How Many Who’ve Had the Covid Jab Will Still Be Alive Next Christmas?

A local supermarket had a sign on the pavement telling customers that they couldn’t go in until someone came out. Not ever being one to obey signs, I ignored the instruction and went in. The place was empty. The Marie Celeste of supermarkets. I wonder how many mask wearing idiots would have stood outside all day – waiting for someone to leave an empty store.

These are mad, mad days. And the levels of cowardice and stupidity are scary. There are, it seems, ignorant, sanctimonious, spineless millions who think they’ll live for ever if they wear two masks with a stocking on top, over their face. They’re probably the naïve, gullible fools who believe politicians lies and who regard the BBC as a source of news instead of propaganda. For them life has become a huge, lethal game of Simple Simon Says.

The cowards and the brain dead are threatening our future. Good people have lost their humanity and been turned into terrified cowards, hiding behind the sofa in case the nasty coronavirus comes down the chimney and turns them into gibbering zombies.

If you don’t fight to preserve your identity and freedom and rights then, despite all their false promises, you will never again go to a sporting event, travel abroad, have a job or receive medical treatment unless you agree to have regular, unnecessary injections with an experimental poison that government figures show is more likely to kill you or cause a serious injury than the disease known as covid-19. And the experimental poison will almost certainly dramatically increase your chances of dying of infection, cancer or heaven knows what else in one, five or ten years’ time. No one can tell you exactly. That’s just my prediction. Gates’s chums at the BBC will tell you not to worry but everything I’ve said for the last year is true. The Queen will tell you it won’t hurt but was that ever a worry? The fact is that my track record at predicting problems is infinitely better than that of Gates, the BBC or the Queen. Decades ago, I was right about AIDS, tranquillisers, the dangers of mobile phones and a hundred other things.

As I have been saying since the spring of 2020, the lockdowns are going to kill more people than covid-19.

But when the death totals rise in the autumn, the authorities around the world will blame new strains of the coronavirus. They won’t blame the lockdowns, the closed hospital departments, the delayed screening procedures, the deadly masks or the dangerous vaccines. Remember: just under 3% of those who have one of the vaccines will die or have serious side effects. That’s an official figure and the same officials admit that only a tiny percentage of deaths and side effects caused by vaccines are actually reported. That’s a pretty dangerous risk unless you have a fatal disease and you’re hoping for a miraculous cure. But for anyone healthy and under 70, it’s a truly absurd risk to take. The risk of dying even if you get covid-19 has been well documented at being well under 1%.

Naturally, the Gatesian myth makers, the fake fact checkers and the BBC will all tell you that no one has died of the vaccine. Healthy people die within minutes of the vaccine and it’s always a coincidence. But if terminally ill patients die within 28 or 60 days of a positive but unreliable test then they died not of their illness but of the universal covid-19.

Next autumn, and during the winter when the deaths go up, they’ll tell the half-witted and the tremulous that they must have more injections and wear more masks. And that’s what people will do: obedient, compliant and broken by the professional induced fear which has itself become the most dangerous disease on the planet.

The death totals, allegedly from covid-19, are being rolled up. In another ten years, half the world will have died of covid. But no one will notice that no one dies of flu or cancer or heart disease any more.

None of this is reported in the media of course.

Journalists everywhere are far more concerned with the fact that breast feeding must now be called chest feeding, that Mr Potato Head must lose his gender identity, that translators should be the same skin colour as the original writer of whatever they are translating and that we must now have control of our personal pronouns. If Madge Hancock wants to be known as her and she then her and she is what she must be.

Our freedom and our future is in peril, and yet journalists of the world are desperate to know what a pair of self-obsessed saddos called Harry and Meghan have to say about themselves, their past, their present and their future.

The main internet channels are dominated by the angels of death who are busy promising us eternal salvation if we wear enough masks, have enough injections and do everything we’re told to do by the Gatesian styled psychopaths.

What the hell has happened?

The papers are full of journalists boasting of what they’ve achieved during lockdown. `I wrote a series of 12 novels, completed 26 jigsaws, knitted a greenhouse and learned to speak Serbo Croat and Japanese.’

The fashion pages are full of pictures of coloured masks guaranteed to make you look smart while you die of bacterial pneumonia or slowly develop dementia.

I saw one feature about masks which costs £20 apiece. Change your mask every two hours, as you must do if you want to minimise the dangers, and you’re running up a bill of around £20,000 a year for masks which will kill you slowly and send you mad before you get to your own funeral.

And meanwhile the lies continue.

If we lose this war it will be because we haven’t fought hard enough.

There has been too much nit picking about whether or not it should be called a virus, an exosome or a wardrobe; too much arguing about whether it’s a vaccine, a jab or a gene based manipulation.

It’s like arguing about the type of ammunition the enemy is using or the colour of the uniforms they are wearing.

We have to fight them on the most important issues: the injection deaths, the mask dangers and the things that really matter. We don’t have the luxury of having time to obsess about things that don’t matter as much as winning the war.

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