I wish today to speak of news totally unexpected. I’ve learned I have a grandson. He’s the son of my late son Albert, of whom I’ve written from time to time in pages past. I never thought I would have a grandson, because Albert just didn’t seem the sort of man who would father a son for reasons – painful reasons – I long ago spoke of.

For reasons of security, I’ll refer to my new-found grandson only as “John”. John, now in latter middle-age, came to know of me through the various contacts he has within high circles of the English and American establishments. John, I should explain, is one of America’s best known political journalists. He writes for one of the big American newspapers, and also appears on the television a lot in the capacity of – what men today call – a “pundit”. So well-known is John that most of you reading this, and who own a television, would know his face immediately.

I have, by the way, no doubt that John is the biological son of Albert, because, from photos he’s sent me, I see a definite likeness to Albert as I remember him. John came into the world out of a love-affair Albert had with a young American woman while, as a young man, he was living in France. The young woman, on learning she was “with child”, returned home to America where she gave birth to John, and where she brought him up.

You, if you read regularly this blog, will understand the risks John is running by communing with me and revealing our propinquity. Were it to become widely known that John is not only communing with me secretly, but is my grandson too, he would be sacked immediately by his newspaper, and shunned by the men of television. John would thus be ruined. And not only him, but his family too, for John has a wife and children to whom he says he is devoted.

While, for reasons of John’s well-being, I cannot reveal more of his current outward life, I can reveal something of his current inner life, which – without putting too fine a point on it – is in turmoil. John is undergoing a spiritual crisis, for, over the years, he came to learn that what actually goes on in America and in the world, isn’t what he thought it was. So that most of what he writes for the public, and most of what he says on the television, isn’t about what is actually going on in America and in the world, but only about what those who really rule America, and who really rule the world – the ones who pull the strings, so to speak – want the public to know.

Were John to tell these hidden truths to the public, he would be finished as a journalist and television pundit. He would be as ruined as much as he would be were he to reveal his propinquity to me. As added insurance against professional and public ruin, he reveals none of these hidden truths, as well as nothing of his propinquity to me, even to his wife and family. The emotional toll on him has become such, that he feels he is now merely a mask – a hideous grinning mask.

John decided to establish contact with me, not only to find out more of own origins, but to find an outlet for telling at least some of the hidden public truths he can tell to no-one. I, as John’s grandfather, have agreed to allow this blog to be his conduit for saying the things he feels he must say, else he will go mad.

I have to say, though, that from the smidgen of the hidden truths which John has so far revealed to me, there’s almost nothing I haven’t come across before. But – and this is important –  none of it was in the big newspapers. So, if you, yourself, get your news only from the big newspapers, or from big television, you could find your safe comforting little world upended when you learn what John has to say. It may even send you mad. You are therefore warned.

I cannot say when John will begin his revelations. It may be soon. Or not be soon. It may be never, for, who knows, John may have second thoughts. Even if he does, I can say only that what little he has revealed to me so far, does have the ring of truth. I say this from having been an active General, and from a very long life……….


While awaiting a personal response from England’s new prime minister to my offer *to be her Minister of Defence* – in the service of enabling England to return to being the Great Power she used to be – I’ve continued to follow world affairs closely, including the recent Olympic Games.

Were I not desirous of becoming Minister of Defence I wouldn’t have bothered following the Olympic Games, for they are not really “games” or “sport”, in the way an Englishman understands it. Rather, the Olympic Games are a world war by other means which the world’s nations fight every four years. What with the huge involvement and funding by national governments, flag-waving, national anthems, and all of that, the Olympic games are, you might say, a giant proxy-war. To win in your particular sport, you therefore use any means necessary, whether illegal or immoral.

Despite this, the athletes do appear to try to behave properly to their opponents at the end of a contest or event. This, however, is just Public Relations – something lost on the unlettered masses who follow the Olympic Games. So, should an athlete – as did happen in one instance during the just-finished Games – not shake the hand of his opponent at the finish of a contest between them, he’s excoriated for not acting as a sportsman should, and sent home in disgrace, rather than feted for being true to himself. .

You may have gathered by now how trying it was for me to follow these just-finished Olympic Games. I felt I had to, though, in view of my aspirations to be England’s Minister of Defence. Hence I followed these Games as I might a war. I was, in this connection, happy to see that in terms of medals won, England was among the very top nations. I have every hope that, once England becomes again a Great Power – through the means I laid out in my letter to the new Prime Minister – England will also be the top medal-winner at future Olympic Games.

And not just future Olympic Games, but future Football World Cups, and future Rugby World Cups too. Given that international sport is now war by other means, it will more or less be necessary that England as the world’s leading Great Power, should permanently be champion of the world in football and rugby. And not to speak of permanently depriving Australia of the Ashes.


In the matter of cricket, I’ve been disturbed to learn that Englishmen playing weekend amateur cricket today, routinely engage in *verbal and physical violence*. It’s getting so bad, fighting is causing matches to be abandoned. I had thought only Americans behave like this.  But Englishmen? Fighting on the cricket field is like spitting in church. It bespeaks a hole – a gaping hole – in the core of today’s Englishman. Is it therefore any wonder why he voted the way he did in the recent referendum?

The despair of today’s Englishman arises from his no longer finding meaning in his life. He tries to compensate by becoming an imitation American. So he chews gum, spews profanities, and fights on the cricket field. But imitating someone never fills the gaping hole in a rotting core. Hence the Englishman is adrift, and England is adrift too – drifting off to become again the inconsequential European off-shore island she was before William the Conqueror.

Happily this can all change. But only if England’s new woman prime minister accepts what I said in my recent letter to her. What I said is eminently………how shall I say………doable? It needs only the resolve that the fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, and great-great grandfathers of today’s Englishman showed when they sailed off on England’s civilising mission throughout the world.


I’ll conclude this posting – as I did the previous posting – with music, English music. There’s nothing like  English music – real English music – to begin filling the hole in a rotting English core. What music was more English than the music of Albert Ketelby. Whenever I listen to his “Bells Across the Meadows” I begin weeping, so much does it vibrate with an ineffable Englishness in the deepest layer of my being.

If more of today’s Englishmen would listen to Albert Ketelby’s music, they might, like me, weep. This will only help the Englishman’s ailing soul to begin healing. He’ll spit out his gum, return to speaking proper English, shake the hand of his opponent on the cricket field, and sail off again to show proudly English civilisation to the world………

Letter To The New Prime Minister

Some days ago I posted a letter to 10 Downing Street. This is what I wrote:

“Dear Madam Prime Minister – As a retired General I wish to offer my congratulations on your becoming England’s second woman Prime Minister. The first one made rather a mess of things, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Women have, consequently, been on the back foot ever since. You can therefore only do better.

Although you’ve said “Brexit means Brexit” in the context of your trying to get the best terms for England as it extricates itself from Europe, I do hope you’ll arrange another referendum. This time Englishmen (and Englishwomen too) will vote the right way, which is to “remain”. I just know it. This’ll make your task easier too, since, as a “remainer” in the referendum just past, you’re likely still a “remainer” at heart.

As a closet “remainer”, you doubtless know that an isolated England will fall totally into the clutches of America. This is an America – I need hardly remind you – that poses to world peace the greatest threat – a threat now more ominous because of America’s drift into fascism.

The last time England was in the dangerous waters she’s drifting into now, was in the 1930’s, when  fascist Germany posed the same threat to world peace as America does today. Then, Englishmen (and Englishwomen too) joined the rest of Europe in opposing the fascist bullies. Had Englishmen (and Englishwomen) then, been like Englishmen (and Englishwomen) today, they would have turned their backs on Europe, thus isolating themselves, and would have fallen hopelessly into the clutches of fascist Germany.

We Englishmen (and you Englishwomen too) of today would hence be speaking German instead of our beloved English. And we would spend our Sunday mornings goose-stepping through the green fields of England’s pleasant land instead of skipping joyfully through them as we do now.

Having been to the University, Madam Prime Minister, you’ll know that England, in fact, has always played the balance-of-power vis-a-vis any would-be European dominator. Hence England came on the side of the dominated against the dominator, and eventually saw him off. Think Wilhelmine Germany, or Napoleonic France. By voting to “leave”, and thus isolating England from Europe, the foolish Englishman of today – who shaves his head, tattoos his torso, and gets into drunken fights with Russians at football matches – has gone against how England has traditionally acted in the world.

You will have heard, as have I, the bibulous voices of some of today’s foolish Englishmen (and Englishwomen) saying, “If Winston Churchill were alive today, he’d have voted to ‘leave’ “. Well, perhaps. But, as you’ll know, Mr Churchill was, through his mother, a half-American. And, the America he praised – the America which was the citadel of democracy, the America of Mr Roosevelt, the America that everyone outside America looked up to – was very different from the America of today – the America which is the citadel of creeping fascism, the America of Mr Trump, the America that everyone outside America hates.

This is the America that England will fall into the clutches of, unless the Englishman (and the Englishwoman) agitates for another referendum, and votes this time to stay in Europe, thus to stand shoulder to shoulder with his (and her) European brothers (and sisters) against the predations of Mr Trump and his legions of fascists.


Assuming another referendum in which “remain” wins this time, how is England to become the accepted leader of Europe? Massively re-arming, that’s how. While Germany is now Europe’s accepted leader, this is based on economic might only. Germany’s army, navy and air force are, on the other hand, piffling – nothing like they were when Kaiser Wilhelm II was around. And the army, navy and air forces of the other European nations – including England’s, as I’m sure you’ll admit – are piffling too. So, the realm of armed might is where England can replace Germany as Europe’s leader, thereby once again becoming a Great Power.

England, having decided to re-arm on a mighty scale, should concentrate on the navy, for the English Navy has always had a special place in the hearts of Englishmen (and Englishwomen), brought up on stories about Battle of Trafalgar, and the Battle of Jutland, among so many other of the English Navy’s historic sea battles.

In today’s 21st century world, the battleship, and even the aircraft carrier, are redundant, for they are sitting ducks (so to speak) for any missile fired from land, from aircraft, and from submarines. It is the submarine which therefore is the future of any worthwhile navy. Since the mighty English Navy that I propose, will far and away be the most worthwhile of all navies, England should build the mightiest submarine fleet mankind has ever seen.

Given English resolve, English submarines, which would be as ubiquitous as shoals of fish, and armed with nuclear missiles under the control of itchy-fingered commanders, would swarm insouciantly through the depths of all the seas of the world, thereby sowing respect for England everywhere.

England would again rule the world’s waves as she did one hundred years ago. No foreign ship, whether naval or commercial, would be immune from being sunk by a torpedo from a lurking English submarine. No foreign city would be immune from being dissolved to powder by a nuclear missile from an offshore English submarine.

In the olden days, England needed only to send a gunboat to extinguish incipient bellicosity in any nation wanting to cause trouble. Under the plan I propose, England need send only a nuclear-armed submarine to produce the same pacific effect.

The English Army and English Air Force should be built up as well, to send the message even more weightily that England is once again a Great Power that all other nations must tip-toe around.


Having read this far, Madam Prime Minister, you may at first sight be asking yourself how England can afford this huge military build-up. But, at second sight, you will of course see the obvious answer, which is: tax the untold untaxed wealth that most very rich Englishmen – with their bald heads, toothbrush moustaches, double chins, skinny legs, shriveled genitals, and pot bellies – keep in banks located in small tax-free island nations in the Caribbean and its like, so as not to have to pay taxes to Her Majesty’s Government. This off-shore wealth is so enormous, taxing it would comfortably pay for the plan I’ve laid out.

Another thing you would know, Madam Prime Minister, because you went to the University, is that England was once the workhorse of the world. Anything that could be made, was made in England. Cars, knives, forks, spoons, bicycles, stoves, toothpicks, refrigerators, and – what is most relevant to what I’m speaking about – all the weapons of war. Which is to say guns, tanks, aeroplanes, bombs, ships. You name it. Yes, they were once all made in England.

Difficult to believe, isn’t it, when you look today at the swathes upon swathes of disused decaying industrial wasteland in northern England, where everything used to be made that enabled England to sail the seas and create an Empire on which the sun never set.

England, once the shipbuilder of the world, can become the submarine-builder of the world; the missile builder of the world; the fighter-plane builder of the world. England can become the new arsenal of democracy. This would be the foundation to make England again the workhorse of the world. England would once again, in addition to the weapons of war, make the cars, knives, forks, spoons, bicycles, stoves, toothpicks, and refrigerators, that Englishmen (and Englishwomen) were once proud of having made.

England would once again become the economic colossus, as well as the military colossus, she used to be when Queen Victoria reigned. You as Prime Minister of this new, great England, would be regarded throughout the world with the same awe as were Mr Gladstone, Mr Disraeli, or Lord Salisbury. Women everywhere, wanting to look like you, would rush into shoe stores to buy those sorts of leopard-skin-looking, high-heeled shoes you seem to like to wear.


Because Englishmen (and Englishwomen) have, since the fall of the old Empire, been feeling bad about England and Englishness, and so are suffering from low morale, I think it important that England has a new national anthem, for national anthems and national morale go together like two peas in a pod. “God Save the Queen” just doesn’t do it for Englishmen (and Englishwomen) any more – if indeed it ever did, for “God Save the Queen”‘s melody and lyrics are so insipid, it may be why Englishmen (and Englishwomen) – who have been forced all their lives to stand to attention and listen to “God Save the Queen” since they could walk – feel today so bad about England and Englishness, with the consequent deleterious effect on the national morale.

As a General (although retired) who has commanded men most of my life, I tell you unhesitatingly that high morale – whether in school, in the workplace, in the army, or in any other collective endeavor – is crucial to getting men (and women) to do everything well as a group. As of now, and for some time, the morale of Englishmen (and Englishwomen) has been low. Unless morale is again high, the plan I’ve set forth for England to become great again will surely fail, because to make this happen each Englishman (and each Englishwoman) must give of his (or her) best, and do everything well.

Let England adopt, then, as its new national anthem, “Jerusalem”. I ask you, Madam Prime Minister, have you ever heard a hymn more stirring than “Jerusalem”? Have you ever failed to weep silently whenever you’ve heard a choir singing “Jerusalem”? Has “Jerusalem” ever failed to evoke an ineffable feeling of Englishness in the depth of your English heart?

Imagine, Madam Prime Minister, the elevating effect on England’s morale if Englishmen (and Englishwomen), inspired by their new national anthem, would hum, sing, or whistle  “Jerusalem” to themselves while doing their ablutions in the bathroom each morning before catching the train to work. England would soon be great again, let me tell you.


I know you’ve a lot on your plate (so to speak) right now, Madam Prime Minister. So I’ll cut this letter short. I hope, though, that it gives you a good idea of how you, as Prime Minister, can be the architect of this new, and also once-again, Great Power of England.

As a retired General who was active when England used to be the foremost Great Power, I could be invaluable to you as you bring about this new England that I’ve outlined. Appoint me Minister of Defence, and I’ll make it happen. First, though, you must arrange a judicial pardon for the things the police worldwide are seeking me for.

I hope, Madam, to hear from you very soon………..”

Quasi Men

Since last I wrote, I’ve had another birthday – my 121st. I kept this to myself because I know no-one here on the Pacific Rain Coast well enough to reveal how old I am and when my birthday is. Besides, even if I did know anyone well enough to reveal all this, I wouldn’t for fear this would reach the ears of the police who, for all I know, are still looking for me.

I had said last time that I was reading “Victoria – A Life” by AN Wilson. The Victoria of whom Mr Wilson writes is, of course, the late Queen Victoria of England and all its worldwide Empire. So long have I lived, I often forget that England once had an Empire – the mightiest which mankind has ever seen. I keep having to remind myself that once upon a time all the nations of the world, even the nation of America, bowed down to England in awe. Now, today, the boot is – so to speak – on the other foot, for it is England which bows down to America in awe.

I’m reminded uncomfortably of all this by the publication of the report – painstakingly put together by Sir John Chilcot – that definitively (one hopes) cements Mr Anthony Blair permanently in infamy. The sight of an Englishman, the unspeakable Mr Blair, prancing like a popinjay at the side of an American, the equally unspeakable Mr George Bush, made me ashamed to call myself an Englishman. Would Queen Victoria’s prime ministers, like Mr Gladstone or Lord Salisbury, have pranced like popinjays at the side of Emperor Wilhelm the First or Emperor Wilhelm the Second? Perish the thought. If they had, Queen Victoria would have ordered their severed heads brought to her on a silver platter, believe you me.

I think that had Mr Blair, when a young man, served as a soldier in the British Army, he would have had the perfect passage into manhood, of which he would have had sufficient confidence thereafter, so as not to feel he had to act as a quasi-man when at the side of Mr Bush, who, by the way, seemed also to me a quasi-man.


I wish now to speak of “Brexit” – a neologism so arresting that a man in America, who makes alcoholic beverages and sells them at a profit, plans to  produce a cider and call it “Brexit”. This does make entrepreneurial sense, because cider is so quintessentially the drink of the Englishman, that an American, while drinking Brexit Cider, will be able to imagine he’s an Englishman, and behave all the better for this. But, why stop at Brexit Cider? Why not also Brexit Tomato Sauce? Or Brexit Pork Pies? I’ll surmise this idea is already illuminating the minds of other Americans as faithful to the word of Adam Smith as they are faithful to the word of God.

I have to say, I was most disappointed at the decision of those Englishmen who still live in England, to leave the European Union. If this decision sticks, England will never again be important in the world. As long as we Englishmen remained in Europe, there was always the chance we could become the undisputed leader of Europe, and thereby again throw our weight about in the world.

We Englishmen have to face the reality, though, that the weight which we can throw about in today’s world if we have a mind to, isn’t as heavy as the weight we threw around yesterday’s world when Queen Victoria reigned. We can only compensate for this if we remain tightly in Europe, and take over as its leader. Only then will the men of America regard us seriously.

Since it appears that most of the Englishmen who voted that England leave Europe, now realise they didn’t know really what they were voting for, I can only hope that the government of England will give Englishmen another chance to vote again on whether or not to remain in Europe. I’m confident that this time the Englishman, having now seen how wrong he was the first time, will put matters right the next time.

Once more unto the breach………..


Again, again, I’m having to begin a posting by assuring you all I’ve not died since I last wrote. This is one of the maddening things about being 120 (soon to be 121). I mean, were I 20 (soon to be 21) I wouldn’t feel I have to keep assuring you I haven’t passed on.

I often think, though, what I would be doing, and what I would be like, were the “1” in the “120” not there, so that I’m 20, not 120. What if I’d been born in 1995, not 1895? For one thing, I’d be having a lot more ladies than I currently am. Not finding willing ladies is another maddening thing about being 120 (soon to be 121). It used to be that young ladies found older gentlemen very attractive. But not today, it seems.

Despite this, I’m still on the lookout for ladies. I talk to them whenever I can – in bars, pubs, at bus-stops, and whatnot. They smile, are polite, and all of that, but become ever-so-subtly distant as soon as I begin making… shall I say……..overtures?

I’ve still much more to offer than most gentlemen out there looking for ladies. For one thing, I’m a very experienced lover, having over the last hundred-or-so years had many, many scores of ladies in all the areas of the world I was stationed in during my long military career. As a conversationalist I have few equals, for, being catholic in my interests, widely read, and with a cosmopolitan spirit, I’m a veritable Renaissance Man.

Also, I’m still a very good physical specimen because I work-out every day, punching the heavy bag, shadow-boxing, doing calisthenics, running, and suchlike. I was, after all, once middleweight champion of the British Army. You may therefore now wonder why it is that today’s young ladies don’t seem to want to beat a path (so to speak) to my door.   The only explanation is my advanced age. Today’s young ladies don’t know what they’re missing.


Not having had any ladies for so long, I’ve been thinking more and more of Victoria. She was a lady (a fortyish lady, actually) with whom I was passionate. This was in the very early 1920’s. Since, as I intimated earlier, I’ve been passionate with scores upon scores of ladies in the course of my life, why should I be thinking particularly of Victoria? Is it because I’m currently reading “Victoria – A Life” by AN Wilson? Being a biography of Queen Victoria, it serves as a reminder that in her very copious writings (she wrote over 60 million words, the equivalent of 700 novels) she reveals how passionate was her love for Albert. Little is left to the reader’s imagination.

I had first met my Victoria at someone’s rather lavish party in a home in London’s Belgravia district. I was 25. She  was 15 years my senior. I was then unmarried (Gladys was still in my future). But Victoria was very married – to an executive, in “oil” – and she had a son at Harrow. All this didn’t matter to Victoria, who set her sights on me and made her move. I was as helpless as a beetle caught in a spider’s web, for Victoria was the sort of older lady young gentlemen dream about and cannot resist. Her figure was trim, her hair black, her glittering eyes dark and obsidian. She was the controller; I the controlled. She was the predator; I the prey. She was the sadist; I the masochist.

Victoria’s oil-executive husband was constantly out of England doing the things around the Empire which oil executives did. Her son at Harrow was a boarder there. So Victoria was frequently home alone, where we did the sorts of things together behind closed doors in her home, that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had done together behind closed doors at Osborne House. After Albert came John Brown. I have, however, still to get to that part in AN Wilson’s biography………

As for my Victoria, I’ll be forever grateful to her for indulging me in my (secret) wish to be beaten with a whip by a lady I desire. And there was no lady I desired more than Victoria. The more she beat me the more red-hot became my desire for her – a desire deliciously slaked in our couplings after the beatings were finished.

As for Queen Victoria, could it be that, as a prelude to her and Albert’s couplings, she beat him with a whip so that his desire for her become more red-hot? This question isn’t as outlandish as it might sound, because any references to such a thing which Queen Victoria might have made in her journals or diaries, would certainly have been destroyed by her youngest daughter, Princess Beatrice, who, after the Queen’s death, did in fact destroy large swathes of her mother’s writings.

As for my Victoria, she, after some months of our couplings, began to tire of me. Our affair consequently ebbed, then ended. It was against my wishes, but, as I had said earlier, she was the controller, and I the controlled. I was the beetle she caught in her web, and devoured.

But, in the nights, particularly those of late, I continue to encounter Victoria. Whenever all is quiet she glides into my room in the blackness and slides into my bed…………….


Not seeing a posting on this blog in commemoration of this Christmas Day just past, you might be forgiven for asking yourself if there was anything the matter with me, or indeed if I had finally died. The fact is, I was too ill to write anything, for I was struck with a very bad dose of the influenza. At my age (120), influenza is just not a good thing to get, especially influenza as virulent as the one I not only had, but still have, for I’m still far from being totally well.

For many days, I tossed and turned in my little bed from the raging fever. And my coughing spasms nearly turned my body inside out. For all I know, I was at death’s door. But I dared not visit a doctor because of the murder arrest-warrants issued against me by the police forces throughout the world. Any doctor, being visited by a 120 year-old, is likely to begin asking questions inordinately intrusive, and he could make further inquiries with the Authorities. I just can’t have that. To die by being hanged from a scaffold would be just too humiliating for me.

Even to have influenza is humiliating, for I never used to get influenza until quite recently. In fact, I don’t remember my Mater or Pater ever having even a day’s illness, let alone influenza, apart from the maladies from which they died when very old. As for Monty, the notion that he would ever have been indisposed by influenza would be preposterous. I remember when I served on Monty’s staff in North Africa in 1942-1943. Monty had all us officers doing PT at 6.00 every morning, and Monty would do the PT as well. There was no shirking, for Rommel had to be knocked for six out of Africa. Monty would have regarded as a shirker any officer taking to his sick bed for a little thing like influenza.

Therefore, by taking to my sick bed these past few days, I have been shirking. Monty, looking down at me from wherever he is now, cannot be pleased. This is something I’ll have to live with.

Being Lazy In School

I wish today to speak more about *Mr Graham Hancock’s talk* that I attended recently. He spoke in a church. This was apposite because his audience listened to him as rapturously, and cheered him as lustily, as if he were Jesus Christ just returned from the dead. It was palpably a gathering of the Faithful, despite that these Faithful weren’t normally churchgoers.

I won’t say how I concluded they weren’t normally churchgoers. This would be boring, and I try not to be boring. This makes me unique among retired Generals, who are, for the most part, soporifically boring. If you, yourself, have ever heard a retired General speak, you’ll know what I mean.

Anyway, to return to Mr Hancock’s talk, all you need know is that the attendees weren’t normally churchgoers, and therefore weren’t religious, although they acted “religious” at Mr Hancock’s talk. Why did they do this? Well, I think any self-respecting psychologist would tell you that acting “religious” at a non-religious event, is simply the innate religious instinct that we all have, being directed elsewhere.

What I mean to say, is that if you aren’t religious, and therefore don’t give the stored-up energy associated with your innate religious instinct a chance to give itself an outlet, then this inchoate energy will direct itself elsewhere. So that if you’re at a non-religious event like Mr Hancock’s talk, and you find yourself acting “religious” with all the awareness of the sleepwalker, this is just your unexpressed religious instinct making itself felt.


The theme of Mr Hancock’s talk was that a giant comet struck the earth many thousands of years ago. This wiped out a world-wide technologically advanced civilisation, whose survivors crawled from the rubble and started over . This explains ancient structures all over the world so technologically complicated, and so huge, that we, today – despite our laptop computers, cell-phones and whatnot – probably couldn’t build them.

However, Mr Hancock, in his talk, didn’t go far enough. He should have said that the apocalyptic destruction of advanced civilisations, whose survivors crawled from the rubble and started all over, has probably happened many times throughout the history of mankind.

I mean, have you ever thought about why you’re so much more clever than your dog or cat, let alone a chimpanzee or orangutan. Had you not vitiated your innate intelligence through being lazy in school, and watching reality shows on your television, you could – thanks to your innate cleverness – have educated yourself to where could compose music as profound as Beethoven’s 9th Symphony; or develop theories as complicated as the Theory of Relativity.

You are (or were) potentially that clever. Your dog or cat, or a chimpanzee or orangutan, definitely isn’t.

Your brain can only have acquired the ability to enable you to potentially compose Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, and to come up with the Theory of Evolution, because the brains of your ancestors evolved through their overcoming  the challenges of survival in technologically sophisticated environments over many millions of years. According to Mr Darwin, species only evolve to the level they can survive, and no further.

Why, then, were you born with an intelligence to think and do things far in excess of what you need to survive? If you can’t ascertain why, it’s because you vitiated your innate intelligence though being lazy in school, and watching reality shows on your television………