Wallis? No, No, No! Try Edward VIII 2.0.

January 7, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

So horrid has been the unbridled racial animus at TRH Duke & Duchess’ interracial marriage that it is past the point of being alarming, to merely being plain hysterical. Fuck these idiots; just get on with your miserable lives, which clearly were not made miserable by that weak, dimwitted race traitor, Harry, being bullied and hoodwinked into marriage by that Z list, pole dancing, unsuitable, twice-divorced Compton ho.

Naturally, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex an American divorcee, is being compared to her predecessor, Wallis Simpson who was also a divorcee. She was said to be domineering sort and Edward VIII, her lover, a weak-willed sort who was totally controlled by her.

Similarly, as with Wallis, Meghan who is erroneously being compared to her American predecessor, Henry is seen as pussy-whipped and controlled as was deemed Edward VIII. Be that as it may, of one thing one can be certain, unlike Meghan, Wallis was not skilled in the arts of the Kamasutra… so there is that.

This shot of Henry during his aunt, Baroness Fellowes’ reading of scripture is seen as proof of his being controlled and foolishly controlled by the lowest of muggles. Be that as it may, here is a man who is completely besotted and having upped his game, did win his bride in the end.

Of course, a sceptic to the core, there was Henry fixing a shrewd eye on his brother, William who everyone has failed to realise is the real Edward VIII in all this, rather than Henry. William has more in common with the abdicated Edward VIII than does Henry.

Granted, Rev Curry was a blasted buffoon who embarrassed no one but himself and it was nothing the royals had seen – to his dying day the right reverend will think himself to have been a hit… American conceit is staggering – but there were Camilla and Charles trying to make sense of what they had just seen,

Returned from having signed the registry with his son’s gracious mother-in-law, Doria Ragland, there was William whilst the cellist weaved his magic, openly ridiculing and throwing shade.

There could be no doubt of William’s loathing of Rev. Curry and all that he represents. Trust you me, if Henry had taken a Jewish wife and there was some aspect of the ceremony after Henry had converted that was bizarre, there is no way in high hell that William would have sat there and openly ridiculed the rabbi. This display, only demonstrates William’s open bigotry. This among other things exposes him further at having been cognisant of the “blackamoor brooch” incident. This is the same William who has seen fit to stridently decline going on tour to any predominantly black Commonwealth nation; this has been left to his father and his wife, Camilla to undertake instead. Scholar souls when in the negative pole of their overleaves happen to be the smog, arrogant, prejudicial persons going. Sadly, William will never change his outlook for the remainder of his life and it will cost him dearly down the line.

This august woman, Camilla who does not gladly indulge hostilities declined to attend Andrew’s daughter HRH Princess Eugenie’s wedding last October to Jack Brooksbank; he had always been openly hostile towards her. Similarly, she declined to attend Christmas Service 2018 at Sandringham as she is clearly not pleased with how the senior royals, namely William and Catherine are being frosty towards Henry and his American wife.

Just as Wallis was the centre of everyone’s vitriol, as time always lays bare all secrets, Edward VIII would be exposed for the vile, bigoted, Nazi sympathiser that he was. So, too, William has proven himself a bigoted boor on par with his great-great uncle Edward VIII. I think it interesting that so many of the souls who have reincarnated after the Me generation have turned out to be such petty, bigoted boors, which they love smugly terming conservative.

The same is seen in the current Canadian PM who has thought nothing of repeatedly running off to India to act like a buffoon in a Bollywood flick, attend every town in the land’s Gay Pride parade; however, he flatly refused to attend the 50th anniversary Caribbean Carnival celebrations in 2017. Instead, he went kayaking. Naturally, the same social butterfly tried his damnedest to score an invitation to the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex but was justifiably decline. He also saw positively nothing odd in excluding either blacks or Chinese from his cabinet in 2015. Enough about Bathhouse Pierrette and his über Ketaine, just-a-tad-too-eager fag hag.

For any and all sceptics (Princes Philip and Harry – and yours truly) what we pay attention to is details. We don’t focus on what you say but we are ever keenly focussed on what you do not say and more importantly what you do. This can sometimes have us come off as slightly on the paranoid side but, trust you me, nothing escapes our shrewdly focussed gaze.

William has emerged as Edward VIII’s bigoted reanimation rather than Meghan, Wallis’s reanimation. Not a single tour to a predominantly black Commonwealth nation, turning away during the scarf incident this past Christmas when Meghan tried to engage him in conversation.

Charles and Camilla standing at the end of the receiving line of Westminster Abbey clergy to greet senior royals, who in this case would be HM The Queen and Prince Philip. Naturally, The Sovereign exchanges pleasantries then greets her son, father of the groom and they share a congratulatory kiss at the occasion of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s 2011 wedding.

Westminster Abbey, this past Armistice Day for the service of remembrance. Though, I was then in London, I did not attend outside the Abbey to observe; rather, I was attending a commemoration concert at Barbican Centre by the London Symphony Orchestra. Here, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex wait, as is customary, at the end of the receiving line of the incoming senior royals.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge deliberately stayed overlong, greeting and chatting up the Westminster Abbey clergy; they were making a point of snubbing the Sussexes. Naturally, another betrayal of his role of instigator in the “Blackamoor Brooch” incident, William has no qualms about dismissing his brother and his otiose wife as he and by now his equally curt wife see things. Her reaction on entering the Abbey and noticing the Sussexes spoke volumes.

As it was plainly obvious to sceptic Harry that he was being snubbed by that conceited, thick-as-a-plank, bigoted brother of his, he simply walked away and was followed by his wife, rather than continue suffering the indignity of being made to wait overlong. William is a bigoted arse of the first order and where the Duke & Duchess of Windsor are concerned, the parallels are to William the bigot and Edward VIII the Nazi sympathiser rather than Wallis the divorcee and Meghan also an American divorcee.

The Cambridges no more wanted to talk to the clergy and PM Theresa May than they want to have to tour some predominantly black Commonwealth nation. They were snubbing the Sussexes because Meghan has draw and mass appeal and is not a mousy little whimp when speaking publicly like the bigot’s mare who looks frightfully severe when not grinning like a semi-feral gibbon en chaleur.

Oh well, there was Meghan ascending the steps of St. George’s Chapel with John & Brian Mulroney, doing their parents proud, to say nothing of Ivy in her own right. Thank god for Jessica Mulroney, for her role in that wedding as she helped to strike it straight out of the park – and she also happens to have the most deliciously vulgar laugh that tickles the soul every time. A wedding like no other and that will always have sphinctered, drivelfest, bigoted boors seething with grudge because… well, petty humans can be expected to behave no differently.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and don’t ever forget to push off and start flying when lucidly awakened in the dreamtime.

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Pilgrimage to Windsor… That Dress!

December 7, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Aerial view: Windsor Castle, Berkshire.

In the mad dash to board the train from King’s Cross/St. Pancras Station to Paddington Station, I boarded the wrong train and ended up losing almost of hour of valuable time. Nonetheless to Windsor with me, indeed.

The ride to Windsor was lovely and it was still well before before 1000 when I got into town. So nice to know that a flash of the London Pass gets one into the Castle, plus to see the exhibition of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s wedding finery plus the outfits worn by pageboy, HRH Prince George of Cambridge and the always ‘on’ HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge.

Next, through the hurdle of being scoured by the most thorough security detail; and with good reason too.

The mélange of Chinese, Japanese and Korean dialects made for an interesting symphony of sounds as I made my way past security and onto castle grounds.

I am reminded of Vancouver Island by the hearty vegetation down below.

Nothing is more refreshing than the smell of moss in cooler weather. The air is so fresh here in Berkshire.

The view from the Middle Ward down to St. George’s Chapel; but that’ll come after touring the castle’s state apartments.

The glorious view north across the River Thames to Eton College Chapel… Nothing beats being out on the terrace and looking out to the landscape below.

The view along the terrace towards the entrance to the castle.

Once inside, of course, photography is not allowed. This, understandably, is for security reasons; it is after all the Sovereign’s main residence. Formidable, an entrance indeed. Touring the state apartments, the progression’s starting point was different to previous visits.

Without doubt, I knew that the wedding outfits worn by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex would not be on display in the castle’s Green Drawing Room; there is only one door into said room for the public and the other at the opposite end, leads directly into the Sovereign’s private apartments.

Furthermore, that single door is too narrow to accommodate persons going and coming into the Green Drawing Room, if they were to enter and exit by said door.

Similarly, I knew that the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex could not have been held in St. George’s Hall above. There is simply too much natural light which floods the space; this could actually prove more harm than good – even though it would be best to see the dress in natural light. Moreover, I did not expect that it would be held there as the space is too large and, frankly, with the amount of racially charged animus towards this marriage, it would likely not draw as large a crowd to warrant being staged there. Truth be told, there were no Caucasians viewing the exhibit when I moved through it, than there were East Asian and blacks combined.

I will never forget my confusion on first experiencing The Waterloo Chamber in this lifetime. I just felt as though, perhaps, my sense that I had been to Windsor Castle in prior lives or a lifetime was off. Of course, I would learn that this marvellous salon was installed during HM King George IV’s reign, at which time, I had reincarnated into Barbados, after having been a countertenor at the court of HM King George III and during the early years of his son’s Regency.

Then again, those high-placed windows in the Waterloo Chamber would preclude its assignation as the setting for the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

Though noted for its stunning portraits of both HM Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother and HM King George VI, this room much like St. George’s Hall has too much light exposure.

On entering the long narrow hallway with large windows that look out onto the terrace, the River Thames and the north shore beyond, one happens on a wall of linen panels which cover the floor to ceiling cabinets with priceless china from the Royal Collection.

Imagine all these iconic moments from the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex on hanging linen panels of more than 8 or more feet tall. The effect is warm, enveloping and their size deftly impress on one, the uneclipsed love between these two star-crossed lovers.

Next, into the grandeur of the Grand Reception Room one slips and with the heavy red curtains drawn, the effect is even more stunning. The large chandeliers are softly dimmed and handsomely display the bridal garments of the wedding party.

The embroidery on HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s uniform, to the Queen Mary Diamond Bandeau tiara when seen in intimate detail proved more breathtaking than I had anticipated. Goodness, even the shoes worn by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were exquisite.

What I found most interesting about the dress was its sheer simplicity. The dress serves as a foil for the intricacy of the five metre veil entwined with the fifty-three flowers of the Commonwealth nations, along with the state flower for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s home state of California. Not until in the presence of the dress did its simplicity make sense; the dress is masterfully constructed such that its simplicity reminds one that only the expert craftsmanship of a couturier could have designed and manufactured the dress.

Yet, there was more to the simplicity of this Clare Waight Keller dress for Givenchy and it was not until moving around it a second time that it struck me; the simplicity of the dress speaks to the recent past of Ms. Markle’s African heritage. Its simplicity speaks of the history of a people which was erased, wiped out by the terror of having been robbed and enslaved.

Yet like the simplicity which belies the masterful craftsmanship of the couturiers who created this stunning dress, there is also greatness to a people though reviled, socio-economically oppressed, criminalised, marginalised and made to feel inferior… the same people whose greatness shrines through in Jazz, for one. Remarkably, the simplicity of the dress, is like the sheer eloquence with which HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales sincerely both acknowledged and apologised for the past, which his society and family had contributed to in the immense suffering of Africans; this he did this past autumn when touring West Africa on behalf of HM The Queen.

This was not only not a heavily attended exhibition but, at the time that I moved through it, there was not a single Caucasian viewing the wedding garments. Though many would like to have you believe that there is no basis in race why they dislike Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, that is just a damn lie. Naturally, neither medicine nor academia acknowledges the existence of the racial predator as ‘No’ is the most powerful word when dealing with blacks. Indeed, not until going to St. George’s Chapel after the tour of the castle was concluded, did one see Caucasians in numbers that reflect their proportions in the society. Indeed, unlike previously, one was being fixed with looks that were charged with racial animus.

Though she is now the most reviled black woman on the planet, truth is that the soul who is now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was Margaret Beaufort, Tudor Matriarch: key figure in the War of the Roses, cousin of HM King Henry VI, mother of HM King Henry VII, mentor, counsel and favourite of her grandson, HM King Henry VIII who was much impressed by her focussed untrammelled ambition, great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I.

Without her drive and singleness of purpose, England may still be a Catholic nation and its language may well be French. Nonetheless, such is the rabid, irrational tribalism that is racism; her true nature cannot be perceived by the blind who can never see either the links to the past or the bigger picture.

In the end, I was much inspired for having made this pilgrimage to see this dress, which in its simplicity symbolised hope, atonement and the love of two entity mates who have known each other in twenty prior lifetimes. The simplicity of this dress proved an epiphany.

Statue of HM King Charles II without whose drive, there would have been no Restoration.

View of the round tower on exiting the State Apartments and at the edge of the Quadrangle.

Details of St. George’s Chapel.

Details… and more details.

Even more interesting details…

Sadly, photography is not allowed inside the chapel.

Despite the general seething that being black elicited from most persons here – thanks to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex having married the black woman, I rather enjoyed revisiting the spiritual home of the Knights of the Garter. There is a certain warmth and intimacy to the quire’s dark woods that I favour.

And like that, another day of adventure was completed.

As the train sped back to London, I spotted this queer, though, appealing architectural gem.

As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support and always remember to become awake when asleep into the magical realm of dreams.

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Two Weddings, A Baby, A Gaggle of Racial Predators and Hadrian’s frightful ghost.

October 24, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The recent wedding of the Duke of Huescar to his handsome bride was a stunning bit of theatre. He is, of course, the future Duke of Alba, grandson of one of the grandest nobles of the last century, the inimitable Duchess of Alba.

The cut and design of the bridge’s dress is truly elegant; apparently, it was designed by her creatively gifted mother herself. They make a truly handsome couple.

At this juncture, I have not yet found any video of their nuptials on the Internet; perhaps, it will surface at a later date. The sublime elegance of her dress deftly reflects the undeniable harmony between this couple. So good it is to see a couple of souls who after having suffered lost through death in recent times, return to find each other anew, to further explore their loving bond.

Whilst awaiting the second royal wedding, I passed much time reviewing the coverage of the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex last May. I was ever intrigued at the notion of an even larger guest list for the marriage of Jack Brooksbank and HRH Princess Eugenie of York.

A simple wedding, I was moved by how vastly different it was to that of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s months earlier. The most obvious difference in both ceremonies being the latter’s carriage ride; a rather simple affair. This, of course, was an affair filled with aristocrats – some of whom had attended the earlier wedding last May.

Along with Tom & Lara Inskip and Guy Pelly with a wife more noticeably pregnant, there was the ever stylish Sofia Wellesley, this time equally stunning in a Dolce & Gabbana dress.

Tom & Lara Inskip processing towards the Lower Ward and St. George’s Chapel.

Guy Pelly attending the second royal wedding of the year.

Guy’s expectant wife, Elizabeth Pelly accompanied by Astrid Harbord.

Also, attending their second royal wedding for the year, Zoe & Jake Warren.

Back for more, Pippa Matthews with her younger brother James Middleton with that Tsar Nicholas thing going on with his look. For me, a woman is most beautiful when expectant – fecund, voluptuous, primal she is then most powerful; she is then truly the creator of life. How beautiful is that Kelly green?

Perennial favourite Chelsy Davy with Melissa Percy, who wasted little time in saying, this mum don’t babysit and there went Tom van Straubenzee. Gorgeous periwinkle dress.

Cressida Bonas radiating the light magical essence of artisan souls everywhere.

Franz Albrecht & Cleopatra zu Oettingen-Spielberg, young Bavarian royals attending their second royal wedding at Windsor Chapel this year.

Holly Candy – hands down, the best dressed lady at this royal wedding. Those matching pink bow gloves took her outfit stratospherically to the next level of |über soignée. I really did not think that Amal Clooney deserved that honour at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess; for one thing, her hat was worn on the wrong side of the head – always on the right side!

Coming on strong in second place, like Secretariat was phenomenon, Naomi Campbell. Readily, so many people were carping on about what is she doing at the royal wedding; hello, how many times has Sarah, Duchess of York not been a guest of Ms. Campbell’s whilst holidaying on some yacht or other in the Mediterranean. I love the way that Ms. Campbell feigned disbelief when asked by an attendant to leave the seat in the front row of the royals’ side of the quire where she sat speaking with Crown Prince Pavlos of Greece and his family.

Made in Chelsea star, Oliver Proudlock and his fiancée Emma proved among a couple of the best-dressed men.

Admittedly, though, not the best photograph, the urbane Alexander Gilkes, Paddle8 CEO, arrived in the company of artist Tracey Emin.

Cara Delevigne – another dead-ringer for magical artisan soul with the planet’s most ubiquitous plus-one, Derek Blasberg.

Kate & Lila Moss bringing the glamour.

Poppy Delevigne sporting one of the best fascinators at the royal wedding of Jack Brooksbank and HRH Princess Eugenie of York.

Other notable royals in attendance, Princess Marie-Chantal, Crown Prince Pavlos and their daughter, Princess Maria-Olympia of Greece. Also, the Crown Prince’s younger brother, Prince Philippos of Greece attended.

Lady Gabriella Windsor and her fiancé Timothy Kingston; yet another royal wedding is on the horizon. By far, the most statuesque of the Windsor ladies.

Lady Helen & Timothy Taylor; the minor royals whom we never see enough of. Love her dress.

Ricky Martin and his artist husband.

The always witty thespian, Stephen Fry and his husband, Elliott Smith.

Holly Branson coming through.

And her brother Sam Branson

The irrepressible mother of the bride, Sarah, Duchess of York and her firstborn who seems resigned to the fact that there is always an opening for spinster lady-in-waiting. Back in the 80s when Merlin was then incarnate, I shared with him a dream had that night of ‘Fergie’. Set somewhere in east Africa, she was riding atop the roof of a Land-Rover with several others… it was a dusty, tree-lined road and they were loud, happy persons all – her husband, Lord Porchester’s offspring was not present in the dream. As the vehicle hit a bump in the road, Fergie went flying from atop the vehicle’s roof and landed on her head; it was the most startling affair – we all screamed.

There was deathly silence as her khaki-clad body remained motionless for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, as though jolted by lightning, much as a ginger cat with a few lives yet, Fergie shot to her feet, ramrod straight then began rushing about from one side to the other of the parked Land-Rover, mugging and waving to the perfectly immobile and non-human trees. I awoke from the dream laughing, the image was so bizarre. Seated across the Cabbagetown breakfast table from me, Merlin casually declared whilst remaining focussed on the Globe and Mail in hand, “So that’s how she became unhinged…” Yet again, I was reminded of that dream as Sarah, Duchess of York bounded from the Rolls Royce and made a mad dash, mouth ajar, mugging and waving to god-only-knows whom at the foot of St. George’s Chapel’s west door the day her daughter took possession of her man. This eccentric behaviour, much as in that dream, was on display as she entered the quire at St. George Chapel at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex on seeing Misha Nonoo and her date, oil heir Michael Hess. These days, she always seems only too happy that she has not ended up like Diana, Princess of Wales.

Another soul who seemed spooked to be at the ball was the groom’s gin-blossomed father whose daft expression throughout was more than a tad distracting. One was reminded of how odd Thomas Markle would have looked, had he been allowed to attend the Sussexes’ nuptials.

Here’s to the lovely young couple; here’s to life indeed. Happy for them that they have found each other anew in this life experience. To paraphrase Prince Seeiso of Lesotho when speaking of the Sussexes, I wish them buckets and buckets of healthy, happy children.

Even more glorious than their beautiful wedding was the recent announcement of the pregnancy of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. You cannot begin to fully fathom how excited this makes me for HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. He has always seemed so alone, so vulnerable and emotionally fragile for having suffered the tragic, violent and sudden loss of his fantastic mum at age 12. So happy to know that they will be parents, and so quickly, and am fully confident that they will make the most fantastic parents. What more than two parents truly in love does a child need on coming into this world… again.

In all of this, what has not been cool, has been watching her racially predatory white relatives act as though she is nothing but a runaway slave. There is no doubt in my mind that were the Markles a wealthy family with a net worth of more than 200$m, would any of this acrimonious dreck be taking place. How dare she, the otiose, racially impure step-sibling, Meghan, end up doing better than them in life? Not only had this runaway slave managed to have escaped capture but she had gone and married the scion at an even more wealthy plantation.

Alas, nothing was more abhorrent than having to watch the most venal racial predator interject herself into the Sussexes/Markles’ “drama” as she opined on the ABC TV documentary, The Story of the Royals. So what if a twelve-year-old Meghan Markle wrote to you about a dish detergent ad; she also did same to then First Lady, Hillary Clinton. Straight away, the puppet-master orchestrating the Markle step-family’s media campaign of slander, grudge and none-too-succinct racial predation became fully focussed. Who else but this vile racial predator, who uses the U. S. justice system to wage personal racially predatory campaigns, against blacks with heretofore impeccably clean public personae, seated there in its invisible grand wizard Klansman’s hooded costume, could be directing this media putsch to sabotage the Sussexes’ marriage? Well near the end of the 9th decade of racially obsessing over blacks, you would think that having finished off Michael Jackson, made a joke of Tiger Woods and a jailbird of Bill Cosby would be enough; no thank you, there is bigger game to prey on. Clearly, the clown knows nothing of the BRF.

Enough about those who truly do not matter.

Hier soir, as I live an almost exclusively nocturnal existence, I got into a compensatorily parfumé Uber, driven by a recent Dravidian arrival with rather pleasant overleaves. I was stunned by how much traffic gridlock there was at pushing six in an already dark, autumnal and cool, too, evening. The driver could not figure out why traffic was so bad in Toronto and as I have always been a most vocal backseat driver, I soon began educating him on why Hogtown is the only major North American city without exclusive one-way streets in the downtown core. Back in the 60s through 70s when streetcars were being removed from streets like Avenue Road, Bloor Street, Sherbourne, Parliament, the city’s old WASP guard decided that for nostalgia’s sake some streetcar lines ought to be maintained a little while longer.

Well in excess of 40 years, the city still only has the two subway lines, two million more citizens and what seems like the fungal viral growth of condos. Naturally, the city’s constabulary and the TTC (Toronto Transit Commmission) made an unwritten alliance to keep themselves gainfully profitable by maintaining the streetcar lines that were left. Hence, each summer, kilometres of tracks are ripped up and replaced with the necessity for TTC outdoor workers and police staff on hand to maintain traffic. Well into the 21st century, a woefully inadequate 19th century technology clanks away, holding up traffic and as recently was the case this past monsoon season – climate change is truly upon us – the new streetcars were caught in feet of flooded water with faecal matter afloat their flooded interiors. All this so we never end up with new subway lines, one way streets with the discontinuation of streetcars. At least, Montréal can be commended for having owned up to the crippling corruption at the municipal level of government.

Finally, after directing him along streets that he didn’t even know existed, I got to the southwest corner of University and Queen Street West, hopped out, crossed the city’s widest boulevard and made it into the lobby of the Four Season’s Centre for the Performing Arts at 1831. Lucian Mann-Chomedy who happens to be a scholar in my entity and a professor emeritus at University of Toronto, who also happens to be an unrivalled Voltaire scholar glowed as I dashed inside. We hugged and kissed and it was good to see his eyes light up; he does have more than a passing resemblance to Merlin… vibrationally. Gave him his ticket to the first opera of the season that we’ll be seeing, Hadrian. Whilst he took to the amphitheatre for the pre-opera lecture, I swiftly made it west along Queen Street West and got myself some very deliciously spiced beef teriyaki washed down with a dash of prosecco.

Returned to the theatre, Lucian shared that he found the lecture rather stimulating; heaven only knows what that meant, I was though too busy creating a post of the evening for my Instagram. What then unfolded was the most god-awful unmitigated bullshit conceivable. Look this was nothing more than effete poseurs of Toronto’s gay mafia, throwing government money around to keep their friends afloat. Watching this bit of bold-faced arts larceny was at times cruelly embarrassing. Of course, it was staged by consummate professionals, thus there were truly sublime moments when the production was marvellously realised. However, I was reminded of all those downright dogfests at Toronto Dance Theatre in the 80s – do they even exist anymore – where god-awful retro-Neanderthal movement was set to, of all things, J. S. Bach.

Act I opened with vaguely lissom dancers upstage posing overlong as Roman statuary. Naturally, they were lit such that when they finally began moving downstage on the diagonal, in movement that had been first realised by Vaslav Nijinsky (he is a mature sage, in my entity and currently reincarnated and an actor on the Portuguese stage) a century earlier, you really had to squint and try to make out if they were truly nude. Naturally, there was no such luck. That was just as lame as the opening of Act III after an intermission where there was much cruel laughter at what a dog’s breakfast we were having to slug our way through. There was the none-too-fey/verile or lissom-looking Antinous cavorting on a bed that was reminiscent of a couch I frequented in the late 70s where the city’s only queer psychiatrist and I had an ongoing affair. This bit of uninspired staging in the post-AIDS paradigm was as lame as having to watch two bored manatees going at it. Goddamn, where is the frottage! They seemed to be sleepy hobos, trying to make out which side of the bed they wanted to sleep on rather than obsessed lovers engaging in the gay world’s paedophiliacal obsession – let’s not go there just now.

Well, if you can’t hack a pop career in these parts, the next best thing is, go compose an opera. Lord Jesus… why? I am only too grateful that he didn’t set his sights on appropriating black high art and opting for a Jazz career. Last evening, Tuesday, October 23, 2018 proved without doubt that the kinder of minor Canadian celebrity should never be indulged when they elect to pursue whatever line of work mama or papa pursued. I am reminded of “Bathhouse Pierrette” as he is charitably dismissed, playing party leader in these parts and forever looking gripped by stage fright. I was much humoured this past summer as he followed the future Duke of Sussex about Buckingham Palace at the Commonwealth banquet desperately trying to score an invite to the royal wedding and being clearly snubbed by HRH Prince Henry of Wales who was gruffly dismissive of his attempts to score a pair of tickets – in the 11th hour – for him and his insufferable fag hag wife.

There were points where persons in back of Lucian and me were laughing at how embarrassingly bad the opera was. Small-time, one guy to my rear readily dismissed. Goodness, if there was one more unpleasant reference to “the Jews” in this horrid farce, I was ready to get up and walk out. The opera was frankly a reflection of the archly conservative and frankly sphinctered worldview of Toronto’s incestuous gay elites – many of whom I went through in the 70s through early 80s and who then were just as smegmaed as a can of freshly opened corned beef – those, indeed, were the pre-plague years.

Getting on the elevator to make it to the basement where I collected my pea coat, I remarked, to one woman who asked my verdict, “You know, it would truly have been great theatre if that strobe light in Act IV had suddenly flashed brighter and erased this entire madness from memory. Trust me, dreams are never this bad!” You can fool those of your tightly incestuous social crowd all of the time but never those too shrewd to give a damn about you and your BS.

As ever my darlings, dream like you’ve never dreamt before and by all means, push off and start flying for at least there, you can readily escape the madness that’s got this paradigm saturated to the gills with BS. Thanks so much for your ongoing support, I love you more!

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@ROM

July 26, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Monday past, in a bid to escape the near-insufferable heat – why does it seem to be even hotter at nighttime? – I rode up onto the sidewalk from the bike lane in a bid to park my bike, I was accosted by yet another vile, little, arse-munching, lisping ninny. Why is it that white females and white gays are so quick to be animus-charged and spew so much hate… every frigging time. As you can well imagine, I was quick on the rebuttal with even more forceful vituperative-charged impatience.

This past Pride parade, which I have never once attended, I was being invited to come to march in solidarity with the missing and murdered victims of Toronto’s gay serial killer. Without hesitation, I was almost violent in my refusal to do any such thing.

Two years earlier, whilst returning home from a work gig, I had to cut through the remnants of that year’s pride parade on Wellesley Street East, when just east of Church Street en route home, I had a tall skinhead-looking guy with lots of tatts and no shirt on with rainbow-coloured open leather vest, start shoving my bike, which at the time I was walking rather than riding.

Soon, he began taunting me: “Yeah Bud! All Lives Matter! Next someone in back of me shoved me into him and soon enough, I was being kicked in the arse, shoved, punched and my bike similarly abused. At the end of it, somehow, I managed my way home with bruised pride and a bike, which eventually had to be repaired. Later, when I got home, I discovered that earlier at the start of the pride parade, the Black Lives Matter group had been invited to participate in the march.

Somehow, it was assumed that they had crashed the parade; either way, their presence was clearly not wanted because they were being verbally assaulted and also pelted with water bottles from accounts I learnt from persons, who had witnessed the episode on Bloor Street East at the start of the parade. At the time of the assault that I endured, during which not a single soul on the crowded street and sidewalk did anything to intervene, the attack made no sense; sure, I knew from personal experience that gays are the most racially hostile persons – still, it seemed a bit extreme to be attacked out of the blue.

Like the true Rat that I am, having taken the lisping, arse-munching bigot to task, I slipped into the cool, airy sophistication of the ROM, which lords over that end of Yorkville. I had been intent on seeing the spider exhibition in B2; however, the elevators were not going there. So in the end, I opted go up to level 4 and take in the visionary fashion exhibitions by Iris van Herpen and Philip Beesley.

As previously, I had been so underwhelmed by the Dior exhibition @ ROM, I went into this one expecting very little.

Boy, was I wowed! This was like the most surreal, lucid dream imaginable. Two designs into the exhibition and I had to hightail it to the photograph and bio of the artist; I was readily impressed and warmed by her soulfulness.

This was so phenomenally uplifting an exhibition that I soon turned on John Coltrane’s, who happens to be an entity mate of mine and Merlin’s, 1958 masterpiece, Blue Train.

Those lines! Truly sublime and elegant.

Truly visionary.

Seeing these gorgeous fascinators, I was readily reminded of New York City milliner and friend of Merlin’s, Frederick Jones who – like so many black American friends of both mine and Merlin’s – perished of AIDS in the 1990s.

The fascinators also reminded me of the gorgeous recent royal wedding, which for having looked at it several times to date, I have now noticed more persons than initially on the day of.

What I found truly fascinating was that Charlie van Straubenzee has the exact same facial quirks as does Merlin’s oldest friend; the same shudder followed by mouth and nose-twitching.

Well, after all that, I could not wait to cross to the other salon and discover Philip Beesley’s creative genius.

By this point, I was certain that I would be just as equally wowed!

I was completely besotted!

For this visionary tour de force, I switched to Miles Davis’ 1959 gem, Kind of Blue.

Blow that horn Miles!

Notice the raptor-like birds staking their predatory claim to the fashion victim.

This exhibition was so breathtakingly beautiful, I was left swaying and bobbing, pretty much like Baroness Fellowes to the gospel choir singing, This Little Light of Mine, as her nephew, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex got into the Ascot Landau carriage and the elegantly ravishing Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex wowed the world – I don’t think that I have ever seen a white dress so white; I have been referring to it as supernova white, the damn colour so fiercely popped.

One of the most touching moments at the recent royal wedding was when designer Roland Mouret repeatedly kissed Victoria Beckham on the cheek with his sexually dynamic lover, James Webster, being the centre of my libidinally focussed and undivided attended.

Some of Philip Beesley’s whimsical designs look like something that Isabella Blow would readily have favoured. So sad to have recently lost equally stylish, unique and creative fellow English eccentrics, Annabelle Neilson and Lucy Ferry-Birley.

I really loved this dress.

This masterpiece is truly iconic.

This confection of autumnal oak leaves really moved me.

To truly be appreciated, these next marvellous creations had to have been filmed.

For this series of suspended installations, I listened next to Thelonious Monk’s 1958 masterpiece, Misterioso.

By far, this was one of the most enjoyable exhibitions ever mounted @ ROM.

This truly was amazing! Wow!

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex

Wallis? No, No, No! Try Edward VIII 2.0.

Pilgrimage to Windsor… That Dress!

Two Weddings, A Baby, A Gaggle of Racial Predators and Hadrian’s frightful ghost.

@ROM