Chapter 11: Conditional "access"
(Thank you for tolerating a Christmas, New Year + recess. Today and tomorrow will be the final chapters whereupon the entire book will be uploaded in PDF).
“….If I were the devil I’d soon have families at war with themselves, churches at war with themselves, and nations at war with themselves; until each in its turn was consumed. And with promises of higher ratings I’d have mesmerizing media fanning the flames. If I were the devil I would encourage schools to refine young intellects, but neglect to discipline emotions — just let those run wild, until before you knew it, you’d have to have drug-sniffing dogs and metal detectors at every schoolhouse door…”
Paul Harvey, If I Were the Devil, 1965
“Before we get into the agenda,” the young American CEO said in the Zoom AGM broadcast, “I’ve taken the step of introducing an emergency item.” Along with me, there were probably 300 people or so watching. This was July 2020, just gone 11 pm UK time. “Please welcome our Chief Culture Officer, recently appointed, Ms. Brandi al-Moosa. Brandi has a few things to say about events in the world and Brandi…” the CEO stopped and cleared his throat, “I want to let you know this. We have seen, we are listening and we are here for you.”
At that, a window emerged on the screen and an expressionless, slightly menacing, buxom African American woman assumed the main presentation block of the call. I sent a WhatsApp to a friend, also a shareholder, whose name I’d seen on the participant list earlier. “WTF? Lol.”
Sitting in - presumably - her home office, Brandi al-Moosa didn’t thank the CEO. She breathed out deeply looking disgusted, then lifted her chin.
“The events of the last few days did not happen in a vacuum.”
Her eyes darted from the computer’s camera. She was reading something.
“Anti-black racism has killed the world. Anti-black racism has stripped us of agency power and a future. Anti-black racism in America means that our people are killed by police or thrown in jail for life. There was no end of slavery. We have always been the subject of a silent genocide but the truth is slavery never ended. We continue to suffer abuse and low wages…”
I sent another message: “Fucking seriously? (Head exploding emoji)” But Brandi continued: “The pandemic exposed inequalities but what happened in Minneapolis reveals something else about the world. What happened there…” she took a breath, “…reveals that God is dead.”
The moderators had muted everyone’s microphones.
“The pandemic also taught us about the importance of the scientific community and the consensus there is that racism is a public health crisis. So if the world must move forward it should do so under the leadership of people willing to admit what its biggest problem is.”
The moderators had also turned off the comment function.
“In the light of the murder of our brother George Floyd and in our realization that a brutal oppressive system killed him and others, including Brianna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery we are making the following declaration. We will introduce every single member of our 400 staffers, in the US and elsewhere to regular inherent bias training and secondly we will donate $250,000 to an organization working on reforming judicial practice.”
She nodded, then switched off her screen. Then Brandi al-Moosa was gone. After the call I remembered that half the staff were lowly-paid programmers based in Estonia. My friend Whatsapp’d me: “Yeah Brandi…um…good luck with your training in Tallinn. That’ll be fun to watch.”
*
There are two times in my life when I’ve felt sorry for God. The first was when I saw a film called “The Deal” about a dinner at an Italian restaurant in Islington called Granita, where Tony Blair and Gordon Brown were supposed to hammer out a succession strategy. According to the writer Rod Liddle, Blair kept excusing himself - wait for it - to pray in the toilet (“no doubt, admonishing the Almighty on where He was getting it wrong”).
The second was in April 2018, driving back from France through the East End’s Blackwall tunnel. I was listening to BBC Radio 4, when the subject of Mr. Megan Markle’s upcoming wedding to Princess Harry arose. The presenter was interviewing the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, who would be officiating the upcoming Royal Wedding. “I am finding inspiration,” Justin squeaked, “through the words of Stormzy”. The grime artist Stormzy, real name Michael Ebenezer Kwadjo Omari Owuo Jr, is not the sort of person whom you’d think an auspicious clergyman would seek “inspiration” from. Grime music, supposedly a genre, is especially popular in inner city ghetto youth culture, where young, mostly black gang members dress in balaclavas before rapping explicit threats toward their postcode enemies: “I’ll wet ya waste man.” The “song” is filmed, then uploaded onto YouTube - the same place where you cannot publish any information contrary to WHO instructions - and received by the enemies of the gang. The results of what follows are sometimes located in CCTV footage of a London chicken shop, where the gang making the threats encounter the people they threatened, or visa versa. Machetes are drawn, and the next thing face of a young victim appears in the local newspapers with a statement from a programmed Metropolitan Police Commander: “Femi was well loved by a community speechless with shock at his stabbing. His friends are devastated and we extend our sympathies. Femi had dreams about studying advanced wave propulsion theory. We have lost yet another young life to senseless knife crime.”
Then, as is now, Justin was overcompensating. He was an oil man you see, but not just any oil man - he was a BP boss who just so happened to have been educated at Eton. And before today’s automatons start getting all snooty about irrelevance, he was an Etonian BP boss whose mother was a personal secretary to Winston Churchill. If this isn’t enough, he was a bastard too, the son of one Anthony Montague Brown, who was the private personal secretary of Winston Churchill. Churchill’s private and personal secretaries drank heavily, and Justin was the result of a drunken encounter, possibly on a desk in Whitehall. Only in 2016 did DNA tests confirm this, but word is that Justin always held an unnerving resemblance to Anthony, and whenever he’d rock up to tea parties hosted by friends of his mother, the oldies would sit under trees in the garden eating scones sympathizing with the predicament the future Archbishop of Canterbury found himself in: “Look at that poor bastard wandering aimlessly around the garden. Who is going to tell him?”
Justin’s appointment as Archbishop in 2013 wasn’t without controversy. The Church was now led by an old Etonian company man deeply connected to Whitehall. The runner-up - Justin’s competition for the position - was a black fellow called John Sentamu. John was born in Uganda and tried his bit as a lawyer resisting Idi Amin’s regime, which provided a much harder reality experience than Justin’s mollycoddled-from-the-truth existence; there were nights in his past when he feared he be woken up at 2 am and forced to eat his own testicles. In 2005 he became the Archbishop of York. In 2013, John was blamed for not having responded appropriately to a story of how a vicar buggered an altar boy; at the time, the country was wading through Jimmy Savile’s noncing rap sheet (you can just imagine a PSA in BBC HQ at the time: “Will all television and radio presenters aged over 70 please report to your nearest police station”). With that foremost in the collective consciousness, Justin pipped John, and John was compensated with a peerage.
For Justin, 2020 started badly and got worse. The Church of England (C of E), despite the idea that it should, in theory, be equal (at the very least) to $cience by way of influence, kneeled before the coof panic and the doors of parishes across the country were shuttered.
Consider that for a second, then put yourself in the shoes of an octogenarian living in London. You’re absorbing unsustainable amounts of catastrophe porn every day, courtesy of the never, ever acceptable Piers Morgan and the BBC, the government has imposed distancing rules upon you that they don’t abide by, you can’t see your grandchildren and the only thing that makes sense in this hysterical matrix is the place you visit on Sundays. “No worries,” one of the more progressive morons at the C of E announced during the carnage, “We’ll do Zoom sermons”.
When George Floyd died, Justin was one of the first out the blocks, portraying white people in the manner of 1990s Hollywood scriptwriters composing treatments about South Africa - evil and depraved. In June, Justin came up with a brilliant idea: why not encourage people to see Jesus as a black fellow? “We should stop,” he shrieked, “believing in the present interpretation of Jesus’ skin color.” The statement coincided with an idea that parishes be free to post “Black Lives Matter” posters on their notice boards. As evil begets evil, commercial PRIDE piggy-backed on BLM, and the next thing priests were waving the intersectional flag in churches, or wearing them around their necks.
Justin’s turn in behavior knew no bottom. In an interview in the fall of 2020 with the BBC, the subject of forgiveness was raised. In defiance of the (actually) documented scriptures, Justin declared that forgiveness was only possible with penance. It took me a moment to digest what he was trying to say: not only must whitey beg black people for forgiveness but accompany it with some sort of liquidity event. At this point, churchgoers were fed up and Justin’s strategy was exposed: his turn toward BLM was because of dropping numbers in the congregations (that’s what happens when you tell all those little old ladies to get lost). To “save” the Church, he sought to invite a group inside who didn’t believe in God and who wanted to destroy the nuclear family and its extensions. This is similar to Jeremy Corbyn’s strategy during his time as leader of Labour: there were only a few hundred thousand Jews in Britain (Labour was supposedly the political home of the British Jew), but there were millions of Muslims. Obviously, he reasoned, they can’t co-exist, so out with the smaller old, and in with the bigger fashionable. It was absolute madness, and only a man who made a fortune pumping oil but now shrieked about climate change could have the nerve to undertake such an exercise.
Only in extreme circumstances - for example Rwanda - should the Church intervene in the daytime hours of politics. But this hard-learned truth doesn’t appear good enough for Justin, and these days he busies himself with refugee lobbying - describing the UK government’s response, which includes accommodation, money, phones, and even dentistry dished out on new arrivals from Middle Eastern and African countries - as “abhorrent”. Or not enough. The net result is that Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, is held in similar contempt to Ireland’s polyamorous Prime Minister, Sadiq Khan, Justin Trudeau, “Dr” Jill Biden, and Secretary of Transport in the United States, Pete Buttegieg (and his monkeypox sparring partner) - among others. This is a deep, unresolved tragedy that has yet to run its course: when the spiritual head of a country’s primary belief reverts to false dichotomies, the perpetuation of victimhood, and the emphasis upon “equity” as it relates to the Church, we are in big trouble.
*
In 2020 we needed God. In 2020, amidst the slamming of doors and the spiritual isolation of the vulnerable, $cientist activists started their crusade in attempting to usurp that which we reserve for our meditation. $cience was a much more reasonable explanation for the world - look at Richard Dawkins, they said, of course, we’re not mad about the stuff he says about Muslims, but he’s right about there being no God. We needed God in 2020 not just for hope and our sanity and our comfort, but because we realized - if silently - that we’d reached something of a cul de sac: all of our trust in democracy, the idea that we elect people to represent us and those people do nothing but that, all of our taxes used in a manner that supposedly benefits society, or maintains it, was quickly shattered. The people we had appointed were lazy, stupid and scheming; the money we had taken off us - wasted. For the first time in many of our lives, we were staring into something we thought impossible: the realization we didn’t know what we were doing, and the dread of inevitable consequences to that uncertainty. We needed God.
So some of us went out to find Him, all in our own, probably insignificant ways. Fortunately, some things were able to guide us; ironically, these came from real science.
By the time I’d met the woman who was to become my wife, there was a life’s work of housekeeping to be done. In preparation for my wedding in September 2018, I went out for dinner with one of my groomsmen, then 82, who had written a weekly column for The Spectator since the year I was born - halted only to accommodate the prison sentence he received for forgetting to dispense with an envelope containing cocaine from his dinner jacket pocket while passing through customs at Heathrow. We sat down at 5 Hertford Street and he immediately warned me not to get married by the C of E. “Maniacs,” he said, “the whole bloody lot.” He went on to tell me stories he received from readers of his column, moaning about whimpering they had witnessed in the pulpit, where the vicar may as well have started beating himself with a sjambok for being white.
A terrible scenario dawned upon us: my wife was Republican, her family also - including some well-to-do southern folk with impeccable manners, so our guests would be a combination of sensible South Africans and sensible Americans complemented by sensible Europeans - all of whom would be horrified were the official marrying us to fly off in the manner of Ian Paisley shouting his head loose on the subject of homosexuality in Northern Ireland back in 1977. We got so jumpy at the prospect that we drank a bottle of tequila. “No,” I said trying to calm down, “can’t risk it.”
So my wife and I married in the beautiful Marylebone Town hall. The person who officiated the actual, erm, “contract”, was a small Indian lady - it was technical and efficient but classy and short, with readings from Ernest Hemingway, Alexandre Dumas and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
But something had been troubling me at the same time. My mother had died with only one month’s notice at the end of the previous year and there were things I saw in her eyes in the minutes leading up to her departure that convinced me she was going somewhere. Or she was convinced. Then in 2020, on a weekend away in the magnificent Cotswolds, I met the owner of an art gallery in Picadilly.
*
Our host was a former civil servant who had been decorated with those letters nobody outside the civil service understands. Whilst he encouraged everyone to observe the stupid rules at the time, the same did not apply to him - or his friends, which I felt was ok. To his country house that weekend, he had invited another couple.
I was cautioned the man from the other couple - the owner of the gallery - was perpetually retiring, and didn’t make much of an effort with people. This is immediately, always alarming: people will always forgive you within reason for most human indiscretions - the exception being not making an effort. He had been something else in his life, and over the following days I found out what that was. He was once a “Sindonologist” in a previous career- someone whose work it was to study the Shroud of Turin, the material that captures the image of Christ. He’s wasn’t generous at first, but as we walked through the English countryside in its spectacular stages of near fall over those days, he opened up and talked about his upbringing. He had been born in Lebanon to a Muslim father; one night his English mother one night escaped that mad place and fled to Britain with her two infant boys.
Much of his life, he explained, had been devoted to the debunking of organized religion. He had studied Chemistry at Oxford, where he’d participated in nearly every debate involving religion, if not as a speaker, then assisting the respective speaker with material of the view that there is just no God. It was his association with Oxford that offered him the opportunity to make a living from his life interest - in 1998, Oxford University, along with the British Museum, embarked on a process to authenticate the Shroud of Turin, considered by many to reveal the face of Jesus Christ.
To undertake such an exercise involved, amongst other things, carbon dating techniques. Remaining impartial was a firm requirement but as the process moved on, he noticed blatant corruption in the methodology, all of which pointed toward the conclusion he felt the leads wanted: the declaration that the Shroud was a forgery. Whilst he was a committed atheist, he maintained his scientific integrity to purpose (some years later, in 2010, he’d feel a strong sense of deja vu when emails were leaked from the University of East Anglia’s Climatic Research Unit revealing climatologists deliberating cooking the books on global warming. With the help of the BBC and the billionaire green energy/hedge fund boss Jeremy Grantham, the climatologists at the heart of this scandal eventually managed to portray themselves as the victims, and all was forgotten). As the process of authentication progressed he became more uncomfortable; $cience was failing to provide the explanations and clarity it was supposed to, or rather, it promised to. As the child of an abusive Muslim father he barely knew and a wren who didn’t believe in God, his discipline was failing to keep up, making him unhappy. He resigned and decided to sell art instead.
But the Shroud followed him. He dreamed about it, and he followed the progress of the authentication, which unsurprisingly, and typical of today’s $cientists, concluded with, “probably a forgery, but inconclusive” - basically the coof lab leak logic of “probably not, but maybe”. The whispers that occurred in amongst the leaders of the institutions involved and the jerry-built Chinese walls imposed between groups revealed the direction of a pre-determined outcome. But what intrigued him wasn’t the material, or the blood. His obsessions were from the image itself.
Into his interest loop, and separate from his previous work, he started peppering some specialists he knew, who were not in the teams appointed. He was eager to hear alternative views of the light conditions that had captured the image; it was this feature, he believed - and not fragments from the material itself - that was a more reliable line pursuit of authenticity.
One evening he went into his study where he discovered the blinking light of his answering machine indicating a message. He went to bed, and dreamed his most vivid, intense dream about the Shroud yet. It woke him, and he paced around his house in the early hours of the morning, careful not to wake his wife. He went back into his study and pressed the answering machine. It was his most reliable contact, a professor specializing in nuclear energy he had confided in and asked to examine some of his declassified work. “Final conclusion,” the message said, “only a nuclear explosion could have done something like that.”
At the end of the message, he claimed to have felt a wave of nausea overcome him, which was quickly replaced by a feeling of chemical intoxication, like the greasy comedown of an MDMA high. Then he did something that he’d never done in his life before. He prayed. “I realized I wasn’t an atheist. I had just been looking for something that had eluded me.”
You don’t have to believe that the Shroud is legitimate, or that the impression of the face on it, could only have been created by high-intensity, sub-micron, collimated light radiation. You could also believe that, were this to be the case, nuclear energy may have existed at the time - and Oppenheimer and co were just self-promoting frauds. But here, an absence of reasonable - promised - explanations turned around the life of someone armed with formidable skepticism. When he chose the converse, he found himself becoming stronger, happier, more decisive, and less anxious. “A man is gifted a stick to help him journey,” he tole me, “we make the mistake of believing the stick to be the journey.”
*
Belief in intelligent design is now firmly in the crosshairs of today’s narrative. It doesn’t suit the “message” to have a civilized society ordered, kind, patient, generous, and hospitable. The “message” tries to persuade us that we’ve endured beyond the days when young men were sent to certain death in European trenches, and now exists a time for self-reflection and confession. You’d only need to examine the events of the 22nd of May 2017 in Manchester to dismiss this.
Contrary to what Brandi al-Moosa said in that Zoom AGM, it was the events of 2020 that did not happen in a vacuum. Coof and George Floyd were accelerants to a condition that had been festering for a long time - Remdesivir if you will, attempts to blow up the lungs of the world by using fraudulent events to adjust Western society to the will of a predatory, damaged elite. Only a deeply corrupted individual would seize these events as markers for change; only the deeply cuckolded would agree, then support them.
The foundation of God no longer suits a country like the United Kingdom, where Muslims are expected to be roughly 20% of the national population by 2050. At current levels of migration, 38% of the country will have been born elsewhere by 2080. This delights academia, the civil service and the charity industrial complex, all of whom think they’re too clever to believe or find expectations such as monogamy and aversion to corruption too hard. It delights the socialist workers, the far “left” grouping of hissing retards and misfits from whom the order hasn’t worked, who feel that God is elitist or who believe that destroying Western Society will present them hitherto unknown prospects and opportunities. And it delights the feckless political class careerists, who can shag and headbutt and snort with even greater impunity knowing that another layer of accountability is being stripped inch by inch.
The tragedy is that demolition has been initiated not just by these groups, but the Church itself. By positioning God with conditional access - i.e race reparations and the trans agenda - they hope that soon congregations will suffer a thousand cuts of indecision that even a mass exodus of C of E parishioners to the Baptist Church won’t deter. No clearer is this more evident than in the case of Calvin Robinson.
Robinson is a very tall, very nice, mixed-race British man with a particular idea of God in that he doesn’t think it a good idea for school children to be subjected to transgender lunatics reading X-rated material to them - something which has prompted real racial abuse (“a race traitor” is something he is frequently accused of being). He answered his calling but was blocked from curacy by C of E on account of “offensive statements” regarding “woke and PC culture.” The concern expressed by two C of E elders made it abundantly clear that not only would the Church, under the leadership of Justin Welby, not itself resist the grip of societal destruction, but that access to it was now conditional upon the subscription to thus fashionable madness. Eventually, Robinson was eventually ordained by the Free Church of England, before being ordained into Priesthood by the Nordic Catholic Church.
The logic is pervasive. If a country like the United Kingdom should lose its historical identity, then its faith should go down with it. If the civil service (the “deep state” in the United States) is fully invested in demographic alteration, if corporate interests now include a determination of the individual’s values (which was once, and always should be, none of their business), if the country’s institutions as they relate to the arts, sport, and cultural legacy are perverted by identitarianism, if higher learning is swamped by demonic parasites desperate to inflict their life choices or consequences onto the young minds they are supposed to be teaching…then why wouldn’t there be a systematic, deliberately orchestrated attempt to cast doubt on the very thing that remains the trusted logic or motivation command authority?
*
The atheist opinion is that religion is the root of all turmoil. And all that Richard Dawkins is fine, but it doesn’t suspend spiritual and pragmatic questions we have of the present and a future beset by endless uncertainty. On the latter: what will happen to the millions of young lives when Justin decides to one day surrender - “look, awfully sorry but this thing has run its course, and now I don’t mind if you call me Hamza, I’m just gonna chillax in my almost exclusively white enclave in west London”? What will happen to white children when there’s no Sunday School but brown kids their age are attending the mosque twice a day? Is $cience going to fill that occasional, unavoidable emptiness of human life? And is that place, filled with (what appear to be) insurmountable obstacles and snakes and ladders not by design itself - the objective being to extract fragments of wisdom?
Naturally, the company where Brandi al-Moosa worked was tech - organizational software as it happens. I sold my shares pretty quickly after Brandi’s matinee; at the end of 2022, it was delisted, then flogged off for cents in the dollar, and has continued to bask in mediocrity under new Indian owners, none of whom - as far as I can see - have initiated any form of DEI training, or propaganda.
*Coming tomorrow, Epilogue: Escape from the demoralization porn plantation