Our Self-Policing Fascist Social Order
Our Self-Policing Fascist Social Order
Social and Political Turbulence is Manufactured in order to Infantilize Us
“…as long as the individual had the belief – or even the hope of the belief – that his or her divine spark of reason could solve the problems facing society, then that society would never reach the state of hopelessness and alienation which was recognized as the necessary prerequisite for socialist revolution….a new barbarism was required.” - Michael J Minnicino, The New Dark Age: The Frankfurt School and Political Correctness
Over the dog days of August I want to pull back the curtain on the sinister forces that cloak our culture in decadence and hate. People have called these creeps the Committee of 300, the Cabal, the WEF, the Bloodlines, the New York Fed, Bilderberg, Socialist International (long since captured by the Cabal), and so on. It is all of those things and more, an interlocked juggernaut of evil which links some of our most prestigious institutions with genuine darkness, stunting and deforming our lives and potential. Let’s start with the Windsors and the CIA. This is their world. We just pay for it.
I spent two years courting the Royal Family. It was my job, I had a clothing allowance, a dining room, a chef, and someone who passed for a social secretary whose mother was best friends with the Queen Mother. I had to go to balls, charity lunches and polo matches, and invite out ladies-in-waiting. I endured dozens of lunches and dinners with deadly dull, insanely rich people. There was a lot of internal complaining, this is not serious, why did I get trapped in this, why do I have to do this? I sit in my little mews house, mute and furious while someone did my hair for yet another charity ball hosted by some damned royal or other. My boss was adamant, she would make it up to me, I would get something more interesting, more substantive, just do this, she promised.
I took Charles’s principal private secretary out for lunch. He had been Chair of Credit Suisse First Boston, and Charles left him sitting outside his office for an hour, he complained. He was also Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire. And charming. Charles treated him like crap. This was a clue.
There were thousands of people like me, circling, circling, but most were from families who had been there for generations. All of them wanted something, all of them jockeyed for position, some of them, like my ‘secretary’, were broke and for hire. Her “boyfriend” was an aristocratic Egyptian, who dangled riches in front of her, but was clearly using her. I went to Annabel’s with he and his friend, who had an English mistress so beautiful – you have not seen beauty like this I promise – this level of beauty is hidden. She was dressed in a grey silk couture Valentino gown with a massive pink diamond on her (not marital) finger. Mostly the circle was European, some Americans who had married in, Arabs, a few Indians, a handful of Africans, all stinking rich. Miscellaneous Americans looking thrilled. What did they want? In part, status. And some of the invitees were being paid off, given a treat for some service or other. Another clue.
Everyone was dull. Occasionally, like at the Cartier Polo Match (Queen’s Cup), the flower of the aristocracy would turn up, dressed, jewelled, Vogued and much hilarity would ensue. But mostly they looked ordinary, block-shaped, unfashionable, and often in that English or upper class European way, inbred, sickly even. Another clue.
At the “apex” of my “social success”, I was invited to a private lunch with Charles, and a polo match afterwards, where he was playing. A private lunch which no charity donation, just a marker that you were part of the club, that you were a “friend”, a “real one”. Two hundred people seated for lunch in the hall of a massive Palladian pile owned by a friend of Charles, an exquisite house. Echoey and large, clattery, the hall was literally all marble, fields of it. Eventually I gravitated, over the course of the extended afternoon, to a group of people, young, laughing. My “secretary” dragged me off to shake Charles’s hand after the match, we replaced the divots. Too much champagne had caused a cute Arab kid to fall in love, so to silence his invitations I begged a rather sour American hanger-on to say that I promised to drive him back to London.
He was colorless, marginally attractive. In the 90 minute drive, I asked him question after question. I was a decent interviewer, sympathetic, cerebral, why do you think that is, not Oprah, not bathetic, not aggressive, just passing time, but as the drive wore on, he became more and more silent, until he scrambled out of my BMW, onto the sidewalk in front of a classical wedding cake of a house in Curzon Street that would now be worth $50 million. His headquarters. The International Institute for Strategic Studies, IISS. The final clue.
He was black ops. Not an activator, a planner. That is what his organization, under cover, actually did. Someone decided who the Crown, MI6 and the fucking CIA wanted killed and he devised the plan. The Institute for Strategic Studies, the house at which I dropped him, works under the auspices of the Round Table, which, yes, goes back to Arthur and is still operational. When not killing the inconvenient like Jeffrey Epstein, the IISS ‘fellows’ devise propaganda to disseminate to the world’s press. At the time, its membership included about 150 of the starriest editors and columnists from US, UK, and international newspapers and magazines, and 90 wire services. People like Seymour Hersh. They use him, or did. He didn’t know he was being used, they are clever, dance you around, direct you to ‘sources’. Hersh’s pieces were almost always a study in confusion, deliberately so, it was counter-propaganda for the angry left. In any case, it is they who devise the straight-up propaganda that is disseminated to the muggles, us: blacken Saddam Hussein, justify killing Ghaddafi, justify Ukraine, every single forever war, and action.
The final thing this outfit does is devise shocks to destabilize the world, to keep us in check, to immiserate, to prevent our growth. They work with the bankers that were, at the time, through Mr. Credit Suisse First Boston, training Charles how to operate in this sinister world.
That’s what this dull joker did. That’s why he and his pals lived with their own staff in a fifty million pound house. They and their psychiatrists and behaviourists worked to build our prison. The private lunch and polo match was a reward for a faithful attack dog.
And that’s the kind of person that hangs around the British Royal Family, not the head of the snake anymore, but certainly a major broker, a power node capable of marooning one of the world’s top bankers, an aristocrat, outside his office for an hour. The photo of Evelyn Rothschild, poking Charles in the chest, displays his actual position.
Two years later I was back in London promoting my book The Monkey Puzzle Tree about the CIA mind control experiments, MKULTRA. Liz Calder, one of the most revered editors at the time, had shepherded the book; she had discovered Rushdie, published Nobel Prize winners, lucked out with Harry Potter. They sent me around to all the great venues, the BBC, Channel 4, Women’s Hour, Hatchards, and lord remembers where else, but I remember feeling, during the radio interviews with 15 million listeners, that what had happened to my family was deeply, profoundly, traumatic. I was in a green room waiting with Emmylou Harris, wishing desperately I was her, and someone else was me.
Writing and researching the book, by contrast,, was a scholarly and creative exercise. I could go deep, I could establish what was real and what was not. I pulled boxes of documents out of the National Archives in DC. I read and read and read. I had journo friend fact checkers from Time, who made sure I didn’t branch out into the unprovable and paranoid. I nailed it down. I knew what they did to people, chapter and verse, how they broke them, how they rebuilt them, what they were after: replace memories via repeated trauma and drugs, with new ones. Propaganda. Mind Control. Create another Harvey Oswald. The sub-project I was investigating was #68. There were 150 of them, that we know of. Because of the work of another journalist, Ann Collins, subproject 68’s cover was blown in the 80’s, the patients sued the CIA, and Joe Rauh, one of America’s great public litigators, prosecuted it. The suit resulted in the Church Committee which was supposed to have reined in the CIA, and shut down the 150 sub-projects of MKUltra. It did not, not even for a second. It just went deeper.
After the Royals escapade I got my wish and spent two years interviewing the falsely imprisoned and tortured of several colors and countries, which had, after one brutal three week period, sent me to my bed in torment. That had prepared me for the book. My mother had been one of the victims, and I was able to look deeply into my own mother’s false imprisonment and torture by one of Allan Dulles’s henchmen, a wildly ambitious and vicious psychiatrist named Ewan Cameron.
Those few years changed me entirely, cracked me open. It snapped me out of the dream of middle-class, safe as houses, leafy suburbs life that pretty much everyone reading this, all my friends from all the places I’ve lived, mostly all 5000 Facebook friends live. After promoting the book, I went home and hid, scared, for two months. Writing the book was easy by comparison to outing myself as an enemy of the regime on every radio and tv show that would have me. A car had raced by Liz Calder, its editor, on Shaftesbury Ave, during the promotion period, almost knocking her over, missing her by inches. My agent said it was an accident. I knew it wasn’t. It was a warning. I was nothing, but they notice everything, even nothings.
I thought if I stay very very still, nothing will happen to me or my family. And after a while, I went back to work and the environmental movement and its corruptions became my subject. And then I realized that the same people were behind it. The environmental movement was invented by the people behind the Committee of 300, or whatever the hell they call themselves now, and their money funds it. Why? The environmental movement takes land and resources away from people, and banks it for the very very rich.
The world we live in is a simulation. I don’t mean a computer game or hologram, so much as I mean something so tightly controlled and monitored that we are trapped, suppressed, our work stolen, our energies used ruthlessly by people who are so accustomed to being incandescently rich and in control, they will do anything to keep it. Aristocrats who trace their “bloodlines” back to Sumeria and Egypt, who are prideful, and so inbred they are deformed in body and spirit. They are bankers and senior senior bureaucrats habituated to power. Eight families own the US debt, $20 Trillion of it and they are in point of fact, the fabled bloodline families, that polite society calls conspiracy. It is not conspiracy. I wish it was, deeply. They decide. Everything. They proffer Kate Middleton as their innocent face, but behind that, they are crabbed and bitter and miserable. They hate and loathe us, call us ‘piglets’, cowans (outsiders) sheep and useless eaters. They imprison us in their financial prisons so that only ten percent of us, beneath the hallowed 1-2%, have enough to be safe, the rest bent to survival.
The situation whereby we are kept in a continual state of anxiety is created by them. The IISS in coordination with Rand, with Stanford, with Tavistock builds shock after shock after shock. They destroy any peace we can find. They want us too busy competing for our survival to mount a defence, to take them down. People are too traumatized to engage in any political process without hysteria so the sensible, the careful, withdraw. It’s the Via Dolorosa torture program writ large. Most of us now live under a spiralling reduction in standard income and working conditions. This is called “a long-range penetration strain”. It is deliberate. It creates lethargy, it creates submission. The entire culture has been devised to dumb you down, to turn you into a touchy-feeling adult with infantile tendencies.
The series of programs I will describe over the next few weeks will explain what happened to America starting after the Second World War, where the optimism was about to spur a revolution in creativity and science. The plan goes back to before the First World War, but let’s start with the second.
An old friend asked, “Why?. Why do they do this?” Because if we knew we’d hunt them down and burn their palaces over their heads. If we could get clear of them, if we got free, the world would light up with a creativity and strength that would create not just a paradise, but a home where God can walk. That divine spark of reason is within all of us. Their work has been to hide it, and if possible destroy it.
Maybe, just maybe, together we can find just one little chink, one tool, one method that will help take them down.
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