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  • Writer's pictureNikko Norte

Woke screen …

No traffic. A clear blue sky over rolling rapeseed fields. No fear of being halted by law enforcement demanding proof of vaccination. Free as I was until two years ago, I push my Cannondale up a hill, feeling good. Cold hands and feet, that’s true. An extreme cold month of May in England, and eh… true, on days like this, I sometimes worry about the climate. Not today. My thighs burning, I think of Sinterklaas, a Dutch children’s friend who, each year in the Netherlands, surprises kids with presents on his birthday on the 5th of December. Actually, I think of Zwarte Piet, Sinterklaas’ assistant, who delivers Sinterklaas’ presents to children, entering houses through chimneys.

Why, still being a child, Dutch at that, did I refuse to accept that chimneys are too narrow to allow Zwarte Piet passage? Easy to answer now. The implications of the truth were too tough to cope with, and … the top of the hill. In the distance, over the yellow infinity surrounding me, I see the tower of the church in the village where Heidi and I have recently come to live.

We had not calculated with a housing shortage in England when, some six weeks ago, we fled the vaccine mandates in Austria, where we used to live. The only affordable house we could move into on short notice is a strange house. Four small floors. Narrow, creaky, wooden stairs. A stove in the living room and old-fashioned hinges and locks on doors and windows. Some walls unplastered, the ancient bricks attractive. A mini castle, accessible through a yard. Only two other houses connected to the same yard.

Via the thousand-year-old city wall to which our yard connects, we walk to the center of a medieval-looking village in only a few minutes. If we choose the opposite direction on that city wall, we walk for hours through endless farmlands with Moos the German shepherd. For weeks now, Heidi and I build furniture and paint doors, windows, and frames, and the tension that resulted from the terror under which we lived in Austria is as good as gone, I realize as I dash downhill, the cold wind in my face.

I know I knew better. Still, I once decided it could not possibly be true that chimneys are too narrow to allow Zwarte Piet passage, like today we decide it cannot possibly be true that covid is less dangerous than we were told it is, like it cannot possibly be true that a small group of people misuse the outbreak of covid to install a new world order, a digital dictatorship, and like it cannot possibly be true that Mark Rutte, Jacinda Ardern, Emmanuel Macron, Justin Trudeau, Alberto Fernández, Volodymyr Zelensky, and dozens of other politicians have turned their backs on their voters to become apostles of said digital dictatorship. Logically so, it cannot possibly be true that most journalists, like most people in the medical profession, have hung out their responsibilities to dry, and it definitely cannot possibly be true that the vaccines against covid increase our chances of getting infected with covid, of ending up in a hospital because of covid, and die of covid. What most definitely cannot possibly be true is that the vaccines against covid are unsafe. Not eh… not because whatever I just pondered together is not true, the evidence piles up, but because the implications of the truth are too tough to cope with …

Through the village, I could have been at the gym in six minutes. After a collision with our neighbor's guest, underestimating the cold, I decided on a detour. Friendly woman, our neighbor. Weeks before the Russian invasion of Ukraine, she ordered a refugee. No run on the position, but a few days ago, our neighbor’s dream came through, and this morning, an introduction was inevitable. The heavyset Ukrainian blocking my way to the gym refused to shake the hand I politely extended after our neighbor had introduced us, but good neighbor distant friend, I nevertheless tried to get a light-hearted conversation going, momentarily forgetting that light-hearted conversations are not my strong suit.

‘Ukraine, is it not? Where in Ukraine?’

‘You know Ukraine?’

‘Some friends there. We mail and talk. Regularly of late.’

‘I am from Odessa.’

‘Big market! Are you Russian then or Ukrainian?’ Nadiya's eyes lit up. Her answer was evasive: ‘Putin is bad man.’

‘If it turns out that he’s in bed with the WEF all along, you’re right. So far, I like him more than Zelensky.’

‘I do not understand double you, but Zelensky also no good.’ Our neighbor looking up uncomfortably.

‘Glad we agree on that. You travel back soon?’

‘I do trip end of month.’ Surprise on the face of our neighbor.

‘Despite the heavy fighting in Odessa?’ Nadiya looked at me maliciously but answered: ‘No fight in Odessa,’ whereupon our neighbor took a step back, which gave me the room I needed to cycle out of our yard, via the city wall into the yellow farmlands. Before Zwarte Piet hijacked my thoughts, those thoughts wandered to the cafe some friends and I built in a small town near Rotterdam, in the Netherlands, in another life.

Just after we took away a load-bearing wall one morning, we decided on a coffee break. Welders, high up in the scaffolding, installing a steel structure that would replace the wall we had taken away, sprayed us with sparks, and fumes from the welding mixed with dust. Exhausted, my friends and I settled in the rubble, each of us cradling a mug of coffee. We had been working for five months straight, and just as I, in a fit of defeatism, considered letting my friends know that we were fighting a lost battle, a burly man walked into our café to be. His attitude pleasingly arrogant, he wondered aloud what exactly he observed.

‘Ostriches,’ I answered him.

‘Ostriches,’ he repeated, pensively.

‘No cholesterol. Incubators upstairs. As soon as the animals are old enough, we take them down. The concrete is no problem. Ostriches don't bury their heads in the sand. Only people do that.’

The next morning, the man I had treated so rudely pushed a cement mixer into our cafe. He shook my hand and said, ‘I'm Martin. Do you have some money left or did you burn it all?’

‘Still have some,’ I admitted, pleasantly surprised by his directness. Martin arranged for a professional mason and an electrician, and while we busied ourselves with the jobs he assigned to us, different jobs than we had previously been busy with, a skinny man presented himself on our doorstep. In broken German, he introduced himself as Matty, a refugee from Yugoslavia though not from the part of Yugoslavia where war was raging. He and six of his cousins looked for work. Ten guilders per hour for the cousins, twelve for him. One condition: once every month, we smuggled Matty across the border with Germany, back the same day.

The months that followed, Martin pulled the strings, quite some people working themselves into a sweat. Once every month, Matty and I crossed the border with Germany in two directions, the Schengen treaty not yet in effect, the why of our monthly border crossing rather simple.

After Matty had left Yugoslavia, he had changed the word left into fled. In Germany, he had applied for asylum, which he had been granted plus a furnished house and a monthly allowance. He had left his wife and children behind and had continued his voyage to the Netherlands, where he had repeated the operation minus wife and children and where a furnished house had been made available to him as well as a monthly allowance. Matty's cousins ​​had skipped Germany by the lack of a wife and children to leave behind. Matty and his cousins ​​worked hard for anyone willing to pay a salary under the table. Once every month, Matty signed some forms in Germany, and every month, I looked forward to our conversations in the car. Political repopulation, back then, had already started. Matty and I were naively clueless of it.

As I walk into the gym, I realize that however much effort the British government puts into convincing people to flee Ukraine, the response hardly contributes to repopulation. Nothing to worry about though. The installation of the new world order is not in jeopardy, for it won't be long before Zelensky is ordered to start negotiations with Putin, the outcome of those negotiations predictable. The area east of the Dnieper, or at least the Donbass, will be granted to Russia, New Ukraine west of the Dnieper. With the help of the EU, New Ukraine will politically be organized according to the requirements of the WEF, an organization of which it cannot possibly be true that it is as powerful as I suggest it to be …

Ukraine has the largest standing army in Europe. After concluding the formality of redefining Ukraine’s border with Russia, Ukraine will also have the richest and best-armed army in Europe. The first WEF army, which won’t care about evil Russians but will care about discouraging civilians elsewhere in Europe to oppose the political organization of all European countries according to the requirements of the WEF. Meanwhile, our heads in the sand, what really goes on in the world hidden from our view by a smoke screen of irrelevant matters raised by the mainstream media, Plan B is already being rolled out: the deployment of NATO troops in countries surrounding Ukraine that have little affinity with the WEF’s view on the future of mankind. Those troops won't care about evil Russians either, and anyone who thinks European armies are now recruiting personnel to instill fear in evil Russians must find the implications of the truth too hard to cope with. Together with the Ukrainian army, recruits will serve as the strong arm of the worldwide digital dictatorship that is being installed.

About sixty people in the gym. Hardly anyone over forty years of age. Earplugs or headphones and a cell phone essential for a workout in the third millennium. Thumbs suffer, but in between whatever those thumbs do on those cell phones, people do pump iron. A man gets up from a bench I want to use. When I ask him if he's ready, he nods in the direction of a stand with paper towels and disinfectant spray and asks, ‘You want me to wipe it clean?’

‘Don't worry. I'm unvaccinated. Nothing to fear.’ The man shakes his head and asks, ‘You don't work in construction, do you, mate?’ I raise my eyebrow, and he continues, ‘I didn't take the jab either, but my staff did. Fifteen, I employ. On a good day, twelve show up for work.’

The people around me do pump iron indeed. Bellies and swim tubes, however, are commonplace, those of the few adolescent boys I notice budding, their upper arms thinner than my wrists. Women seem to have given up. In spandex that doesn’t hide a thing but does have to hide quite a bit, they waddle through the gym, bent over cell phones, and I eh… I rather not see it. In between my series, I covertly glance at the one woman in the gym Bret Easton Ellis would have called a hardbody in his American Psycho. Transsexual she can’t be because she smiled at me when my jaw dropped at the sight of seven very fat women and one very fat man lying motionless on the floor in a corner of the gym, likely in the blissful certainty that it cannot possibly be true that losing weight starts with quitting pizza and french fries.

Transsexuals are predominantly sour these days, and it strikes me how strange that is. Eight people happily paying for a gym membership to lie on the floor of that gym in order to escape the wrong body in which they are trapped while those who get the chance to escape from the wrong body in which they are trapped through a medical procedure are sour.

But maybe, maybe gender nutcases, like woke nutcases for that matter, are sour because they understand that their irrelevant message is being used by the mainstream media as a smoke screen to hide from our view what is really going on in the world and because they realize that once the new world order is properly installed, they will be kicked into a corner like a leaking football – as will happen to politicians, journalists, and people in the medical profession who now collaborate with the WEF.

Man, it's not too late to revolt, I tell myself as I squeeze out another repetition of a chest exercise, but we need to force our heads out of the sand. No more attention for gender or woke madness – or for Roe vs Wade – but attention, through the alternative media, for what is really going on in the world. We could, in fact, refuse to have ourselves medically abused any longer, could vote, any next election, for politicians without ties to the WEF, and could … I’m in trouble. Upside down on an abdominal bench, my legs in the rolls at the top of it, I've overestimated myself. Someone handed me my too heavy dumbbells, that someone is gone, I can't hold let alone lift those dumbbells any longer, and ... hardbody bends over me. Like a pro, she supports my elbows with her hands, her face only inches above mine. A hint of Obsession from Calvin Klein. I'm sure I did not flirt with her, but according to Heidi, I flirt instinctively when confronted with people I find attractive, and I mutter, ‘One more.’ Hardbody smiles. Inwardly, I smile too as I realize that according to data from the UK government, I run a one in twenty-one chance to be infected with covid right now. According to the same data, I would run a one in fifteen chance in a comparable situation in Scotland, which makes sense, although it cannot possibly be true, because the vaccination rate in Scotland is higher than in England …


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