Fleeing the Court of the Bucklebury Cannibal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pluto in Capricorn and in Opposition – Pandemic and Retribution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

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

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

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

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

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.