Majestic. Wines, that is. I'd never visited our local store before. It's on the other side of town, and probably the northernmost in Britain. It's also on the industrial estate, probably the noisiest, most traffic-ridden place in this little part of the universe. I have little reason to visit such an establishment these days, anyhow: sinuses and kundalini have rendered me pretty much an alcohol-free zone. 'Grade A poison' is what the body seems to say to alcohol. I am on my way back, however, having guzzled almost an entire bottle of Martini over the past couple of months.
It was my wife, for reasons varied, who wished to go to Majestic Inverness. We took the riverside walk, keeping by the waters as far as possible, before cutting inland briefly, dodging the traffic heading north, and standing outside the drug store. Ah, alcohol - give me a blast.
The door was open; on closer inspection there was some kind of tape running across the entrance. To begin with, I thought we might have struck lucky, and there be some special opening today, maybe a famous celebrity cutting the tape and cracking a bottle of champagne as a new section of the shop is opened. However, it turned out to be a barrier to prevent 'customers' entering without permission.
We were allowed in by a masked female, and had a look around. Majestic shops are typically spacious affairs, often former warehouses decked out with lots of bottles of wine. My wife gave it all a quick inspection, before picking up a bottle to read about it on the label. Cue a panicked masker running in her direction. "You can't touch the bottles. We can tell you about alcohol content." Then she mumbled something about 'health'.
Rather taken aback, my wife returned the bottle to its position, and was taken aback a second time as the masked buffoon furiously sprayed the entire bottle with sanitiser. That's 'health' for you. No wonder we weren't allowed to read the label; "This wine comes with hints of cherry, and a strong aftertaste of chemical shite." Exactly what people come to Majestic for.
Resisting the temptation to walk out, knocking a few bottles onto the ground as we went, we wandered around. I examined the bottles closely. These are, after all, special bottles, different bottles. Go to Tesco, and the bottles of wine are virus-free: you can pick them up and put them down as much as you want. But Majestic wine bottles are a dodgy affair. The bloody virus is stuck fast onto each and every one of them.
As we meandered, two pairs of beady eyes followed us as we went. How the 'humans' accompanying the eyes felt about our procession was unknown to me. Were they angry? Suspicious? Did they think we might need help? No idea. They were masked, expressionless; all I could see were the eyes. I remembered the good old days, when Boris Johnson had pretences to being a proper human being himself, rather than the fully-paid-up covid clone of today. He was chastised by the righteous ones about comments he made referring to the chosen attire of certain Muslim females as similar to a letterbox, with the sinister implications of such a cover-up. Well done, Boris. Everyone's a bloody letterbox now.....
The thing is this, and the reason for our tracking: we were without masks. Our faces were free, moving, apparent. Nowadays it's not those who cover their face who are viewed with suspicion, but those who dare to show who they are.
And here is another thing: notice how 'the virus' has developed new abilities over the past few months. It is only recently that it was a two-metre weakling. Now it has morphed impressively into a long-distance olympic champion. Here in not-so-Majestic, as I was beginning to shape it, there is space. Loads and loads of space. But the number of customers allowed in was severely rationed. I think I caught sight of a viral particle leaping from the French Merlots onto the chiantis from Tuscany, and thence onward to the big fruity Californian reds. Scary.
Time to pay. My wife emphatically plonked down three bottles on the counter. "I'll have those two - not that one." The unlucky one was hastened out of sight, inevitably due a soaking from toxic handwash.
And there it was: by now hardly a surprise. The sign. 'No cash.' I put my virus-ridden notes away. They were fresh and crispy, taken from a machine a few weeks back, and touched solely by healthy-ol' me.
We left with spirits a little low. I clambered over the dead bodies of a number of unfortunates on the way back into town, some still clutching their deadly notes and coins in pale, cold, lifeless hands. Nasty stuff, that cash. I'll look out for 'cash' as cause of death in the 'obituary' section of the local paper next week.
I am making note of who is more reasonable, and who is overstepping the already-overstepping mark made by the 'authorities'. The latter won't be getting my dosh anymore. Which is cash as much as is possible nowadays. I hope plenty more folk will do the same. Majestic, bye bye....
Part Two: Oasis
It was a meet, a gathering, more than a demo. In the park, Saturday lunchtime. 'Peaceful protest' the headline on 'Keep Britain Free' said. Relief indeed.
About fifty people, I guess, with a few dogs. That rare but valuable breed nowadays, it seems. People who see through the lies, the authoritarian horror, the incessant cruel bullying bullshit. No masks, no lockdowns, let's be human beings again. As important as anything: fifty luminous balls of openness, friendliness. The virus of fear replaced as if through a miracle by warmth, human relations, human relatedness. Thanks to everyone who was there for raising the spirits far more than a bloody wine retailer could ever hope to dampen them.
And you can do stuff by yourself.....
I spend as little time as possible in retail establishments. Nevertheless, just four days after the majestic experience, it was off to the supermarket. Normally, there are one or two other recognisable faces among the aisles. On this occasion, however, the store was pretty full of folk, but we seemed to be the only maskless customers around.
My wife and I qualify as 'exempt from face coverings' in the official version of reality. Nevertheless, walking around in a sea of masked anonymity can be a challenging experience.
To begin with, I felt a little uncomfortable. Now, however, that's all gone. It's the opposite. I walk with pride in my heart. Whether or not officially exempt is not the point, it makes little difference. It gives a message to everyone else who happens to cast a beady eye on your existence. 'It is not inevitable; it is not without choice. There is an alternative. You don't have to do it.' Just sticking yourself behind a shopping trolley and gathering potatoes and green peppers is a potent statement to the world. Conformism is an option, not a given.
What's the worst that can happen to a maskless supermarket dude? Some uninformed idiot shouts at you about how you are a danger to society, killing people. Big deal. It reminds me of the Buddha, when somebody came up to him and shouted criticism and nonsense at him from close range. "What do you do with a gift given to you that you don't want?" enquired Buddha. "You give it back." "Yep. And here's your bullshit right back in your grubby palms."
The other worst thing? You are told to wear a mask and you refuse. Supermarket workers are not authorised to insist on customers being muzzled, it's not their job, it's the police. Anyhow, you can just leave, taking your crisp banknotes elsewhere, and leaving them a basket full of consumables to put back on the shelves.
Big deal again. Once you get over the authority complex, which is at the root of all the bullshit and cruelty, everything becomes easy. Go for it......
Images: Computer modelling: shit in, shit out. David Icke.com
Look out! - someone's touching that bottle
David icke.com again. Thanks, guys
Worldometer Peru - proof of how much we need masks and lockdowns
