“I reached out to speak with the man who I had seen earlier in the year trying to pay for entrance to the Canadian Museum for Human Rights. His approach was an attempt at “calling their bluff”, to see if he could get into the museum “without the segregation card in hand”. Police escorted him off the premises. In an exclusive video provided after, we hear a museum representative justify their actions, claiming they are simply following public health orders.”
Where have we heard that before:
Shame of the world;
I never thought I would ever see the world come to this.
Does this woman look friendly, warm and cuddly, or mean, nasty, don’t mess with me… erm us?
Canada’s new Governor General. She can’t speak French but with Trudough’s virtue signaling rhetoric that is okay. Not for the rest of us but for her and others like her. Elitism to the core.
Canadian Broadcast Corporation (CBC), the Canadian version of the BBC, releases “List of Words You Should Stop Saying.” Fortunately Go F%^k Yourself never made the list.
Joe Rogan calls out media for blaming the SUV in Waukesha Christmas parade attack
“Did the car go haywire? Did the auto-driving feature go nuts and just plowed into the crowd?”
Hey it’s an SUV and SUVs are bad for the planet hence this “accident” was caused by “CLIMATE CHANGE” say enviro-mentals.
Enviro-mentalism is a new mental illness.
That is a Tesla exploding underwater.
The Royal Canadian Navy (RCN) has bought a number of Teslas for its Anti Submarine Warfare (ASW) Fleet.
Quote of the weak: The typical bank economist is so boring that a near-death experience would see someone else’s life flash before their eyes.
Interesting ad…but:
…yes but, whatever happened to “informed consent” in Canada??
The only way for us to get back to normal is to demand as such from our elected officials. “Turf Them Out” has a nice ring to it and with that haning over their heads they are sure to comply. Just like us.
Another excerpt from my latest, almost finished book: Red Jewel
Ruth was excited and beside herself as she ran up the shallow slope to Castle Road. Looking east and then south she became enamored by the sight of a long dark tree tunnel that was formed by a canopy of leaves and deciduous bushes and hedges that lined both sides of the road, as if they were, according to Ruth, ancient guardians and sentinels of the medieval castle itself. A broad imagination Ruth had.
“Oh daddy, daddy, look, look at this.” she said, excitedly. “A wondrous tree tunnel that goes on and on forever and ever. To our magical castle estate. Oh King Sommers.” lowering her voice. “Come your highness, King of Wessex itself. And I am Queen Matilda, or Empress Maud, a woman who would be King of all of England.”
“Yes you are my darling Ruth.” Mr Sommers said, laughingly, looking at me with a high browed grin.
“But who am I your highness?” I mocked at her.
“Oh…oh” she paused, unsure of herself for the moment. “Well never mind you…you…you are just my servant boy, my peon from East Meon. You shall do as I say…as I order you or you shall curse the day that you were born. To the chopping block and off with your head if you refuse my bidding” She laughed then giggled and then ran down the shadowing laneway, happy and excited, exuberant. I followed suit while Mr Sommers walked slowly behind us, enjoying and savoring this moment with his daughter.
You could see the shadows dissipate as the tree tunnel ended with a burst of brightness of the mid afternoon sun. There we were, at the entranceway to the castle, in the gathering area just outside of the main gateway…or drawbridge as Ruth would refer. We were the only ones there. She ran ahead as we followed her into a narrow passageway that was lined with ancient stone walls, ramparts and buttresses. It was almost 600 years old and along with a castle on the Kingswear side Dartmouth Castle protected the entrance to the Dart estuary from French invasion. It held an array of cannon in its tower as well as a mechanism to use a cable that was employed in conjunction with Kingswear on the opposite bank to halt the ingress of enemy shipping.
The castle was imbued with many passageways and lookouts that were focused on the entrance to the Dart and approaches to the estuary from the channel beyond. There were gunrooms and powder-rooms, storerooms, quarters, cooking houses and various laneways. Many of the rooms were connected by narrow, dark passageways with low hanging stone ceilings. It was very cool, almost cold in these dark and damp rooms that were only lit by the natural light that came in from the outside through cracks and doorway openings. In one spot Ruth became frightened and held on to my arm. As her anxiety lessoned with my presence beside her she moved her arm down until she could feel the warmth of my hands. There, she entwined her fingers through mine. We were holding hands. I felt a slight tinge and weird sensation through my entire upper being. It felt strange but wonderful.
We held hands and felt our way back up a flight of stone steps and then out and into a small open square that was surrounded on all sides by old stone walls. They were only about four feet high except on the southern side where the wall formed part of the gun tower. We walked over to the east side of the square where we could look out at the expanse of the English Channel. It was so bright and clear that you could almost see across to France or Guernsey. We looked around and back up where we could see Mr Sommers above us on a stone rampart. We waved.
“Let’s eat.” He yelled down at us. “Meet me outside the gate.”
Ruth and I left the square to make our way back up through the various rooms and passageways to the outlying path that led to the entranceway to the castle. On our way, Ruth abruptly stopped and turned toward me then gave me a peck on my cheek, and then another. She smiled at me and said. “You may be a poor peon from East Meon Nigel but you are my peon and I like you very much. You may be my knight Mr Filtness. Rise Sir Nigel.” as she tapped me on my shoulder. And with that she ran off ahead of me giggling and excitable like the young schoolgirl that she was to meet with up with her father.
We spent the next hour or so having a picnic of mutton chops, some salad, chips butty, tea sandwiches and some tea. I could not remember how that went or if the food was good for my mind was racing with that short memory and sweet innocent embrace from Ruth. I may have only been thirteen years old but it did not feel as yucky to me in the least. I was smitten.
As we sat down to our late lunch on a grassy embankment close to the outer western wall of the castle, Mr Sommers told us about the history of the place and the role it played during the many wars with France including our most recent past of World Wars I and II against Germany. It was a fascinating account of adventure, bravery, fools, pirates, kings and queens, smugglers and rogues. He also touched on the varied history of Dartmouth and Kingswear as well as the advent of the Royal Naval College and Britannia. Ruth would look at me from time to time during this discourse to steal a glance and to share a smile. I was beginning to see Ruth in a different light. It was wonderful to know her and Mr Sommers. Indeed it was wonderful to be alive I thought if even for a short respite on this perfect, sunny August afternoon in Dartmouth. For soon reality will bite me squarely in the ass as I make my way home. I tried not to think about it.
We sailed back hardly saying a word. We were exhausted. The wind had come up somewhat but ours was a run before the wind, so it felt as if it was a nice comfortable leisurely sail. A few times Mr. Sommers had to grasp the tiller firmly in this wind and following sea so as not to lose control. Nevertheless the strength of the wind never became apparent to me until we altered directly into it as we came to the mooring buoy on the Kingswear side. It was brisk. Finally, safe and secured to our buoy, Mr Sommers guided the punt to take us ashore one by one. Saying goodbye to Ruth and thanking Mr Sommers for everything I made my way home.
Check out my books via the links at the top of the page. Support a struggling Canadian author. they would make great Christmas gifts. Thanks.
Return to innocence. Forget Covid, Climate Change, BLM, Antifa. Woke-ism:
SJ…Out
My first wife Marijke (Mar-ay-ke) passed away four years ago today after an eleven year battle with cancer. We were together for 43 years.
Happier times in the Netherlands, where she was born and raised.
I think of her every single day. We miss you and we love you…forever.
Another excerpt from my latest book Red Jewel. Almost finished:
We spent a lot of time together in the summer of 1951. One Saturday in August Mr Sommers had a surprise for us. We were going to sail to Dartmouth Castle for a picnic and adventure. It would be fantastic as the weather was brilliant, or brilly as Ruth would say.
Getting into “Lilly” with our rucksack of food and drink we were off. We were to head over to the Dartmouth side first and hug the shoreline as the tide would not be as strong there, although the tidal stream was never really strong in the harbour “but in a small sailing dinghy like “Lilley” you cannot be too careful” – so says our skipper.
The wind was just right for us. A close reach down and a run back.
It was a glorious day. Sunshine, warm, a blue cloudless sky, no need for a jumper or jacket except our life jackets which Mr Sommers demanded that we wear at all time. We did so as the sailing was fun. The town of Dartmouth lay off our starboard beam as we headed south. The town’s main quay was alive and busy. The townsfolk were out doing or minding their business. The streets and houses still bore the scars of the war but slowly they were coming out of that hellish coma to a vibrant rebirth, bright and colourful. Some of the vestiges of the pre-war slipways, dockyards wharves and coal houses could still be seen as was the odd gun or torpedo boats that were waylaid across a tidal flat or secured to a buoy. Soon they would be gone. The odd man or woman waved to us from ashore causing Ruth to energetically and enthusiastically wave back. “Oh look…look father…look at that” she would say at almost everything she saw.
The water of the Dart had a slight chop to it. It was the colour of a rich and deep indigo blue. Its contrast to the sky’s blueness was striking especially when measured against the rich green textures and hues of the surrounding deep foliage of trees and flowers. God’s natural palette, I thought. Thousands it seemed of trees and flora, of many colours and descriptions. They graced the hills above the harbour from the beaches, rocks and crevices of the shoreline, very lush. Looking north up the river this landscape of trees and foliage that hugged the shoreline and hung over parts of the Dart presented an aura of peace, tranquility and contentment. It was heaven, sleepingly so. To the south you could see how the Dart narrowed at the mouth of the estuary before spilling out and into the English sea or channel, with its entranceway guarded on both sides by rocky crags and cliffs as well as the artillery forts of Dartmouth Castle on the west bank of the narrows, with Kingswear Tower on the east side. Both of these castles were built hundreds of years ago as protection from foreign invasion, primarily from the French.
We sailed south and then altered slightly to the southeast following the contour and lines of the course of the Dart. It was interesting for me to look out to the east at Kingswear. I could make out my house on Church Hill just to the right of and up from the lower ferry slipway that connected Kingswear to Dartmouth. I could just detect the small window of my bedroom where I spent many an hour looking out at the very scene from which I now enjoyed this landscape. There, looking out of my bedroom window, idling my time away and dreaming of a better life from the cruel existence of living with my father.
Before long we were abreast of Warfleet Creek Road. We altered to starboard and made our way to a small landing on the south side of the little bay that was fed by Warfleet Creek. With our help Mr Sommers had Lilly secured along a small wharf. We disembarked, secured our belongings and made our way up to Castle Road. From there it would be a short half mile walk to Dartmouth Castle.
Check out my books via the links at the top of the page. They would make great Christmas gifts and you would be supporting a struggling Canadian author. Thanks.
The 80s were great for music. Videos thought were something else though. Great song by a lesser known Canadian band.
