“…as long as the individual had the belief – or even the hope of the belief – that his or her divine spark of reason could solve the problems facing society, then that society would never reach the state of hopelessness and alienation which was recognized as the necessary prerequisite for socialist revolution….a new barbarism was required.” – Michael J Minnicino, The New Dark Age: The Frankfurt School and Political Correctness

This is the final piece looking at the sinister forces that cloak our culture in decadence and hate. People have called these creeps the Committee of 300, the Cabal, the WEF, the CCP, the Bloodlines, the New York Fed, Bilderberg, Socialist International (long since captured by the Cabal), and so on. It is all of those things and more, an interlocked juggernaut of evil which links some of our most prestigious institutions with genuine darkness, stunting and deforming our lives and potential. Let’s start with the Windsors and the CIA. This is their world. We just pay for it. Life in the Negative W... Renn, Aaron M. Best Price: $15.37 Buy New $13.16 (as of 09:46 UTC - Details)

I spent two years courting the Royal Family. It was my job, I had a clothing allowance, a dining room, a chef, and someone who passed for a social secretary whose mother was best friends with the Queen Mother. I had to go to balls, charity lunches and polo matches, and invite out ladies-in-waiting. I endured dozens of lunches and dinners with deadly dull, insanely rich people. There was a lot of internal complaining, this is not serious, why did I get trapped in this, why do I have to do this? I sit in my little mews house, mute and furious while someone did my hair for yet another charity ball hosted by some damned royal or other.  My boss was adamant, she would make it up to me, I would get something more interesting, more substantive, just do this, she promised.

I took Charles’s principal private secretary out for lunch. He had been Chair of Credit Suisse First Boston, and Charles left him sitting outside his office for an hour, he complained. He was also Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire. And charming. Charles treated him like crap. This was a clue.

There were thousands of people like me, circling, circling, but most were from families who had been there for generations. All of them wanted something, all of them jockeyed for position, some of them, like my ‘secretary’, were broke and for hire. Her “boyfriend” was a gay aristocratic Egyptian, who dangled riches in front of her, but was clearly using her. I went to Annabel’s with he and his friend, who had an English mistress so beautiful – you have not seen beauty like this I promise – this level of beauty is hidden. She was dressed in a grey silk couture Valentino gown with a massive pink diamond on her (not marital) finger. Mostly the circle was European, some Americans who had married in, Arabs, a few Indians, a handful of Africans, all stinking rich. Miscellaneous Americans looking thrilled. What did they want? In part, status. And some of the invitees were being paid off, given a treat for some service or other. Another clue.

Everyone was dull. Occasionally, like at the Cartier Polo Match (Queen’s Cup), the flower of the aristocracy would turn up, dressed, jewelled, Vogued and much hilarity would ensue. But mostly they looked ordinary, block-shaped, unfashionable, and often in that English or upper class European way, inbred, sickly even. Another clue.

At the “apex” of my “social success”, I was invited to a private lunch with Charles, and a polo match afterwards, where he was playing. A private lunch which no charity donation, just a marker that you were part of the club, that you were a “friend”, a “real one”. Two hundred people seated for lunch in the hall of a massive Palladian pile owned by a friend of Charles, an exquisite house. Echoey and large, clattery, the hall was literally all marble, fields of it. Eventually I gravitated, over the course of the extended afternoon, to a group of people, young, laughing. My “secretary” dragged me off to shake Charles’s hand after the match, we replaced the divots. Too much champagne had caused a cute Arab kid to fall in love, so to silence his invitations I begged a rather sour American hanger-on to say that I promised to drive him back to London.

He was colorless, marginally attractive. In the 90 minute drive, I asked him question after question. I was a decent interviewer, sympathetic, cerebral, why do you think that is, not Oprah, not bathetic, not aggressive, just passing time, but as the drive wore on, he became more and more silent, until he scrambled out of my BMW, onto the sidewalk in front of a classical wedding cake of a house in Curzon Street that would now be worth $50 million. His headquarters. The International Institute for Strategic Studies, IISS. The final clue.

He was black ops. Not an activator, a planner. That is what his organization, under cover, actually did. Someone decided who the Crown, MI6 and the fucking CIA wanted killed and he devised the plan. The Institute for Strategic Studies, the house at which I dropped him, works under the auspices of the Round Table, which, yes, goes back to Arthur and is still operational. When not killing the inconvenient like Jeffrey Epstein, the IISS ‘fellows’ devise propaganda to disseminate to the world’s press. At the time, its membership included about 150 of the starriest editors and columnists from US, UK, and international newspapers and magazines, and 90 wire services. People like Seymour Hersh. They use him, or did. He didn’t know he was being used, they are clever, dance you around, direct you to ‘sources’. Hersh’s pieces were almost always a study in confusion, deliberately so, it was counter-propaganda for the angry left. In any case, it is they who devise the straight-up propaganda that is disseminated to the muggles, us: blacken Saddam Hussein, justify killing Ghaddafi, justify Ukraine, every single forever war, and action. It’s Good to Be ... Tennant, Dominic Bnonn Best Price: $12.74 Buy New $14.39 (as of 06:06 UTC - Details)

The final thing this outfit does is devise shocks to destabilize the world, to keep us in check, to immiserate, to prevent our growth. They work with the bankers that were, at the time, through Mr. Credit Suisse First Boston, training Charles how to operate in this sinister world.

That’s what this dull joker did. That’s why he and his pals lived with their own staff in a fifty million pound house. They and their psychiatrists and behaviourists worked to build our prison. The private lunch and polo match was a reward for a faithful attack dog.

And that’s the kind of person that hangs around the British Royal Family, not the head of the snake anymore, but certainly a major broker, a power node capable of marooning one of the world’s top bankers, an aristocrat, outside his office for an hour. The photo of Evelyn Rothschild, poking Charles in the chest, displays his actual position.

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