Connecting Europe for a sustainable future, I read on the side of the Stena Britannica. Incomprehensible, that text, but maybe, maybe the cooks at the ship’s restaurant fry their French fries in rapeseed oil – from Australia.
For two days, I did overtime packing our belongings in our house in England, which is our house no longer, for last week, while building a studio in the Netherlands to shoot the videos that support my book The Caveman Code, Heidi and I canceled the rent. Overloaded car, overloaded trailer. I could have slept in our house one last night, but yesterday afternoon, as if being chased, I drove out of our yard, which felt good and weird at the same time.
Surrounded by a beautiful countryside, Heidi and I lived in a picturesque village among happy-go-lucky people, who mostly let us be. So why that rush to leave the United Kingdom behind me? Is it the poverty the British are being forced into by an elite that scrupulously seizes power on earth? Is it the footage of the House of Commons, from which MPs flee when MP Andrew Bridgen asks the questions every MP worldwide should be anxious to ask? Is it the apathy the Brits put on display when it comes to the lockdown files, which reveal apps by a health minister, among others, with texts such as: We frighten the pants off everyone with the new strain? Or is it the stoicism with which the Brits dismiss the news that their medical authorities, as early as spring 2020, prescribed a lethal mix of an opiate and a benzodiazepine to people who ended up in hospitals with or because of covid and showed distress or moderate to severe breathlessness?
Okay, okay. Virtually the entire Western world is being forced into poverty, throughout virtually the entire Western world, democracy now means that conference halls need being fled when a politician takes a critical stance, and throughout virtually the entire Western world, messages that come to light reveal the true nature and agenda of politicians – if they didn’t illegally delete those messages, like the Dutch prime minister did. And even where covid victims are concerned, there are signals from virtually the entire Western world suggesting that quite some people with complaints related to covid had better steered clear of hospitals. But somehow, I realize, somehow I had expected there to be more fight in the Brits, and ... my knee bangs against the steering wheel of our car, my pants on fire! Are my pants on fire? Water in the kettle on the stove between my legs has come to boil. Steam escapes from the spout of the kettle against my calf. Typical …
Yesterday, halfway the evening, I drove into this Stena Line parking lot, my billiard cue within easy reach in the trailer. A twenty minutes’ walk to The Crown Post in Harwich? Ten pounds on the pool table, game on. With a bit luck, I would have earned the money back for the crossing to the Netherlands. I stayed in the car and wrestled through a Norwegian study, which shows such a clear correlation between the covid vaccination campaign and the almost global excess mortality that causation can no longer be ruled out. Unfortunately, the mainstream media will ignore that study, and unfortunately, those same media have now indoctrinated us to a point that even some of my academically educated friends and acquaintances believe that the formula correlation ≠ causation exists.
After that Norwegian study, I read a report released by the Australian TGA that showed the Australian government – and presumably all governments in the world – knew as early as spring 2021 that the lipid nanoparticles in the covid vaccines spread through the body of a person having received a vaccine within hours. Yet, ministers and other answerable people were adamant in their statements that ... enough of that, I scold myself. Carefully not to burn my hand, I turn off the stove and pour water from the kettle into the filter on the edge of our Stanleythermos, next to the stove on the floor of the car.
Around midnight, I crawled into my sleeping bag in between the car and some bushes lining the parking lot. The sleeping bag did not obstruct the fierce, cold wind as I had hoped it would, and after some minutes, I crawled out of it to crawl back into it behind the wheel of the car. Half an hour ago, I woke up, rested but rumpled, the sun not yet up, the wind as fierce and cold as last night. Coffee first or Customs and Excise first? Customs and Excise first, I decided. The thought of coffee would surely keep me from behaving like a jerk, as seems to have become a reflex of late when confronted with keepers of the law.
‘Would you mind to take out some of those boxes?’ was the friendly question of a keeper of the law in a bulky coat after I had opened the backdoors of our car. Reflexively, I replied laughing, ‘What do you expect me to smuggle out of the UK? Mold?’
‘Would you mind to take out some of those boxes?’
‘Not a chance. And please threaten me with a fate worse than death.’
‘Beg your pardon.’
‘About a year ago, under the threat of death, presidents and members of parliament tried to make me comply with something equally pointless as taking those boxes out of this car.’
I got away with that confrontation, and now, in pole position in lane 6 on a next parking, waiting for a redeeming gesture of a Stena Line employee, I brew coffee in the car, stare at an incomprehensible text on the side of the Stena Britannica, and realize that if mainstream media journalists keep refusing to bite the hand that feeds them and don’t report on the hundreds of studies that show a relationship between covid vaccines and excess mortality, we give the elite that scrupulously seizes power on earth a free rein. Medicine, food, drinking water. Nothing will be safe anymore, and ... irritated, I remind myself that I had enough of that. I force my thoughts to the north of Spain, to where Heidi and I drove only last week from the Netherlands to have a look at a house we’re interested in. First week of March 2023. Wonderful weather in Spain, but after two days, we drove back to the Netherlands, through France, logically so, where keepers of the law take the cleaver to those having lost fate in President Macron, who makes it too clear he no longer serves the people of France – if ever he did – but serves the elite that scrupulously seizes power on earth. In the Netherlands, Heidi and I were expected to shoot the first episode of the video series Cooking in a Cave in that studio we built.
As always, I felt uncomfortable in front of cameras, and I was shocked when the editor showed me some footage, in which I look like Pierlala, a Low Land’s ruffian who, according to legend, rose from the grave. My face pale, my cheeks hollow, and on my head, the chunk of hair that remained after I discovered that morning that an apprentice hairdresser cut my hair. And yet, as much as my image shocked me, I was not surprised. For two months, Heidi and I built our studio in an unheated barn, living through rain, snow, and storms in a too-small tent at an ill-equipped campsite, and ... coffee! From the thermos, I pour coffee into one of its caps, which reminds me of the part that thermos plays in that first episode of Cooking in a Cave. I forgot to put the thing back on its mark, and when the editor discovered that the thermos blocked the view of one of the cameras, it was too late. And that, in turn, reminds me of an American production in which I once played a part. With a beautiful woman on my arm, three cameras registering our every move, I strolled onto a set depicting a cafe. I knew my lines, forgot my mark, and in front of the entire crew, the director vented some rightful frustration at me. My last lesson in humility, I prayed back then, but as I take my first sip of coffee, dry, warm, and happy in the car, the wind raging outside, I think of the time Televisión Española would interview me on a plot of land in the mountains of Andalusia, in the south of Spain, a plot of land on which I lived back then.
My home was an army tent, furnished as if it were an apartment. A few days before the interview, the construction had been completed of a suspension bridge that crossed a gorge on my land and led to my tent. I was reading a book in one of the two Chesterfields in my tent when someone called my name. A cameraman, out of breath, on the doorstep of my tent. He explained that the anchor who would interview me could not cross the suspension bridge, and that ... that was ridiculous! An attractive woman on hiking boots and in short, khaki pants would interview me. Undaunted, she would cross my suspension bridge. Equally undaunted, she would interview me, and after the interview ... whatever. Furiously, I ran from the hill on which my tent stood to the suspension bridge, the cameraman on my heels. Halfway across the suspension bridge, which frightfully swung back and forth, I looked up to see a woman hiding under an olive tree. Sharp on detail, I registered she was attractive indeed. I also registered she was missing an arm, which was no good reason to not cross my suspension bridge. About to tell her that, I noticed she was missing not one arm but two – not so sharp on detail after all. ‘Por qué ... hola, soy Nikko. Let’s take another route to my tent.’
‘Good to meet you, but I’d rather not go to your eh... tienda. It’s quite a climb, and one of my legs is a prosthesis.’ No reproach. A warm smile instead, humility forever ingrained in my system, and ... someone bangs on my window. A Stena Line employee gesticulating angrily. I find myself in an awkward position. Just poured myself coffee and juggle with a coffee-filled thermos cap, the second cap of the thermos, and the thermos itself. The kettle still between my legs on the stove, my sleeping bag draped over my shoulders, my shoes under the pedals of the car, moving boxes on the passenger seat ...
Again, the Stena Line employee bangs on my window. My bad, that situation. Still, my new friend’s aggression doesn’t sit well with me. Humility or am I Pierlala, that legendary ruffian, who mocked the government and the clergy? The Stena Line employee, gesticulating even more angrily now, is neither government nor clergy, but he reminds me of my belief that face to face with keepers of the law, we must moderate our humility if we are to put a stop to the elite that scrupulously seizes power on earth. Wondering if a Stena Line employee could be judged a keeper of the law, I bend over to grab my stove, kettle, and shoes, and when the Stena Line employee bangs on my window a third time, I am Pierlala. Against the wind, I push my door open. The stove falls out of the car onto the asphalt. On my socks on that same asphalt, I grab the Stena Line employee by his coat and tell him, ‘If you believe that the lords of Stena or the gods of sustainability they serve set the stage for you to bully people, then rest assured you’ll bark up the wrong tree one day. I messed up, okay? I apologize. But you’re out of line, and now, you grant me the thirty seconds I need to get organized. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir. I eh... I wasn’t thinking.’
I shake his gloved hand and give him a wink ...
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