Apologies, again, for the relative radio silence. It’s not that I’m not writing. I promise I am. I’ve written a 17,000 word first aid manual, and a 22,000 word navigation and radar manual from scratch in the past 15 days. Throw in some marine risk consulting, and it’s been a fairly productive year thus far. A such, the writing muscle has been a little spent by the time the weekend rolls around.
However, the family are well. And my transplant buddy is almost ready to try to get his seafarer medical signed off (Restricted, obviously), and try to get back to work soon. His recovery has been amazing. When asked if he’d experienced any of the personality changes that folk-wisdom suggests might follow the swapping of important organs that contain neurons, he observed that the only noticeable difference has been that he could never drink cider without getting heartburn before. Now he loves the stuff, and there are no more ill-effects.
So, we’ve found the cure for cider-related heartburn. Just pop down to your local surgeon and swap your ticker out with someone with some west-country ancestry, and you’ll be fine.
Somehow, I think Gaviscon shouldn’t be worried about their business model for the time being.
During his recovery time off from work, he’s been playing video games and reading up about how the incredible Anthony Fauci manufactured the HIV crisis as a warm up for the Covid scam. How ‘Disease X’ is going to be 20 times more deadly than Covid, and the WEF can state that with confidence in advance because that’s how they are going to make it appear. He is an engineer and was always incredibly good at math(s). By the time we did calculus in our advanced physics class he was growing into it, just as I grew out of it. Anyway, he’s been fascinated by the “Tom-F**kery” that has been displayed in statistical presentations over the past four years.
I can’t remember where he got this from but he was pointing out that one of the tricks played in both the HIV and Covid scams was abusing the claim that a medical diagnostic test is “99% effective”. What this means is that for every 100 tests, there will be a false positive.
You might think, and many did when discussing covid testing, that ‘well, if only 1 in a hundred are wrong, that’s not too bad. We can live with that. Better safe than sorry anyway’. But wait! You are falling into the trap of single-factor analysis! And that’s just where the proverbial they want you to be.
The other relevant factor is prevalence of disease against test rate. So, if you test 100 people, and 1 tests positive, how do you know if that is the 1 in 100, or the 99 in 100?
The point is you don’t. You do not know, and cannot know. So from the point of view of an individual, if you test positive for a disease with a 99% accurate test kit, that has a 1 in a hundred rate of prevalence, it’s actually only a 50-50 chance that you have a disease. And that’s for a real disease, with a real test, and a known rate of success, and a known rate of prevalence.
Perhaps it’s because I was doing a lot of revision while writing my first aid manual last week (Basically, stop the blood coming out, give them a little lie down, and if their heart goes wobbly, un-wobble it with an AED and get them off the boat as fast as you can). Or maybe it was my recent trip to my local NHS GP this week, but my contempt for the medical profession has never been greater. I think far too few people realise just how immature and flimsy much of the science behind medicine is. I mean, for heaven’s sake, we’ve trying to heal people since the dawn of time, and we only barely figured that surgeons should wash their hands because of some bloomin’ busy-body nurse with a hyperactive Marie-Condo cleaning compulsion happened to go work in the Crimean war, or something. I mean, we still had abusive parents and sadistic doctors lobotomising children for the heinous crimes of asking their parents what their reproductive organs were doing as they entered adolescence, or using curse words, as recently as the decade in which my father was born. And that was before Thalidomide.
You’d think we would learn.
As a skipper, we’re trained to about the same level as nurse. When you get to the medical care course, you go through sutures, catheters, trepanning and the like. It’s great fun, from a boy-scouts perspective, but not something you thankfully have to practice very often. I’m fairly comfortable reading drug facts, and looking into medical manuals, so I know some of it isn’t rocket science.
I am 38 and generally healthy, so I don’t often have a reason to go to the doctor, unless my son has broken his arm again, or something (he’s got frequent flyer miles at our local accident & emergency). However, about four or five months ago I seem to have contracted a skin infection. Probably from some ratty boat, or stupid hotel that I stayed in, and it has caused me to have a lot of boils, spots and cists on the back of my head. (Or ma heid, to use the proper terminology). It comes and goes in waves, and it has been quite painful. I would often wake up with blood on my pillow, so would treat it with antiseptic cream. At times it would sweel up at the spot where head touches the pillow, and so it was seriously interrupting my sleep. I even asked my wife to squeeze fluid out of the boils to reduce the pressure. A painful activity which she enjoys rather too much, methinks. However, despite trying various topical treatments, nothing has worked.
Thankfully, I am married, so my wife made me an appointment at the doctor. I was confronted with a junior doctor, evidently still suffering from teenage acne herself, so I thought, ‘she’ll sympathise’.
“Have you changed your shampoo recently?”
Me staring at her with part-bald shaved head: “Believe it or not, I’m not a connoisseur of shampoos.”
We sit in silence for a full (literal) ten minutes while she googled (or whatever the NHS equivalent of googling is). She then comes up with ‘it’s probably folliculitis’, which is a term that describes inflammation around the hair follicles, not what causes it. I know, because I also have google.
‘Ok, so what to do’?
Even small talk was difficult with this poor wee lassie. She went off to find a senior doctor to check before giving some new medicated heid-wash. The doctor was unavailable, so she didn’t know what to do. She was literally lost in something so simple as issuing a baldy Scotsman some bleach for his dome.
‘it might bleach your hair’ she says, with apparent concern.
I had to talk her into taking a sample from one of the cists, in case I need an anti-biotic. The one thing I came to her for, that I couldn’t have figured out myself. The only thing that made sense after everything I’d already tried.
The NHS is the largest healthcare organisation in the world. The world.
It is the fifth largest employer on earth. Probably the history of the world! Behind only the US Department of Defense, the Chinese People’s Liberation (sic) Army, McDonald’s, and Walmart.
It employs more people than the Indian armed forces, and I get stuck with someone still using her training wheels.
I guess they just need more money.
It was plain to see where the money goes in the waiting room. I had time to enjoy the spectacle because despite turning up early for my appointment, of course I still had to wait. It’s part of the experience, isn’t it? Parking was easy because I booked my appointment first thing in the morning. However, the people who need urgent appointments have to show up by 0830 hrs to try to get a cancelled slot, and that queue was just clearing as I arrived. The woman in front of me was from India, who spoke good enough English, but still with a very strong accent and side to side head movement meaning affirmative. The receptionist, also Indian, was wearing very western clothing and had less of an accent, and the standard British head movements. They spoke for a good while, attempting to somehow negotiate with the bureaucracy I believe. This poor immigrant woman doesn’t yet understand the price we pay for a ‘free’ health service. The receptionist clearly does, however, and after some time she is sent packing with false hope and platitudes, related to ‘coming back later in the afternoon in case we have a cancellation’. Her poor wee bairn probably only needed some Calpol, and the wifey some reassurance. Instead she’d have to stress all day, as is the British way.
After checking in for my disappointment, the waiting area contained some incredibly obese people, and some of Methuselah’s younger siblings. As they thinned out, being variously ushered into rooms by fat, masked, idiot nurses, I became increasingly aware of the propaganda role of the NHS. The posters that invite people not to be ‘immunised’, but ‘vaccinated’. To ‘boost’ their protection to a disease they’ve now probably had many times. Images of old people huddled over a gas lamp for warmth, with slogans like ‘don’t let it fade’.
The TV screen had some imam explaining a lengthy theological argument about how ‘some scholars’ maintain the principle of (insert Arabic words), that means we should sign up for organ donation. ‘If it is necessary, what is normally forbidden (haram), become permissible (halal)’.
Interesting. The doctrine of necessary evil is apparently where the socialists and the (no doubt carefully cherry picked) Islamic scholars converge. Funny how they both think that means the nation state should take ownership of your organs.
The advertisement ends with a passive-aggressive warning: ‘NHS Scotland – The Law IS changing’.
I hate it all, so, so much.
I grew up in the welfare system. Council estates are single-mother vote plantations. As people like me took advantage of the system to get educated and drag our country up out of post world-war gutterdom, the other half of the welfare recipients (government employees), couldn’t do the same. Instead of allowing a once justifiable state of affairs to wind down as it serves its purpose, masses of new down-and-out victims need to be imported or manufactured, if the gravy train of bureaucratic welfare for the middle class was to survive.
There’s nothing as permanent as a temporary solution imposed by the state, I suppose.
The inevitability of collapse wafts its putrid stench from every corner now. The attempt at vaccine passports and depopulation hasn’t worked yet, so we need to segway into world war before the proles notice we’ve been betraying them since the beginning. There is talk of conscription in Sweden and the UK, pushed from every legacy media outlet. The naval press is pushing for an arms race. Although for now, they’re still scratching their heads trying to understand why recruitment figures are so poor (hahahahahahahahaha).
Bill Gates says 2024 is a ‘big year for democracy’. There will be a convergence of election cycles worldwide, meaning more people on earth will vote in 2024 than in any other year.
The evil technocrats have never been the ones who scare me. We can normally tolerate wealthy autists, and just ignore them when the time is right. I mean, the good thing out of all this is how we have seen a light shone in places we never would have conceived of as corrupt. It was obvious to some of us that the internal logic of their claims never made sense in the first place. Like when they said that vaccines can give you ‘extra’ immunity, even if you’ve had covid – even though the point of vaccine is supposed to be that it just gives you a little bit of the same disease, in order to make your immune system recognise it. I.e. no natural immunity = no vaccine worky.
But as the good Tim Price pointed out this week in his latest stack, it took a good 10 years for the popular mass of people to become aware of the scale of betrayal that took place in the 2007-8 bail outs of the GFC.
Everything takes longer than you think. When it comes to hope, I remember Jordan Peterson explaining that the earth being inherited by the ‘meek’, actually refers to battle-trained war horses not losing their nerve.
All of this was playing on my mind one evening, as I was trying to herd the kids towards bath time and bed time routines. The man from the Labour party knocked on my door.
‘Can I ask who you normally vote for’?
‘I try not to vote, it just encourages them’.
[Man recoils slightly with clear look of disgust on his face (he clearly thinks I’m the problem with this country)] ‘Oh. Ok. I understand that. Well I represent, blah, blah, blah.’
‘Can I just stop you there. I’ll take your leaflet, and I will read it, but you know’ [I shake my head to imply, you’ve got no chance here, comrade.]
‘OK, but remember, the last time we were in, we got working family tax credits’…
As he pumped his rhetorical pipes, I close the door on his face. It was for the best. Much longer, and I’d have been channelling Gerard Butler’s portrayal of King Leonidas of Sparta’s 300 fame, and booting him off my doorstep.
Rage.
Yes, I do remember the last time labour were in. I do.
I remeber when that absolute ghoul of a Trot, Tony Blair haunted our screens with his tery-eyed rhetoric. I remeber people having love and respect for our armed forces, before we bombed the world, then invited the victims to come live with us. I remeber all of the antisemitism scandals. I remeber a world when thought crime was only for Sci-Fi novels. I remeber when you failed as an opposition party, and called for more tyranny, more lockdowns, more mandates. I remember last week, when your eco-fascist terror supporting mayor of London and his ilk, called for the slaughter of Jews in Israel, and international support for organisations with the express and self-proclaimed goal to’Kill every man, rape every woman, and enslave every child’ in Israel.
And how you inflated the currency, and taxed my money, and indebted my children to pay for it all.
I remeber the before time. Before you all betrayed us. Every last one of you.
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