Pieces Of The Puzzle (I)

I suppose one of the 'beauties' of these Blog sites, is that they archive various people's writings - and even in the case of this type of Blog (this one that you are reading here) that very few people ever find their way to - nonetheless it can serve to create a record somewhere (not just the so-called 'Wayback Machine' archival system - which can be tampered with by the FBI) of things that propose a different position to any 'official' or 'officially accepted' one on various matters.

Something from 'way'-back! A Malayan rubber estate inspection
by the Army 'Malayan Emergency' officers. This is a pic from my own sources.
That fellow on the left looks a bit like Rory Stewart!

Albeit I was about to go straight to this matter of 'the end of the rainbow' (and I shall go there, but not 'directly' - sigh, as usual with me, you all mutter), something was flung across the desk here which interposed itself rapidly, but in a way that is all the same connected. But I will have to explain why, 'connected.'

You see someone threw me a report on the UK Conservative MP Rory Stewart - specifically, about his father Brian Stewart. His father's biog claims he was some kind of Colonial Service Officer in Malaya, presumably, under Gerald Templer. Now my family was deeply connected with Templer, and the (then) British Colonial Service during that specific era. The official biog appears to suggest he was some kind of important person. And indeed he very well might have been - the problem I see is the timeline and well, frankly, all too much detail, when it comes to someone who was in MI6 at a high level. You need but consult Wikipedia on any very well-known MI6 name, and it will disclose the characteristically scant detail.

Now... ...just in case we have a few readers rush in and gainsay what I am about to say on whatever basis they will have - I must point out that Dick Franks ('Dickie' to his family and close friends) or, his real birth name, Arthur Franks, was a relative (not blood relative) of my father's, specifically he was married to one of my father's aunts. He resided for a long time in Singapore and that was where his family (he had a daughter...) lived and grew up until they went elsewhere.

General Sir Gerald Templer and the Tunku ('Bapa Malaysia')

Dick Franks was head of MI6 when Brian Stewart was serving in it, who had at one point (Stewart had) been under consideration for Chief.

The official biog now claims that Stewart was the managing director of the Rubber Growers Association of Malaya WHEN HE RETIRED FROM MI6. 

Now. Problem. Either he was in two phases in the MI6, and thus COULD have been MD of the RGA of MALAYA (which was called that prior to Independence in 1968), or, the official biog has it wrong and he was somehow MD of the Growers' Assoc. of MALAYSIA - that is it had to have been AFTER, well after, 1968; since he was still in MI6 in the Seventies.

Second problem: how does he become the MD of a Malaysian Growers' Assoc when it is a Muslim country with Bumiputra rules for senior execs particularly...?

Wiki says Brain Stewart, Malacca 1953

Sure it's possible and I have no interest in contacting people who could verify this from directly in the Malaysian scene. Like a lot of ex-Colonial places they also share some 'cultural cringe' attitudes but I find this questionable even if it were true at all, because it would suggest there is something untoward or unsavory about the control some UK interests are exerting inside the Malaysian raw materials industries elites.

It just has my ears prick up when I further read that 'Stewart was regarded in the Secret Services as highly competent but arrogant....'

I dunno - are we living in a parallel Universe here? Everything I read about 'Brian Stewart' could be written of my father... Now I know my dad took pains to 'go dark' when HE retired and even when he passed away, but since I myself lived in Penang (and was VERY WELL patched in, with the young brats, and their parents, virtually a 'rich kid' of Instagram except there was no Instagram then, only Eastman-Kodak and its 'society magazine') at the same time someone 'Brian Stewart' was making it large there among higher society - I think I would have certainly known of some arrogant 'Stewart' fellow swanning around.

I don't think this Rory Stewart is any kind of relative of ours: for one thing he's a right ugly little thing... ...and I'm not. Not physically, superficially, anyway. I am VERY ugly inside.

This is 'the Rainbow,' see... It's an illusion, or - an effect of light and the conditions and a prismatic medium the white light passes through. But you already knew that. Still, knowing it and believing that what you are seeing isn't actually there, are two different things.

The UK government is attempting to 'write history' here. 

Southern 'Winter Solstice'

In three days it will be the Winter Solstice here in the Southern Hemisphere. 

Supposedly, it is High Summer in London town right now, and I see, with the coverage of the half-dozen or so (false) contenders for leadership of the UK Parliamentary Conservative Party - door-stop interviews and footpath chases and so on - that it is mostly raining over there.

Rory Stewart was busted yesterday as a 'one-time' (huh! ...lol) MI6 spy.

A lot of the mainstream media keeps saying about him: 'he's come from nowhere.' 'An unknown up until recently.' 'A man with a likable personality and a clear vision.'

The major masthead newspaper that ran the story was The Telegraph. This was the paper once owned by Conrad Black and now owned by those identical twin UK iconoclasts - the infamous Barclay brothers of Brecqhou and Sark (Channel Islands). For all its best efforts to tell the unvarnished truth - and they regularly do that - even The Telegraph is also probably even more often hamstrung and held back by legal injunctions and various pressures exerted by the government and their backers, to delay or obscure what facts are discovered and known by their senior journalists and editors.

...by the independent Milanese family house,
Canali

The number one - and I mean THE NUMBER ONE - scandal in the US and the UK right now is the suppression by interests of the Obama Administration, of the interdiction of a Hezbollah plot to blow up targets in London in 2015. The scandal is that the bomb plot was huge and involved very large amounts of explosives, and that the Obama Administration 'negotiated' a deal with Tehran within a few months of the plot being uncovered. What did those 'negotiations' actually mean?

Obviously, no one got any large illegal cash payments processed through Panama...

No, because 'they' were looking there to get as far away as possible from where it all went down; notmentioningtheUkrainehereanywhere.

I don't know. Seriously, I do not believe there will be a general public revealing of what was going on then - and to some extent in various hornets' nests still today. I mean just how do you tell the voting public any of these things? Do any of you (still) think that James Comey was on the foreign embargoed accounts desk of HSBC New York, because he was an experienced, 'temporarily ex-government' senior bureaucrat. Because it is entirely possible that the programming has gone too deep and you cannot face the facts of it all.

For one thing, it is literally the key Washington 'invisible hand' that pushes this current propaganda scam in which vitriolic accusations are leveled at anyone and everyone who is not a supplicant to the 'Grand Master' of the 'place at the end of the rainbow.' LOL You know what I mean. 

Don't you want to find where the rainbow ends?

It ends here, dude, in the middle of Winter, in the cold and in the dark.

Watch Out For The Germans

You know when you see this term 'the elite' these days, I'm not sure exactly what people understand it to mean.

On the surface, there is, for instance, a strata of people in Germany, who are in the league of the 'extremely wealthy.' These are individuals who personally have from say, fifty million euros in cash above debt and forward maintenance costs on property (unlike the French 'moneyed class' who have exactly no money at all and a huge forward expenses bill in view all the time but own nice old buildings) - to um, fifty billion euros and above. They have these huge highly secured buildings in Bavaria and Eastern Switzerland, in which note shuffling machines work virtually day-long so that the bills on the bottoms of the stacks don't wear away to dust... You think I'm kidding, don't you?

This one's not a bad bloke, all in all. He owns, he owns,
owns, well... ...everything!
Give or take not very much that's left over in the West.

So the 'elite' Germans hang out at extremely private functions now and then, in which they pat themselves on the backs for all the things they have done. In several cases this consists of being smart enough to have been adopted by the original Reimann Family bosses (they had no actual genetic kids, as far as anyone knows), and as a consequence now own a conglomerate which is just about (IE probably is) the world's richest corporate group.

Now. Now... Nyeee-o-o-o-w...

Apologies to those fellas and fellettes here of rare and uncommon gender. You think you are or have been, or 'did/were and thereabouts' - running an agenda for awhile; something social/political and broadly-based - or maybe just that others like yourself have been and you are helping tag along or render support, whatever.

Well, see, it's not all exactly like you think it is, see...

See certain of these big industrial German families have some strange members in them... ...really really st-r-a-a-a-a-an-g-e. 

Trust me - it's not going to end up where you suspected it could have.

There's a two-layered thing going on: on the one hand, these companies take someone else's crafted product, cheat on the in-puts, multiply the volumes, and then sell it to the stupid public as a 'luxury' item and 'brand.' At which point the thing itself is unrecognizable to those who actually made up the original market (the buyer, and it prolly just was one buyer in some cases!).

And then along came the GFC. But then there was the 'bail-out' scheme across the globe, in which all their capital assets went up on paper and were underwritten by various taxpayer cohorts in several countries.

It's Burberry, but not any Burberry you
and I are allowed to buy

Were there really any sales of the genuine items? Nah, probably not or at best the same amount as always - which is 'not very many.' When the governments and their central banks flushed cash into the coffers of the top-tier racketeers then meaningful numbers of 'sales' appeared on balance sheets signed-off by the remnants of the global auditing racket absent Arthur Andersen (the actual only honest guys all along! ...Funny 'bout that.).

But, behind it all there's a few of these German guys who fear something - and they have long-range plans to keep themselves in charge forever or at least for as long as.

And these guys are a lot lot smarter than you could ordinarily suppose based on what you might typically observe about humanity - and they are quite capable of putting one face on for the chief accountants and clerks of the Singapore government, or for the Eurasia Group, or for the Atlantic Council, and they are quite another thing alone in private among themselves. They are... ...meta-schemically unstable. LOL


AND THEN ON ANOTHER HAND (you thought I'd forgotten about that), they have deep personal philosophies rooted in the days of mid-18th Century Europe and Germany, even later on as well to the late-19th Century and tiny tightly secretive inner circles of German philosophical fraternal groups. These formalized mindsets are crystallized in some of the more bizarre schools of European psychology (and now, certainly, American and English as well of course).

Charlene Flags The Start @ Le Mans

Princess Charlene (pronounced 'Char-laine') waved the starting flag an hour ago to signal the start of this year's (2019) Vingt-Quartre Heures du Mans (25 hours of Le Mans) endurance motor-car race.

The weather is currently fine enough, if a little cloudy and I am looking forward to another long night of silly noisy nonsense during which we'll see the latest V-12 Astons roaring up the straight at the Mulsanne Circuit, and Charlie Martin in the BMW Judd M3...

...Charlie, as you all know, being the first trans-gendered race driver to compete in the race.

That's Charlie, pronounced Char-lee.

Are You Ready For This?

Here are some of the log-line cut-in scenes for the movie "The Neon Stained Glass Murders."

Read along to the music...

I stopped my black Rolls Royce Wraith on one side of a high crest, backed by all three of the

main types of physical barrier - tall trees, thick shrubbery and viney wall. And waited in the

evening dusk, like the good (pretend) pre-booked late night test-drive Rolls dealership agent

that I was (not). This was likely to be just a probing run from the trial guy. I’d read all the prebriefing

files - or at least thought I had done - and moved the car seat back smoothly using

its quiet electric mechanism and sat in utter darkness; a Night Owl Pro Nexgen IR Illuminator

Night Vision on an internal, in-cabin, movable titanium micro-hydraulic mounting system in

front of my face, the G22 in my lap.

Hours passed. It was well into the darkness of early night now. I’d played around with the

massage function in the seat enough times. I’d stepped out of the car and then back in again

a few times. My back was feeling pretty okay.

...It wasn’t just one trial probing guy, there were four in full private security team operational

gear, in one vehicle, already inside the gated community proper and pulled up against an

exposed section of the perimeter wall of the target’s actual estate.

I had all the listed actual private security guard patrols; these were none of them.

All evening I had been thinking about the words of two guys: Edward Snowden and Thomas

Sheridan - Snowden’s main point was chiefly that you could not have a system open to ‘the

good guys’ but closed to ‘the bad guys; it was either fully closed and totally secure or it was

not secure, period.

*

...You can set the Wraith’s exhaust sound to a ‘sport mode’ and the thing sounds pretty

intimidating. I made sure I came down the drive in ‘sport exhaust sound’ mode and then I

switched it off right outside when I drifted it in and kept it at a slow crawling pause at the

porch area.

The front doors opened and a figure stepped out, dressed in a bright red silk Chinese-style

gown and wearing what looked like those black Tai Chi slippers. She had very short-cropped

but otherwise thick and rich hair with some kind of colored dye streak in there in several

parts. No makeup, no lipstick.

I lowered the large side glass window. “Rolls Royce has emergency interior palette-matching

British lipstick and mascara. For just such situations. No problem. Derbyshire Orris butterbased

lipstick, in colors matching the leather trim…”

I let the car slowly start to slip past her. “Best in-cabin light show in the world.”

“In the glove compartment,” I said. “How are you with ‘mandarin orange?’”

“Never have tried it…”

She was a slightly taller than average, rather svelte, wondrous magical sugary confection of

symmetrical good looks and bodily warmth in real life, up close.

*

I watched her in the lift as we rode up. This was no ‘still waters on the surface’ type of

personality - this was a highly energetic, dynamic, ambitious, borderline manic personality,

almost. Clearly remembering what I had said at the very first, she had insouciantly and

quickly availed herself of the mandarin orange lipstick inside from the Rolls’ glove

compartment even just ten minutes from leaving the explosion behind us in the wake of the

black Wraith.

There was a large print on a wall of Charlie Chaplin from the film ‘Circus.’ At first glance it

looked like your typical urban, rather common, iconic and popular wall-sized black and white

photo-print.

But when I touched a switch the lighting changed and the photograph showed a man

dressed in midnight blue, not black, and the ‘white’ photographic key-tones in the image

were Belgian cream.

She looked up at the high vaulted ceiling. “Wow. Colossal.”

Her gaze lowered to the book on the table stand. The cover read in prominent old fashioned

Copperplate scripting: Bobbi Fischer’s Seduction Chess - have the game wrapped in 3

moves.

She picked up the tome and turned it over in her hands and read out the title audibly but

hesitatingly: “Bobbi Fischer’s Seduction Che-ess?

“...Have the game wrapped in 3 moves.” She read the full subtitle out aloud.

There was a knock at the door. It must have been Naj with the Louboutin shoes.

*

She touched inside the box to feel the gleaming dark blue leather shoes, first the outsides of

them, then the insteps, all the way to the toes, and then finger-tapping the nail-lacquered

soles. Somehow the smell of new leather exuded all the way from the tissue paper covering

in the box right up to nose level, in the biting cold air of the living room.

She put down the box onto the floor with the Louboutins back in them, slipped off her black

tai chi pumps and disrobed in her bare feet, standing there in the cold room atmosphere

wearing just bra and panties. You could feel the heat from her body. And then she smoothly

reversed the gown with its dark blue lining side out and put the thing back on, tying it around

her waist with its mandarin orange sash. And squatted down to get the high heel shoes out

of the boxes and try them on one at a time holding onto the side table with one hand to

steady herself. She was an Eight in the Louboutins.

“Naj is going to go back to his place now and make us all midnight supper, aren’t you Naj?

“Truffle linguine…I was going to do truffles and linguine...” His voice was barely a whisper.

“That sounds good. And a good strong olive oil too, eh. I want the truffles to be able to go

right into our bloodstream and come out through the pores of our skin. You know what I

mean. I want to be able to smell it.”

“I don’t drink you know, I just thought you’d better know that!” She said. “Before you take off

into your 3-step seduction plan, or whatever, what is it…”

I signalled with both hands to Naj: “Go, go. Hurry, dude. In an hour we’re going to be

starving!”

“Oh you don’t need to drink the stuff I make to get rattled.” I shot back at her. “The way I

make it the fumes alone will almost kill you. And the way I make it in any case it’s generally

only for certain types of brave men, so you don’t have to drink it although there are some

women who are equal to the challenge - you know: risky adventurer explorer-types - rocket

men, rocket women; people who like to get things up, go where no one has gone before.”

“We’re not having sex.”

“Oh we are having sex.”

She looked around, seemingly more at ease stepping away from the sex chatter. “Where is

that gas fireplace of yours? It’s freezing in here. And who are you, by the way...”

“Over there.” I pointed expansively, way out across the floor right to the other side of the

large, high vaulted ceiling, living room. “Be careful how you go,” I said as she began walking

over to the gas fireplace. “Attitude determines altitude, and if you tilt up too fast, you’ll fall.”

“I won’t fall.”

She slowed down, realizing properly that what I had said had some basis in the actual fact of

walking in Louboutin high heels. Not that she didn’t already know and ought to have

considered in all of the circumstances. ‘All of the circumstances’ meaning the adrenaline and

the prior sex banter and the elevated tilting of her hips now with the meaningfully raised, high

stiletto heels. And the rhythmic insinuating effect on her ass muscles as she walked.

“You cannot… ...be serious.”

Ha ha. I laughed to myself. Too late. And she was the musician. Should have read Kitab al-

Musiqa by al-Farabi, the Ninth and Tenth Century Persian-Arabic scientist and philosopher -

on the cosmic qualities of music, and its influences.