Oh dear.

hypocrite3During my pre-teen and teenage years, time at university and probably for two decades after that I loved popular culture. Even the most blinkered know that the 60’s and 70’s were the golden decades for pop music. The success of the Beatles and those that followed had an impact on the growing influence of American pop culture.

Here I have to offer my first of many caveats. Criticising corporate-led, socially engineered, paedophilic and totally inverted American pop culture does not mean I am anti-American. My biological father was a US Air Force major. I have spent six weeks in America, most of my spiritual heroes are American and space does not permit me to list all that I admire of the I AM RACE (for the uninitiated this is an anagram).

“I only read women. I know that men write books. But their lives are so limited. It’s such a small and narrow experience,” the prolific Irish author said during an event at the Southbank Centre to promote her latest novel, Grown Ups…”Their literature just really can’t match anything written by a woman. I just think ‘**** off’.”

Marian Keyes, bestselling author.

The second caveat. To discriminate against someone because of the colour of their skin, their sexual orientation, their gender and all the other “fault lines” is beneath contempt. As a heterosexual white male who was confused about his gender and orientation 50 odd years ago I know in the current climate my voice may be limited to the wilderness.

Try as I might to avoid it, we are now totally immersed in the most insane period I can ever recall in my lifetime. You cannot pick up a newspaper, switch on the radio or watch the television without at least one “story” that has to do with victimhood. Most often, my response to what was once fringe “woke” insanity, but now seems to be mainstream, is laughter. If we satirise and refuse to take seriously American women paying $2500 to be told they are racist and millionaire actors accepting awards from the very industry they lambast also for being racist maybe we can turn back the tide.

Third caveat. My hero during my late teens and early 20’s was David Bowie. I used to dye my hair and dress up as Bowie. I encountered discrimination. Most of my life as someone proud to be working class, I have experienced subtle and sometimes overt discrimination. But no, not on a regular basis, nor has it ever got physical and I have not been murdered. It is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things. It is impossible to diminish the impact of discrimination on certain people and on certain groups. Read my post on The Windermere Children.

Not everyone is aware of “woke” insanity. Some of my friends think I am exaggerating. They may indeed be right. Regardless, this is something I feel strongly about simply because it is yet another tool to divide us. And whilst we are pre-occupied with victims and being a victim, what chance do we have of seeing the world as it really is, and can become? The algorithm age, the saturation of “social media”, the placing of “reality TV stars” (wtf?) on pedestals, the instant “talent” industry (Pop Idol…), “de-platforming”, “hate speech”, “safe spaces” and the lemming-like scramble to see who is the most oppressed victim (and what group they represent) are all signs of a world- as it is now- in terminal decline. But before you stop reading, thinking this eternal optimist has given up, stay with me.

Fourth caveat. During my time in local government in the 80’s I was personally responsible for enlightened recruitment policies, practices and education around gender, race and disability in two major local authorities. In those days it was safe to be a heterosexual white male and working with people who had suffered lifetime discrimination was a massive learning process for me and a wonderful privilege.

That’s enough caveats. I’m not even sure they are relevant, because if my arguments are valid I don’t need to lay out my credentials.

We are all one. A recurrent theme on this website. We are all walking round in a biological spacesuit that comes in many shapes and sizes, sometimes with appendages, sometimes not. To be judged and valued purely on the basis of the spacesuit is insane. Before the woke explosion we had homophobia, racism, anti-Semitism, misogyny and discrimination in all its forms. We still have it.

I still cannot process the mind-set of those who accuse all white men of being racists and incapable of writing anything worth reading. If those who make these ludicrous statements are incapable of seeing their own racism and their own toxic worldview which worsens the situation they purport to want to remedy then get the handcarts ready because we’re all going to hell.

On BBC Radio Five the other day, a broadcaster who I quite admire casually wrote off actor Laurence Fox’s position on “woke” and condemned anyone who agreed with Fox to the ranks of bigot (my interpretation. And Fox is now subject to all kinds of vilification). The same broadcaster has so bought into the climate change cult that it isn’t even up for discussion. He is not alone, this is the position of the BBC.

Anyone who has not yet been micro-chipped will find the closing down of free speech problematic. Rugby player Israel Folau has views I find abhorrent. Unfortunately we live in an age where criticising any discriminated group is a recipe for career suicide.

“Islamic scholars continue to teach that same-sex relationships are a sin, too, and Sheik Mansour, owner of Manchester City, is part of the ruling family in a country in which homosexuality is against the law. Yet this is where liberal western beliefs and commitment to religious freedom collide.”

Martin Samuel, Daily Mail Sports writer.

So it must be obvious that almost all Manchester City supporters are by default homophobic. Folau has been rightly condemned and he has agreed now to keep his views to himself. Perhaps this is not enough, as he has yet to apologise to the gay community. One of my heroes, gay ex-rugby player Gareth Thomas has no time for Folau.

Thank God things have changed. Before 1967, homosexuality in the UK was all but illegal. There are still 73 countries in the world where it still is. Presenter Phillip Schofield has now “come out.”

Yes of course I am a fully paid-up member of the patriarchy. As a white male how can I be anything else? What does this say about my character, my actions, my beliefs and values about things other than the fault lines used to divide us? Is Hitler (a vegetarian and animal lover) a poster boy for vegetarianism? Should you now stop listening to any Michael Jackson song? God forbid you should watch any film produced by Harvey Weinstein. And move out of, or at the very least don’t visit cities built on the slave trade like Bristol and Liverpool. Let us put all these things in the same pot. Hitler, Michael Jackson, Harvey Weinstein, Bristol and Liverpool. After all we have here the equivalent of the climate change fanatics claim that the “science is settled.” It surely is. Chances are Weinstein will get off, Jackson is dead and I think Hitler is too. No doubt a sizeable percentage of Bristolians and Liverpudlians are racists. Perhaps all of them. And to think I used to work in Liverpool, and shame of shame, I support Liverpool FC.

Time to breathe, time for sanity.

I’m sick to my very core (thank you GretaTM) of having my life hijacked by all this. But of course I’m not. Perhaps the triggers were reading that men can’t write (thank you Ms Keyes, I will now buy all your books) and hearing how brave and courageous Philip Schofield was in admitting he is gay. I’m going to avoid any more “woke”. So far (since January 31st) I have been an abject failure. I now identify as a failure. Can we put an “F” into the alphabet soup?

We need to unplug from the mainstream, we need to begin looking at each other as spiritual beings having a human experience. We need to judge each other on our character not the nature of the biological spacesuit. The only speech that should be limited is that which encourages hatred and division. If this were rigorously applied there would be no “woke” culture. We need to see each other as becoming, rather than label each other along the fault lines so beloved of those currently in charge of running the planet. My biological spacesuit is no better or worse than yours. If I hate and condemn yours, I’m doing the same to myself.

Let us love each other, yes Ms Pelosi we are all sparks of the Divine, even Donald Trump and the Iraqis (who you voted to bomb). If we see each other with new eyes, as opposed to the weaponised ways in which we are currently exhorted to follow, we can give the handcarts back and walk confidently together to a new dawn, to rediscover paradise and ignite the Divine light within.

Namaste, Jack Stewart, Friday, 07 February 2020, feeling so much better having got this lot of his chest!

Etheric Bullets

curry“I love to hear those convicts squeal
It’s a shame these slugs ain’t real
But we can’t have dancin’ at the local county jail”

From Rubber Bullets by 10cc (Godley, Crème, Gouldman 1973)

Another surreal adventure beckons…

What do we know about the (good bit of, not the “lower astral”) spirit world? Paradise, the absence of earthly highs and lows, no wailing and gnashing of teeth, wisdom, a place of learning, inhabitants unencumbered by a body, permanently temperate weather, no wars, violence, Harvey Epstein, Brian Weinstein, lies and deception..?

But is there celebration “up there” when things go well “down here” or sadness when they don’t? And where is their focus, is it not in the moment, is it not Nosso Lar itself? Do they have elections?

Can we have dancin’ at the non-local Celestial spa?

Having considered these questions for many years, lived with and shared a fair amount of my time with those having a foot in this world and the next I’m still intrigued.

There is a time in most people’s lives, no doubt some research has been done on this, when “continuation day” (© Neale Donald Walsch) enters one’s consciousness. After birth, the most momentous step in everyone’s life, perhaps excluding Brexit. I knew someone a few years ago, Tony Roeber, he was in his 80’s, still exceptionally articulate and intelligent, his body wasn’t ready to give up, but he was genuinely looking forward to passing. At his funeral it was obvious he had the most incredible life but it was not without huge challenges. So was his perception of the afterlife, it could only be positive, such that it drew him in as opposed to his wanting to let go of any grief and trauma from this life? Or after 80 years was boredom the motivator?

There are quite a few of my friends and family now in spirit, another factor as we approach the evening of our lives. So it won’t be lonely there, Anne and Vanessa, Anne’s parents, Vanessa’s parents, my parents (three of them), Vanessa’s brother and uncle. To that add grandparents, aunts and uncles, close friends and companion animals. And brothers and sisters that didn’t make it.

“Down here” we are conditioned by our five senses. In writing this piece I might think I’m “informed” by the spirit world-I do-but it is relatively easy to write.

Do we “rage against the dying of the light?” Or carry on as if we were 20 and felt immortal? When do we blow our savings (if we are fortunate to have any) or hang on to them for a decreasing number of rainy days? It’s a bit like eating curry. If we get the rice/sauce proportions wrong, and haven’t ordered a Naan bread, then we can end up with dry rice on our plate or sauce that falls through our fork.

What about our legacy? Surely most of us want to leave the world a better place through our having been in it? For those with children most of that has potentially been done. I’m wondering if we could have some kind of posing-free Celestial X factor when those with the greatest legacy get the greatest acclaim. Hold on though, surely the afterlife is a place devoid of competition and obsessing what the hosts look like? Maybe the real heroes in Nosso Lar are the ones we call unsung here.

In writing a will it is reassuring to know those who we want to benefit from what we have acquired in this life do so. But I bet-let’s assume there are some tensions in Paradise-many who have passed “look down” with despair when arguments rage amongst their families about money and possessions.

The more you think about it, it might take more preparation than you had imagined as you approach the fateful day. But help is at hand. Maybe the self-fulfilling, condemnatory prophecies inflicted on us by the medical profession, “you have two years to live”, have merit after all. Like booking a trip abroad, at least you know the timescale to “get your affairs in order.”

Whilst all this may be challenging, it needn’t be depressing. Bucket lists, letting go of what people think, enjoying life, “going for it”, a “backstop”, and (sorry it’s that word again) “Brexit” free zone, being even kinder to all sentient beings and true intimacy in all its forms can balance the scales nicely.

Lately I have heard many people say that we don’t need to leave the earth plane to experience heaven or hell. We can all conjure up images and feelings about these polarised concepts. Maybe it’s time for another TV programme in which the public votes for the most popular heaven and the most feared hell. Gallows humour tends to gloss over the living hell that millions of our brothers and sisters on this planet experience daily. Pause while your creative juices are given free rein…

I’m going to leave the last words with Princess Diana, again from In the Stillness Everything Happens:

“And when things do go a little bit wrong just trust in us, we will be there. Because they don’t ‘go wrong’, they just show you another way.”

“Once you start again to connect with your source, to your giver of life, things will start to go on the right path for you.”

Your greatest legacy was being born, and being part of the grand scheme of things.

As always, love and blessings to you all. Jack Stewart, October 29, 2019. I suspect you’ve guessed the song.

I should have definitely ordered a chapatti, a cheaper option to Naan and it would have taken up any slack. Just its mere presence may have influenced negotiating the rice/sauce balance. Or mixed the lot together first. Or eaten fish and chips.

A Day of Serendipity

miceA few of my friends have lately been talking about dating agencies. One friend in particular was scathing about them. I have to be honest, and even things I detest, advertisements, take the proverbial out of this rather interesting technological courtship ritual.

So the thought occurred the other day; why isn’t there a film about this? And guess what? There is. And it has in it two of my favourite actors Ian McKellen and Helen Mirren. Not sure of the plot, and I’m not an avid cinema goer, but it looks promising. The Good Liar is out in November.

Surely a risky business dating agencies? How many of us like to talk about ourselves? How many of us like photographs of ourselves? In an era of forced gender fluidity I’m going to make a sexist comment. I have yet to meet a woman who is relaxed about having her photograph taken. Jazz hands all round.

What are people looking for? A fling, a serious relationship, a husband or wife? Reason, season, lifetime. Some people are with us fleetingly for a reason, “good” or “bad.” A lesson. Some last a little longer. The season may be a few months or a few years. They depart from our lives at the behest of either party yet may remain friends or they may not. More lessons.

A lifetime? The word has more validity perhaps for someone in their 20’s or 30’s. Those who use dating agencies, “mature” people, may find the word lifetime less significant.

My earlier memories of dating, 40+ years ago, were not good. I never knew whether to jump in too soon or play it cool. And for the life of me juggling several relationships would have had me in Gordian’s Knot.

A close friend who has been told his soulmate is “in the pipeline”, and he has met her, has rather amusingly joined a “Green” dating agency. I’m hugely in favour of environmental protection, of clean air, rivers and oceans, of free energy (which exists of course and has done for over a hundred years but is suppressed), of animal welfare and recycling. As may be obvious from several posts the man-made global warming scam needs to be exposed. Continuously. But my friend and I can laugh about it. I don’t see him glueing himself to anything, even a pork pie (Green but he loves and craves meat), any time soon.

Personally I find humour, taking the proverbial, the most powerful tool in not only my armoury but also in society generally to counter the insanity that besets us all. Political correctness, woke idiocy and snowflakes seem to be losing the battle to sanitise and crush genuine comedy. In fact I get the sense of a growing backlash. I hope and trust Good Liar has more than its fair share of humour. Life is serious, appalling things happen, but it also has to be taken lightly. Indeed my favourite fictional detective, Bernie Gunther, has a highly developed sense of the ridiculous and a very quick wit. And he is as politically correct as Bernard Manning, George Carlin and Chubby Brown. But his world is (Nazi) Germany from the 1920’s to the 1950’s.

max wallThis was never going to be a long post, and I wish I could infuse it with more humour, but for some reason I feel I’m skating on thin ice. So I will resist the temptation to fuse Extinction Rebellion, genuine environmentalism, Greta Thunberg, Greenpeace and green dating agencies. Surely there is some excellent material here but I suspect it is subscription only.

You are richly blessed.

Jack Stewart, no afterthoughts, no surrender. Sunday, 20 October 2019.



Avalon, a place of mystery and legend, steeped in history and of global significance. Do your research. I’ve been to Glastonbury about half a dozen times and it never fails to generate a mixture of emotions within me.

Normally I ask Jonathan for one or two readings a year, just to keep me aligned with plans I made elsewhere. Lately of course my sanity has been maintained by weekly readings. These days if your loved one is away from home you stay in touch by phone, Skype or some other technological process. In a recent reading it was suggested I go to Glastonbury Abbey and sit with the Christ energy. I’ve been meaning to go into the Abbey for some time. It is truly wonderful and no trip to this special town is complete without it. Even if the weather, the greyness, the misery is more in keeping with an Extinction Rebellion celebration.

Some who visit here will dismiss the Arthurian and Joseph of Arimathea connection. It has even been suggested Jesus came here too. The history of the place, as stated in the narrative surrounding the exhibits in the museum is a combination of invention, truth, spirituality and licence. Believe what you want to believe. Feast on the legends and the incredible energies of this unique place or wander round like a fart in a trance and wonder why you bothered.

To stand any chance of communicating with spirit you have to do this mysterious process of raising your vibrations. To avoid yet another debate it means, for me at least, feeling upbeat and positive. Something I have been all my life but lately has been almost impossible. But not today.

Vegan and vegetarian food are the primary ingredients in most of the cafes and restaurants. What a fantastic change. To think over 35 years ago cheese and chips was the singular vegetarian meal of choice when eating out. And I can think of at least three cafes where the food is phenomenal. If your diet consists primarily of McDonald’s and Red Bull and for you shopping can only be done in the local retail park then stay away from Glastonbury.

Have you ever been anywhere that doesn’t have a downside? Sorry folks but the downside here is the large minority who have lost the plot. I personally don’t care how you dress but I do care if you strut about the town as if you own it. And look down upon people who don’t share your passion for clothes which look like a combination of a Tracey Emin afterthought, a straw bale gone walkabout and an explosion in a paint factory. “Precious.”

The second time I came to Glastonbury, haven of peace, a fight nearly broke out in the High Street between two blokes each trying to be more precious than the other.

Yes you can have too much of Wicca, Olde Shoppes, Witches, Druids and Vulvas. But in truth who cares. It is more than compensated for the things I’ve mentioned, for the glorious organic supermarket, genuinely good gift and bookshops and the surreal nature of the place. And it was worth every penny of the 20 quids worth of fuel it cost me to get here and back. And then some.

When I finally got into the Abbey grounds, which are huge by the way, I sat down at a table in the outside café for a coffee. I was definitely picking up a vibe. The central building-only one of the ruins has a roof-has a few benches on the ground floor and an altar all of which are sheltered from the rain. I sat down. There were about another half dozen people sat in respectful silence next to the altar. When I’m in contemplative mood in a sacred place I don’t want anyone too near me, and there wasn’t. As soon as I sat down I started to twitch. When I twitch involuntarily something is affecting my body’s energy field, and although it happens far less frequently than I would like, it is a sign usually of communication from spirit.

It is seven weeks and a day since Vanessa passed. Jonathan has regularly told me that she will only come through after she has healed and I am sufficiently free of anger and pain to be in the right frame of mind. Well it took all of 30 seconds after I sat down to know I was in communication with her. It was her. She came over just as she would have done when on the earth plane. Listening intently, in a good space, funny, intelligent and philosophical. I was rather emotional, shock horror. I struggle to remember what she said specifically, but what I do know is the truth that when we pass we let go of our issues, struggles, shadow and ego which can often wreck our lives “down here.” Having raised my vibration I too, for that blissful five minutes, was operating out of my higher self. For the hour that followed I have probably felt as good as I have done in 50 days of mostly simmering despair.

Whenever anybody asks me how I’m feeling my truth is that each day can be up or down but there is an underlying upward trend of feeling that little bit better. Yes, coming home to an empty house is occasionally purgatory, but my beautiful cats help ease the pain. Watching escapist nonsense on the TV is a suitable distraction as is reading any one of four books (mood dependent) before I go to sleep.

I’m told I’m doing rather well and I suppose there some truth in that. There are many things I have yet to experience in this life and some would scare me witless. No I cannot imagine what it is like to be a soldier in a combat zone, or to be incarcerated in Guantánamo Bay, or being given a terminal diagnosis. No one knows what it is like to lose one soulmate unless they have done so and very few know what it is like to lose two in four years. But of course so what? This is my path and my reality. I am dealing with it, I have to deal with it and I’m seeking no sympathy. I’m told I will come out of this a better person, and that the pain will eventually go away.

arthur GAWell thank you Glastonbury Abbey, thank you King Arthur, who of course never existed. And bless all you precious inhabitants of this rather strange place; you do add something to it despite the few times you make it exceedingly uncomfortable and give “Angry of Tunbridge Wells” a field day. But not today.

Love from a grey, wet and globally unwarmed, fact less and propaganda fuelled Malvern.

“King” Jack Stewart, October 11, 2019.

Slow down, you move too fast…

Welcome-to-Malvern quite.Malvern is a beautiful place. Drive or ride in from the east along Guarlford Road in the autumn and you will think you are passing through heaven. The hills are world-famous and there is even a view that this town is the centre of the universe. It is a place built on healing, water healing, which expanded the population from a hamlet to a small town in Victorian times. It is famous for JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Edward Elgar and Roget (of Thesaurus fame) to name just four luminaries. And the rail transport links to all points of the compass are rather impressive.

It seems there was quite an influx of hippies/characters during the 60’s and 70’s. You might now get an inkling of where this post is leading. Shall we say that the Malvern “demographic” is in the evening of its life? There is a wonderful little cafe I go to every week (there are several wonderful little cafes in Malvern) and the owner is in his 30’s. Some weeks ago he told me, after I had been critical of a small mobile sample of the ageing hippies, “Ah yes, Malvern, this is a place where people come to die.”

I love the characters in this town. The truly appalling, toxic and destructive (popular) culture which is being imposed upon us passes them by. Life is devoid of characters, of true rebels, nonconformists and eccentrics. A few months ago a man who used to spend a few hours a day, smoking his pipe, sat on top of green telecom box in the town centre, passed to spirit. Every time I drove past him he put a smile on my face and given the tributes which still adorn the telecom box I am probably in a majority. (Lounge) Toad, a man of indeterminable age, with fabulous long hair and a wonderful singing act is still with us. Tony Neate, someone I could call a friend, also passed last year. Tony set up the London based School of Channelling and was involved with the School of Psychic Studies. As I have said elsewhere this man’s contribution to humanity has yet to be realised.

There are dozens of others. And there are many more upsides of beautiful Malvern than what follows. I have already hinted at the challenging side of Malvern residency in my Bill Bollocks post. Indulge me.

The journey from my house to Worcester involves over a mile travelling through a pleasant, but nondescript little place called Malvern Link. The speed limit is 30 miles per hour but if you can manage that you are breaking the law because 95% of drivers stay below 25 mph. And there is of course traffic volume.

After passing the tip, which on a Sunday I would suggest you don’t, there is a traffic island. Turn right and a quarter mile later turn right again and you are in the retail park. The same shops you will find in just about every other retail park in the country. Even in beautiful Malvern there is built environment standardisation.

Take the second exit from the island and the speed limit goes up to 40. Amazingly most Malvern drivers adhere to this. Just under a mile further on and the speed limit rises to 60. Now it gets interesting. Having driven down this road probably hundreds of times I would again use the 95% figure to suggest that is how many drivers struggle to go over 50 mph.

Who gives a F***?

If you accuse me of being an inverted Bill Bollocks then you are probably right. Why does this get to me? Because it is a prime example of unconscious, conforming behaviour. The car in front of me is doing 50 miles per hour, so I’ll do the same. The car in front speeds up slightly, or slows down slightly, so I’ll do the same. About a mile and a half further down the road is a set of traffic lights and a 40 miles per hour speed limit. In Malvern drivers tend to drive to a lower speed limit ahead of the road they are on. Everything seems in slow motion. Walk up or down the High Street and you will miss completely any hustle or bustle or vibe. Some might say there is a relaxed vibe. I would say that just as the drivers have their beady eyes on the forthcoming lower speed limit, many of them are subconsciously processing the design of their coffins.

If anyone can run with gallows humour right now it’s me.

Before I forget there is another interesting feature of this intriguing place. It’s called Qinetiq, a private “defence” contractor. Shall we restrict ourselves to saying the kind of things that had gone on here (still does?) had some rather interesting effects on some members of the workforce.

I wish to strongly avoid any kind of “Crap Towns” hit piece. I’d like to think, despite the majority of drivers not needing cars with indicators, mirrors and transparent windscreens/windows I have given you enough to at least make you want to visit here and possibly live here. Ironically as a motorcyclist-perhaps it’s six years of defensive car driving-I feel rather safe. But I stay vigilant.

There is a brilliant theatre complex here and for reasons I can’t explain Worcestershire is very strong on the performing arts. If you like live music, plays and other kinds of entertainment, come to Malvern. In fact quite a few of the restaurants have pre-theatre meals.

I’m closing with a rather sheepish demeanour. If I keep going on too much about Malvern drivers it won’t be long before the insurance companies get wind of it. Or it may just be me…

Uriah Stewart, October 10, 2019.

Bless you all, especially those of you behind the wheel.


ben elton ic

If you are stranded on an island and want to swim back to the mainland or even be ferried across, being hydrophobic is a slight impediment. Being critical of the technological hijack of culture, relationships and almost everything makes it very difficult to voice one’s fears other than through social media.

My late mother (The Qump, a term of endearment) never liked motorbikes. Despite the fact my father had one for decades, he never had an accident. It was he who kindled my passion for two wheels but she still could not come to terms with it. A hilarious episode once captured the issue when I revealed to her I had just bought a new motorbike. She turned to Anne and said:

Qump: “Don’t let him have one.”

Me: “I’ve just bought one.”

Qump: “Don’t let him have one, they’re dangerous.”

You may not believe it but no matter how many times I said that my new bike was in the garage, paid for, taxed and insured, she wouldn’t accept it or back down.

I am now the Qump.

Twitter? Don’t understand it, don’t use it. Facebook? Yes, I use it, but I’d rather not. However almost all of my friends live a (very) long way from me and it is an occasional useful tool to stay in touch. Instagram and all the rest of them? No.

I do love Skype. I have often found that healing and therapy over Skype is actually more powerful than face-to-face. The explanation for this I’ll leave to another time. Skype is brilliant. Australia, Norway, Greece, the Middle East, the USA.

Where would we be without email, computers, mobile phones and-pause for simulated vomiting-“smart” speakers? Answer? For the most part we would be back in the 60’s, a decade I remember with affection. It’s funny but (I have a very developed and powerful imagination) for the life of me there is nothing that anything from the above list and more could have enhanced my “lifestyle.” I didn’t have a lifestyle, I had a life.

When I “like” something on Facebook (a few times a week?) it is usually following a compliment, or an expression of compassion or something funny. Occasionally it is to endorse an element of truth activism. When I watch a video on YouTube of Darren Farley, David Icke, something interesting about the world on mainstream media (it does exist), George Carlin, Jonathan Pie, Eckhart Tolle, Gregg Braden, Bruce Lipton, Wayne Dyer, Tucker Carlson… I enjoy the video or I stop watching it. I’m rather proud of the fact that I have never, ever clicked on the thumbs down button on any video. The only time I give feedback for a product or service is when it is exceptional, or truly appalling (a couple of times) or the service provider is going out on a limb. For example a Vegan restaurant or a contributor to improving the lot of all sentient beings. Yet there is no mileage in falsifying feedback just because the provider is a social justice warrior.

And anyone who is able to switch on a computer and move the mouse around knows that visiting any web site gets the algorithms flowing. Almost instantaneously a visit to the next website will generate an advert for the product or service you may have just been perusing. As with the television, the most used button on my computer is the mute button. It’s only half the battle of course because images are powerful influencers of the subconscious. It should be obvious, but maybe it isn’t, if you have an intention to reject being brainwashed by advertisers then it tends to work.

It isn’t the first time I have declared that to be forced to watch 15 minutes of advertising with my eyes propped open would be the quickest way for me to book my passage to “Nosso Lar.”

Yes these are the rantings of a chronologically challenged old bastard. And yes every coffin-dodging generation has tended to rubbish change and has struggled to understand the world as it has become. But no one can deny we live in an age of exponential change, especially technologically, and the agenda of artificial intelligence hangs over us like the sword of Damocles.

My way of dealing with it? To emigrate. The Greeks are not technology averse but they don’t seem as passionate about it and there are massive swathes of Greece where I should be able to escape 6G.

Sorry to end on this note, but I did say earlier that I had become the Qump. For the last 18 months of my mother’s life she lived in a truly exceptional care home. Every week we went to visit her as we said our goodbyes she would declare: “I’m going home now.” “Home” as she referred to it had been sold. She ended up in the care home because she would have blown up the street trying to light her gas oven.

Sometimes there is no answer. Sometimes there is. Don’t we all have free will?

Thank you for putting up with this indulgence. I’m five chapters into Ben Elton’s Identity Crisis and I cannot put it down. #Bollocks, whatever that means.

Jack Stewart, September 10, 2019.


Cotswold biking


We are very fortunate here in Malvern to live on the fringes of one of the most beautiful parts of Britain, the Cotswolds. Like everything expressed here and on other blogger’s sites, it’s my opinion so not everyone would appreciate this area. Honey-coloured stone buildings, restrictions on (rampant) new house-building, trees, fields and green everywhere. Thatched cottages, country lanes, small villages, hardly any pylons, streams and village greens, quaint names, “arty” and individual shops, too many average cafes, several incredible places to eat/drink, sparkling energies, peace, the lack of noise except in over-touristed towns, green wellies, a surplus of Range Rovers, “up-market” charity shops, no noticeable graffiti, civility, charm and envy.

Any biker reading this will know it is impossible to capture the appeal of the motorcycle to anyone who hasn’t tried it. To get anywhere near a proper appreciation watch Henry Cole, a wonderful ambassador. Our car is a convertible (and ?), my motorbike is nearly 40 years old and despite having a 500 cc engine is not that fast. But I love it. Riding through the Cotswolds in summer, stopping at any number of idyllic destinations for a coffee, skipping past endless queues of cars at weekend, is a delight. It is difficult (see my last blog post) to be too distracted by mental chatter whilst riding otherwise a potential trip to somewhere more beautiful the Cotswolds beckons.

Being born and brought up on “the wrong side of the tracks” visiting places like Bourton-on-the-Water, Stow-on-the-Wold, Painswick and Minchinhampton as a young child would have been like going to another planet. A lot has happened since, and now my occasional visits are like therapy. Correction they are not “like” therapy, they are therapy.

In these crazy, insane days of self-identification, a deliberate political ploy to accelerate the millions of hand carts plunging headlong towards hell, there are many situations in which wearing motorbike boots and jacket are not advisable if you don’t want to be triggered. Yes my friends, not everyone likes a biker. Perhaps I was born a biker; my adoptive father was a biker so it makes sense. Just like vampires we are a persecuted minority. Hurt feelings whilst riding a bike can be very dangerous, this is no laughing matter. Changing your bike, which happens often for some strange reason to most bikers, going out in jeans (the non-Kevlar-lined variety) and a T-shirt or having your hair cut and beard trimmed (I can’t grow one so can I self-identify as yet another persecuted minority?) cannot remove the socially imposed stigma.

Riding around the Cotswolds, not the most PC area I can think of, can fill the biker with a sense of oppression, victimhood and suffer the indignity of having to remove one’s helmet at some petrol stations.

So when being my true, oppressed biker self, surely the zenith of earthly incarnation, I feel like shit. And it’s your fault. Do more than cut me some slack: back off and respect my feelings. I’m just human, like you. And come to think about it, if we get enough of you to back off I’m sure we can instigate some changes to this truly appalling, unreal world of the honey-coloured stone.

Stuff building new houses out of Cotswold stone. Breeze blocks and concrete are good enough for the rest of us. There are too many trees that get in the way of 5G. Cut the bleeding things down. And there are too many farting sheep and cows: round them up and process them, they are contributing to global warming. Let us cut a swathe through all these arty, “boutique” shops. Build a “smart” supermarket run by a skeleton staff. Bus in skip loads of disenfranchised teenagers. Graffiti never harmed anyone. In fact we could set up conclaves of oppressed groups, i.e. anyone, so they can all vie with each other to see who can be triggered most quickly and most frequently. Something else you can bet on other than the flies crawling up your window. Bet 24/7/365.

Yawn. I do exaggerate. But the Cotswolds are an anachronism. But for the political pushback of the rather affluent residents who live in this area, we could surely have HS 3 and another smart motorway?

The problem is I suppose, despite my bias, prejudice and genuine victim status I love the area. I am going to make a confession. I’m a regular attender of Cotswolds Anonymous. I might have been born a biker but I have grown up to appreciate beauty. And in appreciating beauty I couldn’t give a f***about anyone’s political sensitivity, not least that of George Soros.

Life is beautiful, blessings to you all.

Jack Stewart, August 18th 2019.

P.S. I had the idea for this blog post many weeks ago and no doubt because I have not expressed my thoughts they have become somewhat edgy. Enjoy!

P.P.S. Did anyone notice amongst the furore of paedophile Epstein’s demise, the US Attorney General, William Barr’s contribution to the intrigue? Epstein-Barr is a virulent, massively common, health-destroying virus…Thank you Victor.


It’s quite some time since I needed my dopamine hit from likes and followers, and yet I’m full of gratitude (yes, it still works for me) for those who do acknowledge my efforts. And my apologies for not appreciating enough of yours. Seasoned bloggers, of which I’m not one, will know the best time to post, so I may be missing out. However, in line with the intentional culling from search engines of non-mainstream information,   I have some idea of what is popular and what isn’t. Edgy, critical, sarky stuff doesn’t cut it. But I’m human after all. (this defence is wearing a little thin-a message from the shadow side of  your higher self).

US Democratic presidential hopeful and anti-war (“isolationist” isn’t language wonderful?) candidate (censored, blocked, criticised and vilified) Tulsi Gabbard has a similar view to myself. Anyone who mentions American (or British) “values” is usually a signal for me to head for the hills, but give me free speech, civil liberties and privacy every time.