in earnest. Again, I saw him in the distance. This time he was walking away from me without having noticed that I was there. In the end, though it would have been nice to have interacted with him, I just didn’t see the point in going after him. On going around another corner, since I was amongst persons from the past, I had thought to go in search of Yaramé Snead. I went over by some machines which no longer exist, in the waking state, seeing that she would shortly have shown up at the start of her shift. I then saw her at a desk working away and hurried over to be with her.

Stooping down to her left and rear, I playfully called out hello to her. On turning and seeing me, her reaction had been low-key. I was surprised really as I thought that she would at least have been her usual boisterous self. Her hair was beautifully braided. Frankly, I felt putout as she seemed not the least bit pleased to have seen me. With that, not wanting to be more of a seeming bother, I wrapped up the visit. Since she had declined to have become engaged, I just couldn’t be bothered to have invested much energy in the encounter.

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Part of the focus of this the second dream, a man and I were together and seemingly were lovers. Tall, he was a redhead; as such, he represented one of my more choice sexual partners. Somehow, this man was in showbiz. We were definitely lovers. Whilst looking at TV Rosie O’Donnell had made remarks about him that were rather cutting. Initially, I had thought that her remarks had been about Xerxes Hamelin. The joke had been a crude remark wondering as, to which sex Xerxes Hamelin was.

This was in reference to her having breast reduction surgery. As I did not appreciate the crass put-down of Xerxes Hamelin, I would abruptly take my leave. I then went indoors of a house which, here, was like moving from the veranda indoors of the Crab Hill house. A few persons were inside the house as I ranted, vowing to get that fat ugly dyke, Rosie O’Donnell. There also was much laughter as I added,

“And we all know that I’m wicked enough, to do just as I say. But first we’re going to sue her frigging Mickey ass.” But my lover didn’t want to go through with it, he was a showbiz lawyer. Snapping at him, I said,

“I won’t hear of it. I will not be cutting him or her any slack. Get her fucking ass! There is no way that that no-classed fool is going to insult Xerxes Hamelin and get off lightly. End of fucking discussion. We sue! During the show’s rehearsal when that joke came up around the production meeting table, she could have had the decency to say, ‘no way, I’m not doing that kind of humour’. Obviously, she fucking well didn’t.

“It’s not about the fucking money; she will learn a thing or two, when I’m done with her fat-retaining, tired-looking ass.” What really amazed me was how lucid and lived-in, in the body, I was. I was really killer mad and out to do battle, “There is positively no way that she’d have gone out there and made disparaging remarks about Jews. And if you can’t knock the fucking Jews, you sure the fuck can’t haul your tired grey arse out on a stage to knock Blacks. Just stop and think about it. If a Jew would have her head in a nanosecond, then so the fuck will I.”

After that, we went off together. My lover was ever quiet and reserved whilst I did much of the talking. In that sense, he energetically was much like Merlin. However, it definitely was not Merlin.

As we walked about, we ran into Diana, Princess of Wales, who had a little child on her hip. One had the sense that, after having divorced HRH Charles, Prince of Wales, she had gone on to start another family. Definitely, this third child of hers was a son. Apparently, she had always wanted a little girl but here she was with a dark-haired bouncing boy. Obviously, from the looks of things here, Diana, Princess of Wales was going to have more than one family.

One interesting feature was that the boy was born with almost a full mouth of teeth. I mentioned in passing that I guess if you end up grinning as much as she does, it would not be surprising to have newborns appear grin-ready. Too, the child was already able to say some words at birth. The child was exceptionally intelligent. The young son’s most interesting feature was that even at less than six weeks, he was able to follow conversations.

The eyes on this child were exceptionally old-souled and wise. Not the feigned coyness of Prince William was his demeanour. We were in a huge stately Bentley whilst the child sat on his regal mother’s lap. Diana, Princess of Wales sat on my left with my lover, a showbiz lawyer-celebrity, seated next to me. My lover was of British birth; he was a well-placed Londoner and terribly well-off at that.

He was part of the few in whom Diana, Princess of Wales confided and had done so during her divorce proceedings with the Firm. From the Bentley, we got into another car. Although he really didn’t need it, the precocious son was travelling in a basket here. This child perceptively was quite advanced for his mere few months of life. He represented hands down a case for reincarnation.

Though he could talk, especially for someone less than a year old, he was still rather stubby and full of baby fat. I took the rather self-aware child from Diana, Princess of Wales and headed for the car. I then didn’t know whether she would be sitting in back of the car with us. Considerately, I had opened the front door for her but she told me that it wasn’t necessary.

She then went into the back of the car at which point I returned her son to her. In all of this, the precocious son hadn’t uttered a word of whiny protest for having been separated. He had simply looked me in the eye whilst studying me and not, god forbid, because of something as absurd as my being Black. This woman, his mother, was rather a genuinely sweet-personalitied soul. Not your typical animus-charged, parvenu, New World wealthy snob, like heaven only knows so many North Americans, was she. After we had taken off, I had mentioned that I had heard Prince William – who now was much taller than her – was very well-hung.

Furthermore, he loved roughing it with all the little willing boys at Eton. This supposedly was hot gossip in those circles and which both my lover and Diana, Princess of Wales thought hysterical. She expressed great pride in having produced such a fine stud for the Firm. She mentioned that he had to start his studding practice sometime and far better that it be at Eton than with too many willing little girls the world over. Clearly, Diana, Princess of Wales had no desire to turn grandmother just yet. She was a very funny person with a distinctive snort-like giggle.

We then went into a store that was called something like Mayfair & Browne or something along those lines. A small, high-end department store it was.

*The warm blues here would suggest that it was, in fact, Fortnum & Mason. END.

Afterwards, we had attended the opening of Parliament where Queen Elizabeth II had naturally been present. The Queen had asked the House of Lords to stand and, at that point, they had drawn some heavy red drapes. At this point, there were rituals of an occult nature which were being performed. This had been the custom for centuries and had been nobody’s business. The few priests, who performed the rituals, spoke in an ancient tongue; olde English and Gaelic it would seem.

As part of the ceremony, the queen adopted a raspy, adversarial and tyrannical tone. She snapped at them as they spoke to her. Of course, this was to validate her absolute power as monarch. She had spoken by using the same ancient tongue as they had. Quite illuminating was all this for me. From where we all sat, the monarch sat opposite us at the far end of the stately hall. On the right was the House of Lords.

On the left, was the House of Peers where things were even more arcane and secretive. Clearly, there was much more wealth possessed by the members of the House of Peers than those in the House of Lords; for one, they wore more expensive fur-lined robes. Queen Elizabeth II then stood and put an end to the rituals. When the priests retreated, the curtains rose again and at that point members of both houses of Parliament rose to bow to her majesty, the queen.

The Queen now looked her usual stoical self. Next, a loud debate rang out in the House of Lords; this was the point at which bills were being introduced. All in all, this was a very noisy affair. This was the point at which my London-born lover was expected to have introduced my suit against Rosie O’Donnell. However, he was blowing cold on the issue and tried to back out of it.

What caused him to have hung back was the raucous fight that had broken out between two Lords on some point or other. In point of fact, they had been quite vituperative. Soon after, we took our leave of Westminster Palace. Diana, Princess of Wales was not seated with the rest of the royals. Nor, for that matter, was the more royally scorned Sarah, Duchess of York seated with the royals.

The ride to the department store was no more than ten minutes. Once inside, we had gone some escalators which took us to a cosmetics counter. The look was pretty much like a Clinique counter, though, I really don’t think that it was such. On seeing an extended member of the House of Windsor coming down the aisle towards us, my lover had dropped behind. The focus of my lover’s attention was a rather princely gentleman. He was young with full red lips but not was horsey-looking.

*This princely gentleman was, in fact, James Ogilvy – grandson of the dashing Prince George, Duke of Kent. END.

They exchanged pleasantries and it was clear that my lover was rather smitten with him. I didn’t though get the sense of him, Mr. Ogilvy, that he was Gay. From there, we kept going further down in the complex below street level. Each time that we had come off an escalator, we had headed to the left to get the next. This in turn had taken us down another flight. Eventually, we arrived at a level which was clearly part of the city’s sprawling Underground.

As we walked, there were two little birdlike, old English women whose slow amble gait had gotten me fast impatient. Finally, we managed to have pushed past them and gotten the train just in time. Here we had travelled at fantastic speeds. The trip was for quite some time and, somehow, it seemed as though they used magnetic conductors here in this civilisation. There was a sense too that we had been travelling several miles, at least 100, below the surface.

When finally we had arrived at our destination, we had gotten out into a labyrinth of tunnels which had eventually led above-ground in a Japanese city. We spent not very much time in Japan as it proved a stopover where we changed trains. Moving on, we had travelled on a futuristic-looking train. On board were two stylish, East Indian young women. Both were clearly tired for having travelled a lot and having crossed several time zones. A loud American was on board; she was an overweight woman. As can be expected, she talked aloud for everyone to notice her. She moronically complained about the trains not being aboveground and whined,

“I want it to be aboveground. There’s nothing to see down here. It’s all black and dark.” She said the word ‘black’ with the same customary loathing as she had applied to African-Americans her whole life. “Don’t they realise that there’re lots of tourists and we want to see. It’s so boring being down here in all this blackness.”

‘Such a fucking acculturated bigoted asshole,’ I thought. The train was painted white on the outside with lots of chrome and walnut finishing on the inside. Very comfortable, red leather seats throughout the interior; this was a truly posh experience. We had boarded at the front of the train. We pulled into a station, though, only briefly; the train took off again never having opened its doors. This time it took off in the opposite direction. By now, my lover and I were no longer travelling together; however, I did have a travelling companion with me.

On this leg of the trip, we had moved above-ground at one point where we had passed the most glorious stand of ancient old trees. They were ginkgoes that looked millennia-old. Each was easily in excess of 200 feet. I quite liked it here. Though the vista was beautiful, it didn’t last very long as once again we were below-ground whilst ploughing through the lurching labyrinth of tunnels deep in the earth.

At the end of the trip, we had arrived at a swank hotel which seemed to be in either Switzerland or Austria. From the hotel, my lover and I were reunited and began trying to get in touch with Diana, Princess of Wales. He wanted to write to her instead of speaking so had sent her a fax. Here we were a bit in the future, where everyone was automatically assigned their personal phone number with cell phone/fax.

*Truth be told, rather than a fax, it was a text. Of course, at the point of the dream texting was well ahead of its time. END.

No matter where one was in the world, regardless of the borders, the same phone number managed to get you. Interestingly, they were not excessive amount of numbers. He had sent her a fax (text) with his private number and had asked Diana, Princess of Wales to call him; he had wanted to lend his support in her divorce proceedings.

At one point, when we had been driving, Diana, Princess of Wales opened up and spoke about her divorce from HRH Charles, Prince of Wales. She said that it had left her feeling truly awful. At the end of it, the one thing that she had taken away was the sense that she felt greater empathy for what Blacks suffer globally. Said she, she had gone to a couple of stores to shop, after having been divorced, where the mere salesclerks treated her with scorn.

Nobody wanted to serve her as if she had even been hostile to them. Diana, Princess of Wales said that it had been so overwhelming that in one case she had gone rushing back to her car in tears. For no longer being a part of the ‘Firm’, the public simply treated her as an unfortunate laughing stock. Some clerks had been outright rude to her. She said that she couldn’t believe that anything could have made her so mad.

To have been denied was the most painful experience. They were so mean-spirited and spiteful she claimed. Her voice here was high-pitched and almost feverish when she expressed her rage at the injustices she had experienced. She said that the idea of racial animus that she has heard Blacks speak of, she could finally understand. Diana, Princess of Wales said that she had experienced something pretty close to it in the lack of civility that she had gotten from everyone. Intently looking at her large clear eyes as she spoke, I was much impressed by her remarks. She was rather ravishing-looking and was so in her element for being mother to this exceptional child.

*Long after the dream and as things played out, the male child whom Diana, Princess of Wales had parented in this dream was clearly fathered by Dodi Fayed. Of course, at the time of the dream, I hadn’t a clue of Mr. Fayed’s existence. The precocious boy had his father’s nose and brows.

Clearly, this dream was tuning into a probable reality which finally was not to be. The child was clearly at least fourth level old-souled and may well have been a king or if not warrior soul.

**More thoughts on this dream. The fact that the lawyer who proved a lover of mine in this dream was a redhead, is at this time, I believe, a reference to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. As it is extremely rare that I would dream of the latter, it is not a surprise that he was translated here by my waking consciousness as anyone but Prince Harry. Also, in light of the fact that in marrying Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Prince Harry can be said to be an advocate of sorts for racial reconciliation with regards to the ties that the BRF historically have to the enslavement of Africans. Interestingly, that Diana, Princess of Wales should talk about having empathy for the racism that Blacks experience on a daily basis, is a dead giveaway. The theme of race and racism is a prevalent one where her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is concerned.

For having chosen to wed an entity mate of his (HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex) with whom he has a long reincarnational history and someone who has twice previously been a senior royal in the British Royal Family, is reason enough why the theme of race would be discussed and why Diana, Princess of Wales would be both empathetic and speak passionately about this issue. Naturally, throughout the dream she would be closely bonded with a firstborn male from another marriage; however, rather than being a firstborn of hers in a subsequent marriage, this older soul child would prove to be the firstborn mix-raced child of her son, Prince Harry, who was represented by the redhead lawyer/advocate who happened to be my lover. Indeed, Prince Harry can be seen to be an advocate for addressing and advancing racial dialogue and race relations. Similarly, that his firstborn son, Archie is a seventh-level mature priest soul would indicate someone whose focus in life will be about inspiring, uplift, healing and harmony… god only knows that is sorely needed at this time. END.

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Straighten up and fly right! I love you more than you know…

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Earl of Dumbarton.

09.05.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, HM Queen Elizabeth II, Doria Ragland, Earl of Dumbarton (Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor), Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

I positively screamed and then began ululating at the news that TRH Duke & Duchess had been safely delivered of a healthy son. I broke into tears on watching the BBC statement made by the Duke of Sussex. Everything about this extraordinary human being inspires nothing but warmth, happiness and compassion from deep within me.

Watching HRH Prince Henry bursting with pride as he announced the birth of his son, Earl of Dumbarton, I welled up with tears and burst out crying. To me it was a healing moment after I fell to the floor of my Côte-des-Neiges, Montréal apartment crying as he walked behind his mother’s casket almost 22 years prior. He had made it through alright after all.

Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Dumbarton.

The night after the birth, at the end of La Boheme, I cried my eyes out; happy at the birth of this wonderful child but also because I had just witnessed one of the best opera performances in long ages.

Based on past-life histories of the three persons in this photograph, there is no coincidence with them presenting the Earl of Dumbarton in St. George’s Hall, Windsor Castle.

Diana, Princess of Wales’ greatest legacy will always be how handsomely she succeeded at being a great parent.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support. Thanks for your patronage in the past and do please continue buying my dream memoirs, available online partout!

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The Markle Sparkle.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in Valentino Haute Couture in Morocco.

Many moons ago, in the 80s when living next-door to designer, Alfred Sung on Cabbagetown’s Amelia Street, I was more obsessed with fashion than I now am. Back then, lots of friends used to bemoan the paucity of black models appearing on catwalks of major house, in particular, Armani.

In this 1992 Fashion Television feature portrait by Jeanne Beker, the thinking model, Veronica Webb makes passing reference to the paucity of black models in ad campaigns and even walking the catwalks of some houses.

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Then along came a picture-perfect day in Berkshire when Sol shone with rays that sparkled as though laced with diamonds and platinum. This phenomenal woman, this soul who had previously been Margaret Beaufort, she with an unparallelled sense of theatre, with poise, self-absorption and awareness in the space of a couple of hours proved herself a game changer. That poise, elegance and revolutionary arrival onto the world stage got everyone to sit up and take notice. Certainly, Pierpaolo Piccioli took notice. He clearly thought that if Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were going to favour haute couture in choosing Givenchy for the elegantly minimalist wedding gown then Maison Valentino had to step up and court the Duchess.

Bored out of my mind, one day, I happened to be tune into a live event on Eva Chen’s IG @evachen212. It was the Spring/Summer 2019 Maison Valentino Haute Couture show and as Eva shouted and praised the models and creations as they walked, I began crying. Never had I seen so many black models walking in a show. Then Naomi Campbell appeared, closing the show and I was simply floored. Never had Ms. Campbell looked more radiant when walking the catwalk. There was so much tangible love in the air, in that room. This was a moment like no other. There was no denying that Piccioli was courting Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex with that show, not just the ubiquity of black models but the number of creations that featured a bateau neckline were clear homage to the latest duchess of the House of Windsor.

Listen to what Naomi has to say, near the end of the video, when speaking to British Vogue Editor, Edward Enninful. There was nothing more overwhelming that seeing the response in that salon, from Naomi crying, to the adorably eccentric Reine de Charlemagne, Céline Dion, crying her eyes out whilst sitting FROW along with Mr. Valentino himself, Valentino Garavani.

Campbell, Naomi 22/5/1970 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a second-level mature artisan — third life thereat. Naomi is in the caution mode with a goal of rejection. A realist, Naomi is in the moving part of emotional centre.

Naomi’s body type is Saturn/Mercury.

Naomi’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

The fragment Naomi is fifth-cast in the sixth cadence; she is a fragment of greater cadence four. Naomi’s entity is two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Naomi’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a sage.

Naomi’s primary needs are exchange, expression and freedom.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin.

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Naomi epitomises what someone in the positive pole of discrimination looks like. Of course, she is an artisan soul, which gives her that kaleidoscopic, chameleonesque mystique. She also happens to be an entity mate of both John Hirsch and George Hawken; this is why George was always left speechless when she appeared on television. He was bewitched and fascinated by her, which was rare for him where adoring famous persons was concerned. As the recent trip by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex to Morocco revealed, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex certainly took notice of Pierpaolo Piccioli’s homage to her discriminating sense of fashion and design.

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As ever, I would be remiss if I did not take this time to state how deeply appreciative of your support all these years I am… thank you. Here’s to life. Here’s to you dreaming the most lucid of flying dreams… cause you can!

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: #HouseofWindsor

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

Yoko, Meghan & Cécile.

Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

Earl of Dumbarton.

The Markle Sparkle.