During the covid pandemic I was considered to be a right-wing conspiracy theorist for questioning the official narrative: That to ask about the Chinese origins of the virus was racist; that porous cloth masks were suddenly considered to be effective; that the wildly erroneous modelling predictions of Professor Lockdown, Neil Ferguson, must be followed and that lockdowns, ex post facto, were on balance, a jolly good idea.
We are now presented with some difficult to swallow real world data and hard facts:
The Wuhan lab leak theory following US subsidised gain of function research is now the best guess for the origins of this novel coronavirus by our intelligence agencies.
Lockdowns have created untold harm to both the health of our economy and our people: from poorer outcomes for cancer patients to missed education and poor mental health of our children.
Excess deaths from other causes have sky-rocketed since the pandemic and no one is willing to talk about it.
It is obvious that the politicians in charge and the scientists who advised them – even at the outset- did not believe their own hype.
They indulged in illicit affairs (Ferguson and Hancock), they broke their own rules with parties (just about everyone) and instigated a campaign of fear against the very people they purported to protect.
This week we learned that far from protecting the most vulnerable group (the over 85s) care homes were being bunged £1000 bribes to take new patients (even with covid) from hospitals.
Despite all of these truly scandalous revelations, I am amazed at the stupor of indifference within the population at large.
Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper- as we used to say in the days when we weren’t so fastidious about hygiene and safety.
I’ll say it once more for the record:
Science that won’t be questioned isn’t science at all. The opposite is true.
When Anthony Fauci of the CDC coined the phrases ‘follow THE science’ or with more hubris, “I am the Science” whilst asserting things about the virus which we now know to be completely untrue, these statements should have given us a clue.
When New Zealand’s darling premier, Jacinda Ardern, confidently asserted, “We are your ONLY source of information,” the ears of all but the most credulous should have pricked.
When more billionaires were created and chums of government officials were awarded big contracts; when Big Pharma was given legal indemnity against injury claims and suppressed scientific information about its products (Pfizer made 83 bn dollars during pandemic and wanted to keep studies under wraps for 75 years) can we seriously claim to have ‘followed the science?’
And why, since the period of the pandemic, am I suddenly being accused of being a white supremacist and colonialist? Why am I now asked to believe that men and women, girls and boys can simply change their sex when biological science says otherwise? Why do drag queens want to read stories to children in schools and libraries and why must I be forced to see pride flags being waved in every sphere of society?
Why would ‘the science’ ask me to accept without question, something which was patently untrue?
If the climate emergency is so urgent why isn’t public transport cheaper?
I’ll leave you to consider your own position on all of this.
This week I paid a visit to the country’s foremost cancer centre, The Royal Marsden, to consider the scientific prognosis of my advancing cancer and whether I might be suitable for another trial. The arsenal of approved treatments is running out and I must therefore consult the brightest minds in the country on the subject.
I’m not anti-science you see- quite the opposite, in fact- but it’s not an exact science, if I may put it that way.
I very much hoped that the brightest and best in their field would grasp the basics of my situation: that they would recognise me as a man with a prostate, that I have a male only disease (prostate cancer) and that this cancer is driven by the male hormone, testosterone. (Yes, I know that women have testosterone too)
I travelled up on the early train from Devon, wondering most of the way up why the ticket was so damned expensive if our elite masters wanted to encourage less car use and more use of public transport.
Timing was tight but if everything ran smoothly,, I should arrive in time for my appointment.
I checked my phone at Reading to see the state of play.
Due to a ‘passenger incident’ at Sloane Square the district and circle underground lines were severely disrupted.
I briefly speculated that someone had been ‘misgendered’ or that the pride flag had been desecrated by a group of enthusiastic schoolchildren.
No matter. On arrival at London, Paddington, I hopped into the first London cab.
The taxi driver was a friendly sort and bemoaned the “idiot mayor” Sadiq Khan for the congestion in London. Apparently all red traffic lights stay red longer to allow geriatric snails to get across the road safely.
He approached some streets with the utmost caution as khan’s restrictions change with the wind and one slip could result in a hefty fine. Streets that were legally passable yesterday may be closed today. He got me safely and swiftly to Victoria station.
There was a minor hiccough with my ticket getting stuck in the barrier mechanism but I made the train.
A brisk walk uphill at the other end enabled me to make my appointment with a minute to spare.
I had a blood test on arrival and was told to wait in reception.
After an hour or so amongst this League of Nations, of which I was a small minority, I began to wonder if would make my train home -or otherwise have to remain longer in this purgatory.
I listened keenly for my name to be called.
“Happiness?’ Asked the nurse, looking out over the sea of miserable faces.
A tall and graceful black woman swaggered past me towards the reception desk. She looked anything but happy. I think Nonchalant Boredom suited her more.
(I once met a chap in South Africa named Cheerful and he was exactly that. His brother, Wonderful, fixed a puncture on our hire car)
Eventually my name was called.
Since I was seeing the top urology and prostate cancer consultant in the country I expected to meet him in a state of the art clinic . The reality was rather different. A big yellow tarp covered a large hole in the ceiling, the ceiling that remained was covered in signs of a severe water damage and paint bubbled and peeled off the walls.
A bin sat on the windowsill to catch any debris from the tarp and the opaque glass of one window was cracked from top to bottom.
A computer monitor hung at a jaunty angle on the wall and I watched the wallpaper on a continuous loop. It said something about supporting the LGBTQI network and urged staff to support further by means of a rainbow badge or to watch a ‘heartwarming trans affirming film from New Zealand.’
I shook my head and muttered under my breath: “Strewth!”
I would have preferred to see that staff were encouraged to demonstrate professionalism and empathy towards cancer patients but such is the strange world in which we now live.
My surroundings in general, suggested that the health of cancer patients was as much a priority as getting to the bottom of the origins of the covid pandemic and learning the lessons from an abject worldwide response: that is, an extraordinarily minuscule priority.
The door was temptingly ajar and I briefly wondered why I should want to remain here much longer: in every sense, I mean.