Crisis or Carry On?

Written March 2026

For those of us who have long been through the looking glass, everyday life as presented to us by the production studios they call newsrooms is, quite obviously, bullshit. The harder the BBC try to convince us that a man called Christan Guy works at the Centre for Social Justice, and that Dr. Pam Graves is an Archaeologist, and that Phil McCann was the only reporter available to report on the countrywide petrol shortage, and that Paul Twocock works for Stonewall gay rights charity, that PC Rob Banks works for the police, Andrew Drinkwater for the Water Research Centre, and a man call Amin Abed was seriously ill in a hospital bed when he was interviewed, the less, I’m afraid, I’m inclined to believe a word they publish. 

The job of the BBC, and every other major news outlet in existence, is clearly to disseminate the latest propaganda that the overlords wish to inflict on the populace, and for the most part, sadly, the people buy it. That so many believe what they see on the news and read in the papers is testament to just how brainwashed a large chunk of the population are. Psychological operations have been inflicted on us for generations, and, since the majority attend mainstream schools, colleges, and universities, most have been conditioned to accept information as it is presented to them, without question.

When a major story breaks, or rather, is pushed out by the press, the brainwashed who live amongst us fall at the very first hurdle, as their natural instincts have been so hijacked by the propaganda. I say the first hurdle, for there is one, particularly obvious device that is used to push these stories, and that happens early on, which should alert the sensibilities of all human beings. I speak, of course, of the rolling out of Crisis Actors. How is it that so many fail to spot them? Examining one's own feelings ought easily to expose the lies.

Grief is brutal. July 12^th this year will be the fourth anniversary of my beautiful Mum’s death. She had endured suffering I struggle to express in her “battle” (I hate that phrase) with ovarian cancer, and there is more to be said about my feelings and thoughts regarding cancer and chemotherapy that do not belong in this piece, and which I still have not found strength to record. My Mum’s last few weeks were a running nightmare of (supposed) treatment plans, hospital, a brief and hideous care home stay (because she was too sick to come home, but the hospital tried to deny access for visits due to ‘Covid’ on the ward), ambulances, and eventually the austere, unhomely ward of another general hospital where she eventually passed away. I received a call at 4.30am, from a young doctor who was on the night shift, to inform me of her passing. Despite the previous year and a half that I had spent caring for my Mum, taking her to appointments, watching her slow and horrendous decline, and despite realising that she was probably never coming home, the shock of that moment hit me like a sucker punch. I had spent every day from morning until evening at the hospital, ignoring the disapproval of the staff who wished me to stick to visiting hours. But she passed away in the early hours of morning, while I was not with her. And for so long afterwards, the fact of her being alone quite literally broke my heart. I struggled to catch breath when I imagined her last moments. I remembered in detail the blood on the blanket, the position of her body, and her open eyes.

Stay with me, here. I lay this bare, as I have not done before, for a purpose. In the days after my Mum passed, I moved through the practicalities that existed in a bizarre, dream like state, unable to process the enormity of this new, post-Mum existence. I wished not to see anybody, though had to, as so many people (understandably) wanted to share their grief with mine. I would flare angrily at staff in shops and petrol garages for the most minor of transgressions. I slept barely at all, and when I did the most horrific dreams were let loose in my mind. I cried, a lot. I was angry, a lot. Frankly, the pain was almost unbearable. And, unsurprisingly, I looked horrific. I went to buy groceries with my hair unkempt, with no makeup and wearing whatever clothes I had thrown on that morning. I didn’t care who I might see. I wept frequently, alone in my room; with my daughter; with my brother, with my Dad. While walking my dog I would wonder at the ordinary people around me as they walked theirs, astonished that life went on as before.

And, what I can absolutely, categorically guarantee, is that in the days, weeks, and even months following my Mum’s death, I would not, under any circumstances, have been in any fit state to be interviewed by ITV, Sky, BBC, or any other hack organisation, either in my home or on their lie-ridden sofas.

Which brings me back to the point of this article. Take a look back through the history of massive, newsworthy stories, where people have supposedly died. One might argue that to have a loved one taken suddenly, in an unexpected shooting, for example, would be even more shocking than the circumstances of my Mum’s passing. And yet, remarkably, in almost every case of such ‘tragedies’, willing grieving family members are found to grace the sofas of the news outlets and proclaim that their beloved Son / Daughter / Mother / Father will not have died in vain, as long as the wishes of the government are carried out, and the gun laws are changed. (Just as an example, you understand.)

We see “survivors”, interviewed from their hospital beds, grinning with star struck delight as they wax lyrical about a visit received from the Queen / King / Princess / Prime Minister. We see “parents” of slain children, with full make up and curly blow dries, smiling as they tell Lorraine or Philip how beautiful their child was – two days after said child was allegedly cruelly murdered by Islam (all of it). And it is not just here in the UK, of course. Across the pond, parents approach podiums to address news cameras, the very next day after their precious 5-year-olds have been shot, in some cases caught laughing and smiling off camera, before getting into character when the official cameras roll, and describing the pain of their loss. (Remember, a not-to-be-named public institution closed down several years prior to the event, but let’s not be troubled with facts and details).

I am a mother, and like all parents, the very thought of anything happening to my child is enough to set my nerves tingling, and my brain into overdrive. That I would have the wherewithal to put on smart clothes, and makeup, and have my hair styled mere days after the tragedy of losing a child just does not compute. And not only do these parents so often appear perfectly groomed, but they find strength to smile and laugh as they retell anecdotes about their precious child.

It makes no sense. And critical thinking skills ought to tell everyone watching such performances that what they are seeing is a lie. But alas, the brainwashing works all too well, and such simple analytical skills are laid waste, as if atrophied like an unused muscle. Years of watching the poorest quality acting in soap operas and crappy TV dramas have left people unable to discern between reality and fakery. Even so-called reality TV is scripted nonsense, and yet people buy every second of it. They clap along like demented idiots as they watch a z-lister eat a kangaroo bollock, or a creosote-coloured bimbo from Essex decide which Stone Island-clad geezer with fluorescent teeth she is going to shag. As I write this, I feel that humanity is doomed.   

There is, perhaps, some hope. The recent meningitis “outbreak” seemed to fizzle and die relatively quickly. There were, of course, the many fearful folk, who seemed almost delighted at the prospect of a Covid rerun. I suppose these were the people who cried with emotion when old Margaret Keenan was allegedly the first person to be given the poke. You know, the woman who was supposedly 91, but looked 20 years younger, just good genes, I suppose. The woman whose mug was all over the news, encouraging people to get the jab: “Don’t think about it,” she said (oh the irony), “just go and have it done”. But the “students” used to push the meningitis story, interviewed by the hacks who hoped to ramp up the terror and panic, were woefully lacking in acting skills. There’ll be no Oscars this time. Wooden, and unable in many cases to hide the little hint of duping delight, these youngsters gave the game away all too easily, and the story quickly took on a damp squib quality. Can we hope that this might have woken a few more up to the agendas of the overlords? Maybe. Although I think they’re back on measles now. We’re done with “won’t someone think of the students!” and on to “won’t someone think of the babies!”. Not sure who’s up next, but the elderly might be due another turn.

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