No one with any vestige of credibility goes near Icke in his writing.
Which is wrong because he gets a lot of it right, i.e. corroborated elsewhere – it’s just the weird stuff which kills it for him, thinking he’s God or whatever he was meant to have done.
I’ll go into anyone’s writing, even Hitler’s, if it will throw up some snippets, some little facts, not otherwise known. In research, there must be a certain opportunism. With Yallop, the issue was not the good oil but the way he joined dots for us. That’s always a worry.
Looking at a regular OoL commenter’s comment [Mona]:
Considering the revelations made about MP’s sexual depravity of the child rape and murders the happened (alleged?)at Dolphin Square, with the Elm guest house, North Wales, the Dickens porfolio,the obvious state protection of these VDP’s (very depraved people) in the highest ranks of government, to trust the welfare of your child to a government employee local or otherwise is downright dangerous, how many closet paedos lurking in the Hove Childrens Board.. wait ten or fifteen years for the answer.
Very true but when one looks at the nature of the high-ups across the west, they really are of a type. There is always depravity in the truest sense of the word, even a biblical sense of black mass and anti-God and this is not me bible-bashing, it’s they themselves and what they get into.
Svali described the various branches of learning of Them and one of those was ‘spiritual’, others being financial, scientific etc. So, just as in Islam, it’s a complete living system, not just an ideology.
There is something a new MP meets and it corrupts him or her. It’s at once enticing and also blackmailing. It invites him or her to fake expenses because everyone else does and the sheeple know nothing, then leaks to the captured press are made and these MPs are now criminalized and in the hands of Them.
Them have officers in each council, close to the mayor’s office. In this case it’s called Common Purpose – leading beyond authority. Nationally and historically, they’ve always been the warrior and ruler class – one needs the other – and militarism is a key element. Militarism and perversion. Salon Kitty.
I read about the Washington parties – their main purpose providing blackmailing material as no fantasy is left unsatisfied and then it becomes a drug, no? Dolphin Square.
In it’s simplest form, it’s about power and the psy-ops necessary to maintain power over another but it’s also more than that -sheer pleasure in the wielding of it and the inevitable regression, the degradation into bestiality, small loss of personal respect and integrity after small loss of personal respect and integrity. A ratcheting downwards.
So when I read references to Annunaki, I think of all the above and then wonder about the making of royal houses and why one lot come out on top, has always done. Not how a baron came into an area and set up a city state but how that one got to be the baron in the first place. Seems to me it’s more than being just the strongest and most bloodthirsty – I want to get past that and ask why that person was like that and how all of them were the same.
The view of society is so antithetical to that of the non-rulers. Another confirmation that this thinking is on the right track is that Labour politician [pity I’ve lost the quote] who said, in 2010, around the time of the GE, that it was their job to lead and guide society and the people’s job to follow.
It was an actual quote and was so in line with what he was being fed. In Labour’s case, it’s easy to see. Kathy Ashton is a nobody who would have had nothing, were it not for her humble roots and overweening ambition. That was picked up on by Them and found useful, e.g. by Barosso. This is ‘sell your own grandmother’ stuff. Much harder to control are the silver-spooners like Osborne. They need to be blackmailed.
But the whole scene confirms, over and over, what everyone from President Wilson to Senator Jenner were quoted as saying – that there is another power up there, in the corridors, even in the corridors of the Vatican, a silent, patient, perverse power and it runs things, by dint of money and intimidation both.
You don’t even need to believe in the devil and the supernatural or a race of giants to see this – it’s staring you in the face. There is some sort of power – even ‘Masonic’ does not cover it adequately – and this is what runs things. If what I’ve seen, read and heard is even partly so, then it’s a pretty interlocked thing which can’t be trumped, especially as the people as a whole can’t even 1. accept that this is so and 2. combine enough to find these people and 3. even if they did, what could they then do?
As Svali said, these people do make errors, one or more heads of the hydra are cut off and life moves on. In my long novel, I fictionalized the thing this way – ex Prime Minister, ousted in a putsch and having now fled, speaking to his aides:
‘Legitimacy, Hugh, what’s your definition of a legitimate government? The Cartel has labelled us insurgents. How vital is it that we get back there and represent the people? People see us pollies as self serving, elitist toadies – the ruling status quo.’
Another classic from the PM which raised eyebrows all round.
‘People in our country, as you well know, are basically apolitical. As long as you don’t touch their beer or weekly football or if you hand them the occasional mini-windfall, that’s all that matters. So, there’s now been a reshuffle in the pack at the top. Most people will yawn and think, ‘Let’s see how this lot goes.’ ’
‘More than a reshuffle, sir,’ observed Hugh, dryly.
‘Is it Hugh? Is it? I believe it is more but I’m biased – I’m the one who stands to be the leader.’
‘The leader also serves.’
‘You’re certainly feeding me the right lines this evening. I do believe it, Hugh, I do believe I was doing a job for the good of the country. Yes, there are the cars, the yachts at the marina, yes, I loved all those things, but in the end, they’re peripheral, they’re the reward at the end of the day’s work. We do line our pockets and secure our family’s future and who doesn’t take the opportunities presented to him?’
‘There is the question of principle, you know.’
‘Ah, principle. Yes, good old principle. There are certainly things most of us wouldn’t countenance but then there’s something else darker at work, Hugh. Let me replenish our drinks – would you then hear me out?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The Prime Minister brought the drinks, settled back and said, ‘The Club is dark, Hugh.’
You start aspiring for political office because you see the glamour of it, as well as the chance to serve. It’s vibrant, flying into parliament, returning to the constituency, people calling you Minister, taking Sunday morning off and walking with your dog in the forest, putting in a couple of hours swimming.
You have the best wines at home. Your wife is seduced by it all, possibly more so than you are. She’s a good woman but, like Eve, can be led down the path of excess.
Then start the rationalizations for what you do. Like a drug, you can’t give it up. It consumes you. Imagine how many ordinary people are in this situation, Hugh? They can’t give up their habits.
The young bespectacled man with his death games, the middle-aged, balding man, in the wee hours, with his internet images of young girls, the all-consuming shopping mentality – if it shines, if it glitters, if it treats you like a VIP, it seduces.
Where does it all come from? You join the Cartel, look at them – mild mannered, besuited, bespectacled men, fine men on the surface. But you see the empty look in their eyes, the arrogant nonchalance when speaking of the common herd and how they react to a half point increase in interest rates.
Then you start to believe your own rhetoric and it’s fed back to you, at all levels, by the sycophants and by those more sinister, that you are doing vital work for the country, which the ‘little people’ can’t hope to understand, not having all the facts at their fingertips.
The perks are no more than your rightful due. You are the elite, you are more than human; you are almost the master race, certainly the master class. You’re in a lofty world there, Hugh and it’s divorced from the common herd; it’s divorced from the real world. You lose your grip on humanizing constraints. You can do anything and nobody dare oppose you.
And it’s treacherous, even for you. You can’t show the least sign of rebellion against this madness. Eyes stalk constantly for signs of backsliding. They report. To whom do they report?
Men of principle, like the former PM, eventually say ‘enough’ but realize they can’t stop it. It’s a juggernaut.
The Club knows you’re restless and shows you the alternative – scratching for a living, your wife having left you and having taken the children, then the wine bar and finally … the street.
Oh yes, Hugh, there’s another side to all this. The glitter, the manners, the Mercedes door opened for you, the red carpet, panelled conference rooms, the elegant luncheons, the artificial seating arrangements in the oval office – a weak man will never buck the system. His livelihood, the life his wife has come to expect as her due, so susceptible to the glitz.
No one is saying that wanting a better life, a higher standard, is wrong. But somewhere along the line, something creeps into it all, very subtly. The desire to be clean becomes the desire to buy some product to ensure that cleanliness, then another and another, because the first product doesn’t cover all contingencies and so it exponentially escalates expectations. You tell yourself you must have more to survive. What is fuelling this? Is it the dark side of human nature?
‘I have a feeling you’re going to reveal something more, something not particularly pleasant.’
‘Yes, yes I am. You see, I was part of that point of view until I attended the most grotesque party I’d ever witnessed, in Omaha. Everything was laid on, girls, narcotics, whatever your heart desired. There were no limits, none. We were the tired, bored, cynical elite of the world. Some of those girls were thirteen or fourteen and the overweight men didn’t even retire to another room.
It was grotesque but the stalking eyes were in that room, ready to report on the least revulsion against the spectacle. I tell you, Hugh, people were afraid of something, an unknown enemy.’
‘Why can’t you come out and name this enemy, Prime Minister?’
He shook his head. His hands were now clammy and his breathing had shortened considerably. ‘I’ve been there, Hugh. There was an atmosphere in there I can’t describe and something was urging it on, driving it on. This reduction to human baseness, blindness and obedience was seen as sophisticated by those indulging in it.
I rebelled and the reaction was not slow in coming. The PM asked me in to see him some days later, over some peripheral matter regarding my treatment of a fiscal policy paper. In short, someone had shopped me. And here’s the thing also – the PM was no fool. He equally knew I’d been shopped and he’d been thinking along the same lines as me.
Why do people descend to this? I’m not explaining myself well. What I mean is, why don’t people become naturally philanthropic over time? Why, instead, do people regress to baseness, if unchecked?’
‘Are all people at that level like that?’ asked Hugh.
‘Of course not and that’s the surefire way to remain on the outer. It ensures that they’ll never achieve higher office.’
‘And you, Prime Minister?’
‘I was one of them but mark this, Hugh, I’ve now told you about the Club. I’m the boy who blabbed and there’s only one punishment for naughty boys who blab, isn’t there?’
Hugh looked at the Prime Minister.
‘Sir, I know you were elected by the people to parliament and by the party to the Prime Ministership. Those now in charge in the old country were not. The rest of it is done with, assuming you’ve mended your ways.
The bottom line is that you are the legal leader of our country, end of story. Though there’ve always been party leadership putsches, this is far more than one of those. I’d agree we’re in the end times, sir but that’s no reason not to battle on.’
‘May I add one more thing?’ asked Hugh. ‘We’ve indulged in a bit of doom and gloom here this evening but there’s a danger in dwelling on it. I once had a short correspondence with a writer for the Washington Post, Gene Weingarten and he did a funny piece called, ‘A foolproof way to pick the loser’. It was about Dukakis’ bid for the presidency. May I go on?’
‘A bunch of Niemian Fellows were interviewing Dukakis and afterwards, the Senior Fellow asked the others, ‘So what do you think?’ They all waxed lyrical about Dukakis’ abilities, his grasp of the economic situation, his sheer intellect.
The Senior Fellow said, ‘He won’t win. No sense of humour.’’
‘Point taken. We’ll meet tomorrow to discuss the details.’