Gonna Have A Gay Ole Time in Rio!

Peter Allen – I Go to Rio 1976

That’s right, for this old earth that we so love, we are gonna shoot the jizz in Brasil! We are gonna have us a Gay ole time at the SolarJizz Gala. Without doubt, #peggalicious and his *BAC posse are going to have a riotous time of debauched late night man-on-man loving, whether at Ipanema or Abricó beach. This will be the moving-centred aggressive-sexed one’s liberation and coming out romp through the country that annually hosts the world’s largest Gay Pride parade.

Catherine at Her Most Radiant

If the murmurs are to prove true, in due course, and the Waleses are to be officially divorced, let’s just take this time to salute Catherine. Let me make it perfectly clear, your first impressions matter, though, your opinions of someone’s actions in due course prove them unsavoury. The fact is that in the first minute of this video except from TRH The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding in 2011, one was readily enamoured with Catherine and completely enthralled by her intoxicating allure. What is a woman at her wedding but a Queen being crowned, even Baron Richard Chartres, Bishop of London said as much that day. Look at Catherine’s eyes, she is utterly radiant and magical. It was the most sublime theatre. Catherine has always had great power in her projection of her Michael overleaves, her role in essence and who she has been reincarnationally in the British monarchy. Pupils fully dilated, Catherine was most ravishing.

Catherine in the late 14th century was Mary du Bohun, first wife and Queen of King Henry IV’s. She died during childbirth with Philippa, who became Queen of Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Henry IV is currently, HRH Prince William, The Prince of Wales and her daughter, whom she did not know in that life, is currently her firstborn, HRH Prince George of Wales. Prince George is a fourth Mature King, and his closeness to his father is as much to do with a rich past-life history as it does William’s responsibility to groom Prince George to be sovereign in due course.

Catherine Snubs William

Not only are Catherine and William task companions, but she is a warrior soul to his scholar soul; they are also mature souls, which is beset by tempestuous emotionality and drama. There are two soul bonds that are most trying, yet the most compelling, that of task companions and essence twins. It is the one soul to whom you are most intensely bonded each time you encounter regardless the outward relationship when incarnate. Famous essence twins were Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, which is why they remarried and had such a volatile relationship. Essence twins are consumed with each other, especially when in a physical/romantic relationship to the exclusion of all others in their lives, especially so children. Less intense, but by no means not intense, is the relationship of task companions. Catherine is a fifth mature warrior and William and sixth mature scholar.

Regardless their sex, a warrior is always the dominant partner in any relationship whether as lovers, parent/child, friend/foe. Catherine having an energy body of 9 makes her steely and formidable foe for William or anyone. In the GIF above, William is being submissive to Catherine and his goal of acceptance plus is energy body of three (peacemaker, gracious, tactful, but archly manipulative, duplicitous when negatively focussed) is dowsed by Catherine’s brittle 9 energy body. Catherine’s mindset of 1 leaves her ruggedly individualistic and not given to be ‘out there’ or ‘on.’ Persons with 1 mindset are not social butterflies and would prefer nothing better than to stay indoors and let the world “go fuck right off” – this is why Catherine was dubbed ‘Princess Do-Little by The Late Queen Elizabeth II. Catherine is a warrior and knows her power. As of July 22, 20213, she became the most powerful woman in the House of Windsor, even more so than The Queen – she became future king mother.

Get Off Me!

As the preceding clip validates, William with his 9 mindset is quite capable of giving as good as he gets. 9 energy is about being fault-finding, nitpicking, difficult, snobbish, boorish, shit-disturbing, obstreperous. It is virtually impossible to cohabit with a person who is 9 energy anything, however, when you have a couple who both have 9 in their numerology and they happen to be task companions, you can expect nothing but prickly, combustible relations at least once per week. 9 energy is simply exhausting. It has not been easy for Catherine, but she is a warrior and will always give as good as she gets. Task companions, even if they mate for life, will at some point have to live separately to avoid destroying each other or simply imploding of exhaustion. In the case of Catherine and William they each need an ‘out’ from each other; how they manage to, is their business. However, it is plain to see that William has had enough of putting up with shit; he was simply not brought up to take shit from anyone.

There has been serious disruption in their relationship and it is hard to know whether she suffered a breakdown when slapped with a demand for a separation or divorce; perhaps King Charles simply wants them not to make his waning years wrought with the same drama that plagued his mum’s reign as he fought and destroyed, in tandem with Queen Camilla, Diana, Princess of Wales’s life. Ultimately, William is the product of a divorce, so he may well see himself entitled to walk away from a problem marriage just as much as his father did. Too, there is the matter of his being heir and having the right to dispense with a wife, if he’s had enough. William is the principal and whatever he does, the kingdom with slavishly obey and support him in his wishes.

Easter Sunday 2025 Royal Family St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle

There were two lies widely disseminated about the Waleses not being in attendance at Easter Sunday service, 2025. William does not like going to church. The Waleses chose to spend Easter with Catherine’s family in Bucklebury. Naturally, after having been exposed for being on their second skiing holiday weeks earlier, the Waleses nor their gutter press henchmen could not speciously allege that they were away, owing to Catherine’s cancer recovery, leaving her a bit under the weather. Her sister, Philippa Matthews has already outed Catherine’s cancer fakery by stating to the press that Catherine has not been ill in the traditional sense. Hours later, Catherine’s sister Philippa’s remarks disappeared from the press. Naturally, William has recently consulted the legal firm which his late mother, whom he dismissed as paranoid, Diana, Princess of Wales’s employed during her divorce. Of course, Catherine has not attended the last two state banquets as separated or divorced royals can no longer wear tiaras.

Drunk and barefooted in Courchevel. Skiing cancer break. Predatory in Birmingham

Second skiing trip of the year, in between which was a jaunt to Mustique for the cancer-faker to sun herself and not give a damn about the little people. I just don’t get how The Waleses have such open contempt for the kingdom. Stop making excuses for William stating that he did not attend Easter Sunday service 2025 because he does not like going to church. That is his duty as heir and future sovereign as Supreme Governor of the Church of England. Granted that Easter Sunday service is classified as a family event; however, both Sovereign and heir have attended for the optics of it. Let’s also not forget that William is not a cancer sufferer, despite how gaunt and god awful he looks on meeting Trump at the Paris embassy in December, 2025, which is more likely due to his alcoholism. However, if as Poland and Vladimir Putin have openly stated that they know that Charles is not William’s father, even going so far as to state that his father is 4th Baron Rothschild, that would certainly explain his disinterest in having to attend church services. I might also add, there is much credence given to those claims when William bears an uncanny resemblance to a famous Canadian Ashkenazy film industry professional’s son.

Mere Milquetoast William Brusquely Dismissed by the Felon Boor

Just look at the way the lightweight, royal poseur and as claimed, interloper, is dismissed and shoved out of the way by the felon, who has evaded justice thanks to the power of racism in America. William is gaunt, looks unwell or it may well be that he’s just a damn drunk. As ever, the energy body of 3, has him do his studied hand-clasping routine to no effect as Trump knows that there is no one more important than himself, positively no one. All the world is a stage, indeed, and at that level of society there are no secrets. Trump would turn on William in a nanosecond if it suited his agendum at the moment. William has no cache; he’s built up no capital as a statesman. He has kept his sniffing, twitchy interloper ghoulish hide in the wings, too afraid and unaware of the bigger picture to ever venture centre stage.

Trump, Macron, Zelensky. No William

The Daily Mail’s specious assertions that William at Pope Francis’s funeral proved himself an elder statesman who had the forethought to bring Presidents Trump and Volodymyr Zelensky together, is pure sophistry. William was never present and why would he be, all three men do not waste their time, thinking of William as a statesman; William is not. The thing about all 3 energy body persons is that they are also the most charming, totally superficial and polished operators. To the core, though, they are each one, the most backstabbing duplicitous and manipulative energy body you’ll ever encounter. To be sure, the most dominant statesman with the keenest, shrewdest intellect is Macron. Notice that he declined shaking Trump’s hand. Macron knows that Trump is a damn fool and a menace. Macron shook Zelensky’s hand to remind him not to take the fool seriously and that no matter what, those who matter have Zelensky’s back, not Trump. Trump is energy body of 5 – liar, fool, crazy and dangerous. Zelensky is energy body of 7 – amoral, cutthroat and survivalist. Marcon is energy body of 3, the most ruthless, strategic, and purposeful assassin of the lot.

King George V has the exact same numerology as Prince William. Added to all, that William is a sixth mature Scholar soul who is moving centred. This is someone who not only screams and is difficult in the extreme, the saying shoots first then asks later, is endemic of persons who are moving centred. This, of course, was borne out in Prince Harry’s SPARE when he told of the kitchen incident at Nottingham Cottage when William confronted Harry, assaulted him, shoved him to the floor then quickly recoiled afterwards and demanded that he not speak about it to Meghan. The incident validates exactly what someone who is 3 energy bodied and moving centred would do in such a situation. Also, William has a goal of acceptance, in the positive pole, these are the kindest, gentlest most loving persons; however, in the negative pole, they slip to its opposite goal of Rejection and do just that with everyone… everything. William when encountered in dreams is always focussed in his goal of acceptance. William, though, is a scholar soul and there are more assassins, bullies, executioners, gangsters, serial killers who are scholars than not – they do not do emotions. They simply do not care. Queen Camilla is also a scholar soul, which explains why she was so driven and obsessed with stalking and literally driving Diana, Princess of Wales out of her life. In this life, William has chosen a goal of acceptance to temper his innate inability to care, give a damn and not be arrogant as all hell. Obviously, one of the reasons why he has a drinking problem is because he is so rarely focussed in his goal of acceptance. All the ‘drama’ against the Sussexes is manipulated by him; he is excessive in the extreme. It does not help that he is on the spectrum as this would mean an almost diabolical obsession with Meghan as we see being played out. Unmistakably, William’s callous dismissal of Harry and his Black wife, is precisely like King George V’s response to the Romanovs, his relatives, “Let them eat lead!” In essence, William sees Harry with his Black wife and their son, Prince Archie, whom he dismissed by stating, “I’m already an uncle,” as much a liability for the House of Windsor’s image as George V saw the equally foreign, Russian relations, Tsar Nicholas II and his entire family. The specific combination of the four numbers 2, 3, 5 and 9 has the exact motivation and results for both King George V and Prince William, The Prince of Wales, which in their case is: 3.9.2 = 5.

Meghan: It’s Your Brother, I’m Not Going to Say Anything about Your Brother

Meghan, possessed of master number 11, displays a greater intellect than William or Catherine. With that statement by Meghan, “It’s your brother, I’m not going to say anything about your brother. It’s so obvious.” Meghan displays her mettle and her superior intellect. Meghan is more shrewd than any other member of the House of Windsor and they know it. She terrifies them, yet she has said nothing save elegantly state fact in the most poised manner before Oprah and the world. That interview is an historic document which will be celebrated, in time, for what a master strategist Meghan is. She was after all the Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I.

Paris Match April 2, 2025 Edition

Another display of William’s controlling, duplicitous energy body of 3 on display occurred when this exposé of him and family on their second skiing holiday of 2025 appeared. This, of course, occurred weeks after they had been to Mustique; she, cancer-faker Catherine, likely laid around in the sun, being thermoregulatory aka sunbathing – reptilian that she is, and likely without a hat. I know of no one with cancer who goes skiing twice in as many months with a sunbathing holiday thrown in for relief. William has been incandescent with rage and threatened legal action for the French publication having invaded his privacy.

Catherine Visits with Scouts

Naturally, this was good for the idle arrogant principals to have released an old video of #sportykate getting down with the Scouts. Purely PR, the scout visit video dropped a week after the Paris Match exposé, though, the visit had occurred the month prior. That’s right, nothing to see here, move along and go lynch the #yank. What these not very bright third-tier pantomime players do not realise, is that in releasing this tawdry video in response to the Paris Match exposé, proves that Catherine has not been sick with cancer. Her sick subplot has been about buying her damage repair and an overhaul of her image, in response to the racist royals exposé in Omid Scobie’s Endgame.

Cancer-Stricken Catherine Initiates Kiss with Female Wimbledon Champion 2024

When you need an excuse to counter why you have refused to tour predominantly Black Commonwealth nations in Africa, you make it so that you are too ill to even do a full schedule of royal engagements within the kingdom. Post disappearing act, the pantomime’s thermoregulatory reptilian, Catherine, now does Trooping the Colour, St. Patrick’s Day, Remembrance Sunday and her wishy-washy Christmas Carol nonsense, which unsurprisingly is about as engaging as she is charismatic.

Going to Rio!

Having launched a not too successful hostile takeover of Sentebale, along comes #peggalicious drunkenly flexing. With an obligatory Black woman in the announcement, fiendishly the Windsor interloper gloats at his latest attack on Harry’s superior accomplishments as he announces his latest vanity venture, which is truly an ode to folie de grandeur.

Darlings Sip Your Tea

As the drunken interloper can’t for a nanosecond stop obsessing over Meghan, the wayward bastard has sprung for more drama. That’s right, the 9 mindset and that drama-crazed 5 fourth number lusts for more than just debauched sex; it also wants revenge against the Negro Yank that dare try to enter the Guglielean court. Absolutely not! Under no circumstances is the fourth baron’s bastard suffering any such indignity… just imagine the Vesuvian screams every time that delicate, spectrum fare #peggalicious experiences at the thought of Meghan, let alone Meghan failing to be bothered by his lunatic existence, after having very firmly, a tone filled with rumbling tectonics, stating, “If you don’t mind, keep your finger from my face…”

Lizard-Lipped Hillbilly

So like a loyal sex slave, with the sort of pretty Jo-Beth Vance eyes, to be bearded and moustachioed; all the better to tickle the rim with bristly stubble. This grovelling nez brun, like pure white Texas calla lily, has the flute of its two major orifices – anus and mouth – stuffed and pegged good by fingers, fist and cock as the Guglielean court has taken febrile debauched shape. There is positively nothing about this no-chinned, snivelling kiss-ass that says that he did not spend his youth in America, passionately consumed with racially predatory animus towards Blacks. Finally at the ass-sniffing Guglielean court, he’s flowered into quite the malodorous specimen; indeed, this is no mere calla lily, he’s nothing but a stinking, showy agave Americana. The easiest thing for the White tribe to do, in their obsession with Blacks, is tell a lie and readily, they’ve long assumed that it will be either believed or true for saying so.

Gay Ole Brasileiro

That’s right, girlfriend, you take the Guglielean court’s harem of *BAC and go to Rio and have yourselves a Gay ole time. Thermoregulating your reptilian, no-calved, flat-assed, clit-nosed, lizard-lipped melanin-deficient freakdom at Ipanema then partying long into the night, pegged, bothered whilst having a well-fisted drunken, wasted time of it after the SolarJizz prize, is ultimately where it is at. Darling long before you reincarnated cum interloper, we’ve been there, done that… you are neither a mystery nor are we fooled. Go on, Jacob Lusk, take us to church and sing these tired fools to the back of the bathhouse…

Bennie and the Jets by Jacob Lusk Library of Congress Gershwin Prize
São Paulo Gay Pride. Brasil…

That’s right, flying down to Rio, in the country with the largest Gay Pride parade, if not the planet’s largest Gay population. Though it is now impossible to find, back in 2023, there was a revelatory video of #peggalicious at SolarJizz in Singapore where he had a member of his entourage who was seen walking a few paces ahead, energetically get the attendant crowds to start screaming, clapping and going into sycophantic meltdown as the charisma-challenged interloper approached.

Adrienne Warren TINA The Musical Royal Variety Performance 2018

Not only was this a great performance – those chops, but Harry & Meghan were the royals in attendance that night in November, 2018. I could not manage a ticket to the Aldwych Theatre production when visiting in November, 2018; I would love to have seen her commanding performance.

Prince Andrew, Duke of York 19.2.1960 Year of the Rat 1.3.1 = 5

Well, what have we here, on the magnificent day of the funeral of Pope Francis – a truly beautiful and unsurpassed affair, Andrew was suddenly uppermost in everyone’s consciousness. It was only the weekend prior that the delusional boor was front and centre at the Easter Sunday service at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. Perhaps, this was an attempt to rehabilitate his image and welcome him back into the royal fold; however, a week later the tide has definitely turned. Rather conveniently, the suicide of the American trafficked by Jeffrey Epstein with an unsavoury and undeniable association to Andrew had suicide. Certainly, it all stinks and it was HLM, Queen Elizabeth II who paid off the trafficked American woman 13£m.

Palais des Festivals, Cannes

What was to be expected was that product of 182 years of reparations to Britons for the financial blow to them, for having mightily profited from the enslavement of Blacks, to raise her rear right leg and engage in classist condescension. True to form, there was viscomtesse Victorianus de Herpees copping hauteur and feigning compassion about the trafficked American’s suicide, which without doubt does not pass the sniff test. Of course, one could expect nothing less from the Cannes Festival yacht-hopping zombie. To look at it, you just know that like a urinal in a high-trafficked, very cruisy washroom, it’s perpetually pissed on and full of cum. Enough about bipedal urinals. How exactly are the Fleet Street abattoir hacks and the senior royals going to address this obvious wrinkle in Andrew’s rehabilitation? What new plot twist next for the macabre pantomime?

Reptilian humanoids from Luigi Serafini’s Codex Seraphinianus

It is abundantly clear to those who choose to perceive that some are decidedly not like us. They who thermoregulate are remarkably queer. They are also clearly of reptilian stock, which is why they are consumed with thermoregulating; it is in their genes. The too-short arms, the legs sans calves, the smell, the thin reptilian lips and the need to be ever focussed in the reptilian brain stem – violent, predatory… indeed, cannibalistic.

Naomi Campbell Met Gala 2019

May 2019, After Meghan wedded Prince Harry and became the first Black royal in the House of Windsor, Pierpaolo Piccioli had Naomi star in his stunning campaign that year, which predominantly featured Black models for the Valentino haute couture show. It was stunning. So then look at the old reptilian Hollywood casting couch worker in back, hissing away. Desperately, she is trying to get into the shot but she knows Naomi will have none of it, and why should she? All that casket fugitive had ever done was banged what few Straight actors there were in Hollywood, most notably Warren Beatty, yet he still never her had her star in any of his films. Fast forwards a couple of years and there is the clit-nosed thermoregulating reptilian – they with the skin that does not fare too well with age (ew) and she is out front hissing and lynching Meghan at every opportunity. Notice the way she flicks the fan because, how dare ‘she’ Naomi, get all that attention when she is nothing more than those of enslaved stock. Work that fan, you blasted oxygen thief. Go on, your shadow’s tired of your reflection in the mirror, it’s warming your casket.

Leopold 9.4.1835 Year of the Goat 9.4.3 = 7. Catherine 9.1.1982 Rooster 9.1.3 = 4

One of the hallmarks of persons with an energy body of 9, is that they are incredibly racist… regardless of race. 9 energy body persons are ruthless, cold, sadistic, vengeful and given to being violent, bullying. Of course, one only ever hears of Meghan being bullying, which is truly all about #peggalicious and his #mumblelina beard projecting like mad. Leopold II was not only racist but he went to great lengths to make sure that there were no historical ambiguities about his racist convictions. As future King Mother, Catherine too is possessed of immense power and given her chance to flex her reptilian claws, well of course she would readily do so. After all, it is not as though Meghan were of Jewish heritage… far from it. Moreover, Catherine and Leopold II have three numbers in common. If you want to know what Leopold II was like to some degree but not exactingly so, as they do not have the same numbers in same positions as George V & Prince William, take a keen look at Catherine. Both Catherine and Leopold II have/had 9 and 3 in the same position with the third number they share, 4, in different positions but they numerologically are/were rather similar.

TRH Prince & Princess of Wales, William & Catherine

Not for a second does one forget or cut these two slack for their racially predatory ugliness towards not just Meghan, but Harry too. The magic, theatre and allure that was a royal wedding – that once in a generation spectacle that we had last witnessed with Charles and Diana, was upon us, 14 years ago. Now here was a brunette, with sparkling eyes and radiant smile with a long, delicate neck. She was, at her wedding, perfection in her Alexander McQueen haute couture; she glowed and was ravishing on April 29, 2011 – the feast day of St. Catherine of Siena. Then, from the start in the carriage ride to Buckingham Palace from William initially sitting incorrectly, to not waiting until Catherine was sat before doing so, but they rowed all the way down the mall to Buckingham Palace. This is the push-pull nature of the task companion relationship. They have been openly hostile towards each other; they are both possessed of 9 energy and do not give a damn what their public displays look like. So on the occasion of their fourteenth wedding anniversary, not only is the cancer-stricken Catherine been on two skiing trips this year, but she has also been to indulge in some reptilian thermoregulating in Mustique, but now here she is openly drinking in public. No other royal woman has been more photographed not just with drink in hand but openly drinking than Catherine. Catherine is, among other things, a drunk – thereby discrediting the notion that she has been cancer-stricken all this time. They are, fourteen years on, not close. William hands are always clasped and never engaging her. Even when they were stood with backs to the camera, in the money shot, William chose to look down rather than at her or with head lovingly, protectively leaning in towards her.

BBC Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, William and Catherine

As I am a keen observer of human behaviour and also a hopeless romantic, at least thrice annually, I look at the Cambridges’ wedding. Similarly, I do the same for TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussexes’ wedding. Weddings are a beautiful human ritual; these royal weddings are also about observing human inter-dynamics, society and Britain’s class system. Regardless the strained relations between both royal brothers and their families, they are still Diana, Princess of Wales’s sons and for that reason, I will never tire, looking at both their weddings and, beyond their flaws, not see the beauty of their late mum in them. Watching their weddings always reminds me how much, Diana, Princess of Wales was a positive force in the world. Do not ever forget what Harry said to Oprah, and in this case, William does not get to get away, leave from the woman who stalked his mother, broke up her marriage and caused unimaginable pain – the pain of betrayal which William has been left to re-enact with his brother, Harry.

Ella Fitzgerald LIVE in Sweden. 1963

Ella Fitzgerald – Vocals

Don Abney – Piano

Ray Brown – Bass

Jo Jones – Drums

Herb Ellis – Guitar

Roy Eldridge – Trumpet

Oscar Peterson – Piano

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*BAC – backward-pussied, ass-eating, cocksuckers, of which #Peggalicious’s posse includes the foxy but straight-acting, Christian type, The Duke of Buckingham & Norfolk, Jaysun Nuffnuff – the chinless hillbilly fabulist, Jasmine middlebottom, the aggressive bottom retriever. There are others, of course, but they all have this much in common – they are all dark-haired, favour beards, moustaches and are passionately obsessed with dining out en derrière.

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You are to Jazz what wings are to an ostrich; what the fuck do eagles care that queer, unaware ostriches have wings?

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & 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!

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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

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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!  

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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.  

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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. 

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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.  

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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. 

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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“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.  

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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. 

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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. 

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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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