I had a crappy day the other day, quite literally. The macerator pump for our toilet and greywater system chose Saturday morning to put itself into Coronavirus lockdown, so I spent the day lying on my belly in a two-and-a-half-footby-Very-Long tunnel under the building, headlight torch on, up to my elbows in the stuff that toilet macerator pumps deal with. I felt like one of my Welsh coal mining ancestors, and, having grown up with septic tanks, I fully understand why my late father chose not to follow my grandfather into the drain laying trade.
When I eventually re-emerged into the light, after applying sufficient Kiwi ingenuity to get the thing up and running again so I could have a shower, I found out about the New Zealand Government’s planned electronic surveillance ‘implant’ for every citizen. No, I’m not joking, that’s what they’re doing. Singapore and Israel have phone Apps (notice how it’s always the smaller advanced countries that are the guinea-pigs for these experiments in totalitarian extremism?), but low voluntary uptake rates, coupled with technical issues, have meant that the Labour Coalition franchise of the One World Government are going to use a smart card instead.
I actually cried. Partly because of the card itself, but mostly in desperate frustration that some people still refuse to believe they’re being lied to, about the Con-vid virus and the long pre-planned ‘response’ to it. Getting folk to understand the nature of this thing is a lot like doing what my recalcitrant pump wasn’t – pushing effluent uphill.
“That could never happen here,” they say, as it is happening. “THEY wouldn’t allow it” – not comprehending that THEY are the ones doing it, and those having it done to them, are the ones who refuse to believe it’s even possible, let alone in the process of occurring.
Well, an electronic tracing system, along with an electronically verified ID number, is what you’re getting, whether you want it or not. The card system as proposed will connect via Bluetooth, and log every individual’s movements, and every individual’s interactions with every other individual, all in the name of Keeping People Safe From The Big Scary Coronavirus. The NZ Government says carrying the card will be voluntary. Yes, maybe it will, to begin with; but the ID number isn’t. Everyone is getting one of those regardless, because everyone is being sent the card, whether they want it, or ask for it, or not.
It’s being sold as a contact-tracing mechanism to help prevent the spread of Coronavirus. Bollocks. It’s a Track-and-Trace mechanism entirely for the purposes of preventing the spread of dissent and disobedience amongst the populace.
These people are after total control of everyone else’s lives, and because the said everyone else remains blithely - and utterly wrongly - convinced that Government is trustworthy and has altruistic intentions, they’re getting it. Freedom is dying before our very eyes, not with a bang, but with a whimper, with a willing acceptance, in fear of a monumentally exaggerated threat, and accompanied by pleading for ever sterner treatment. My God, how simple it’s all been.
I went for a walk after that. Our apartment is part of a converted Stately Home, built as a hunting lodge in the 1860s. Twice round the immediate grounds is a mile, and at the end of the long drive is the A5, built over the top of Watling Street, an old Roman Road. The adjoining paddock was a Roman campsite, where latter-day metal detectorists still find old coins and relics. I figured I’d clear my head by going to have a chat with the long-departed Romans.
That was kinda one-sided, because my ancient Latin isn’t so flash, and they’re all dead; but as I was roamin’ in the gloaming, the falling light of dusk did cast some very suggestive shadows. Figures danced among the trees, and in the waving tufts of unkempt grass; an armoured horse and rider lying dead, a drowning swordsman not quite keeping his head above the waves.
“I will tread softly upon their graves,” I told my conscience.
“Everywhere you walk on the face of the earth is a grave,” one of the ghosts of Rome replied. “People and things and civilisations, all now long gone. Change is the only constant. We were soldier boys from far away, building an Empire here in fair Albion’s sceptered isle. We’re gone now, and so is the mighty Realm that once we knew. Only the nettles we brought, to flay ourselves with for warmth, in the cold and wet of England, remain.”
He was right, of course. No empire lasts forever. Mostly they decay from within – and so will it be with the New World Order. The present system of global political and financial control is already nearly 400 years old, and it, like all that went before it, has enemies inside the walls, as well as Visigoths at the gates – these latter in the form of Anonymous and the Yellow Vests, among others.
The psychology of megalomania is disturbing but predictable; when the proponents of authoritarianism sense their privilege and position is under threat, they resort to ever more desperate and draconian measures in order to secure and preserve them.
Jacinda’s revolting school-yard Dob Line, by which New Zealanders are encouraged to spy and report on their neighbours, is the sickening culmination, the last gasp attempt, by freedom’s enemies, to seize total power by any means possible. But the electronic mark of the beast that the Covid Card represents will only fail if good ordinary people reject it.
Hitler’s Brownshirts, Mussolini’s Blackshirts, from Carthage to the Soviet Union, every iteration of totalitarian control has sought to divide and conquer, to set neighbour against neighbour, and the State above the individual, and all have done it by telling lies, promulgated on safety being more important than freedom. All have found thugs aplenty willing to support their agenda, and all have succeeded for only as long as the populations under their yoke have been willing to believe the unbelievable.
Having spent a day lying cramped in the darkness surrounded by shit, I have no wish for that to be the generational future for my kids, or grandkids as yet unborn; or anyone else’s. The very idea that anyone would pick up the phone to Tell Teacher that their neighbour went for two walks around the block today, is every bit as repugnant as the thought that someone actually willing to head out and act on such information could ever become a Police Officer – yet both are happening, in New Zealand, of all places.
You’ve already cancelled one ANZAC day because of a very poorly explained event that remains shrouded in secrecy and that stinks of lies and cover-ups. What would the fallen heroes of past think, if you were to cancel the future of the freedom for which they fought and died, because of another?
Think about that when your new ID card arrives in the Post, because it’s on the way.