The Distraction Conspiracy

On the day that the NHS announced more spending on diversity managers and the GMC removed the words woman and mother from their pregnancy guidelines, I was taken ill: 

Not a reaction to these depressingly familiar own-goals by those twin destroyers of the English language and common sense, but a genuine health emergency. 

I had woken that morning to find that the chest of drawers opposite my bed was spinning like the hands of an altimeter in an alien spacecraft crashing over the Nevada desert. 

Does no one ever wonder how this superior alien intelligence is able to navigate the unbearably hostile environments of deep space but always seems to bugger up the landing over exactly the same spot? 

Anyway, I digress. 

The spinning sensation, turned out to be nothing to do with the chest of drawers and was accompanied by clammy sweats, nausea and a complexion like John Major after a week’s holiday in Candeleda: distinctly greenish-grey about the gills. 

All symptoms of a heart attack. 

Michelle rang the hospital and the hospital told us to ring an ambulance. 

Some time after the ambulance was called, I was contacted by a Doctor in London, some 200 miles away, who asked me the same questions and confirmed once more that I needed an ambulance. 

Some time after that the Ambulance arrived. 

Thankfully, I was still alive. 

The two paramedics were a great double act and were polite, thorough and professional. 

After an ECG and observations they decided to take me to the local hospital. 

I felt so sick that I thought the conversation with the paramedic (an ex Royal Marine) might be my last, so naturally we set about putting the world to to rights. 

After testing the water with a little quip about pronouns and getting a laugh, I decided that it was safe to proceed to with my hate-filled, far-right, patriarchal, colonialist rant, borne of total ignorance and the social and political construction of my own ‘whiteness.’

I opened with an Evan’s gambit of a statement: 

That men cannot get pregnant and that it was a little insulting to women, mothers and the field of biological science to suggest otherwise. 

Highly controversial I know, but since my life hung in the balance, I wanted some reassurance that he knew his giblets from his offal. 

It turned out that he was fully conversant with human biology and had not yet been captured by eager diversity managers. We had a good laugh together, which took my mind off the fact that the pit of my stomach was somewhere near my Adam’s apple. 

Once at hospital we had to wait a little while. Mercifully there were only two ambulances waiting, whereas, my jolly paramedic told me, fourteen ambulances had been waiting outside with patients at the weekend. 

I was finally seen by a male nurse from the Philippines. He had been a medic with international search and rescue in the Philippines and told us (the paramedics stayed with me) about his work in the aftermath of various tsunamis. 

He loved doing that work, he said, and really felt that he was making a difference.

“Why on earth have you come to Torquay then?” I said, feeling the need to ask the obvious question. 

I can’t say I got a satisfactory answer but he did confirm that he intended to retire to his home in Philippine paradise. 

As I awaited my blood results I surveyed the other patients who sat in a little horseshoe around me, awaiting theirs. It was certainly an odd collection of humanity that my Filipino friend had chosen to save:

An elderly gentleman in pyjamas wearing a vacant expression and an off-white naval officers cap, set at a jaunty angle; a neurotic middle aged woman from a secure psychiatric institution with two male ‘minders’;

A breathless woman, as wide as she was tall with pieces of white tissue inserted into each nostril. She sat panting like a yellow-carded rugby prop on the substitutes bench, exuding the scent of stale sweat. 

I gave serious consideration to the tissue up the nose option but decided that it might appear rude. 

Finally there was an anxious mother (or ‘birthing parent’ in the new lingo) with her bored daughter. 

In all, we were a rather unglamorous representation of the human species, I thought. All dignity seems to vanish when one is sick and in hospital. 

We were not concerned with the diversity or sexual preferences of the people charged with our care as the NHS and GMC seem to be. 

We just wanted to get fixed up and to go home. 

Quite why the NHS and GMC are so enamoured of this anti-scientific ideology I’m not sure. It’s certainly not something patients have asked for. And aren’t patients the sole purpose for the existence of these bodies and the jobs within them?

It is as if the very institutions- created to serve- decided somewhere along the line that it should be the other way around: that they should be served; even worshiped and adored. 

Perhaps by focusing the attention over there, it distracts our short attention spans from identifying the central problem over here. 

Everyone knows this ideology is nonsensical and idiotic and even dangerous, but they are so focused on saying so that the real problems go unresolved: such as waiting lists and waiting times, the cancellation of routine operations, absence, strikes, staff shortages and much more. 

Far cheaper, I suppose, to employ a diversity officer on £200k to confuse, confound and enrage taxpayers with complete gobbledygook than to contemplate anything other than a sticky plaster on any one of these issues. 

It’s the same principle with aliens: 

No sooner has the US pledged billions of taxpayer dollars to keep the war going in Ukraine and keep arms manufacturers happy, whilst more Americans continue to slip into poverty, someone spontaneously decides to hold an inquiry into extra-terrestrials and wheels out some papier-mâché models of ET and says “well lookey here!”. 

One only has to look at the hot topics on social media to see that we fall for it every time. 

In that day’s news the front pages of all newspapers and news sites were dominated by the Russel Brand story. 

The popular TV and YouTube personality, Brand, is- or was- a self-confessed drug and sex addict. He’s written and spoken about it extensively, but has recently turned his life around and focused his attention towards the uncanny knack of our elite masters to turn a handsome profit, whilst the rest of us find ourselves much poorer, from the various crises that are set out before us in the media. (Think climate change, big-pharma and world war 3) 

They must be sharp down at the press office, because their determined investigations have led them to find women who want to complain about Russell’s sexual behaviour 20 years ago and tell their stories to the media.

I think it’s rather a shame that they didn’t direct their “proper investigative journalism” (thank you, AF Neil) to Epstein’s client list; I mean the people who actually abused the young girls that Epstein and his sidekick, Maxwell, procured for their pleasure. 

I can’t think why not, can you?

Anyway, Brand has been tried, found guilty and sentenced by our wonderfully impartial media before a single police statement has been given. 

And for a few days it will distract us from the real scandals that our leaders perpetrate upon the nations of gullible and helpless spectators. 

I really do wish that we could all begin to pay more attention. 

Thankfully my medical episode turned out to be nothing to do with my heart but a severe reaction to some new medication. I live to fight another day. 

I’ll leave you with a pertinent excerpt from Orwell’s 1984: 

“Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.’

He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could not say anything. His heart seemed to be frozen.’

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