Who Do You Put Your Faith In?
Tom Penn on vaccinating children
You know you live in a faithless nation when your fellow citizens follow the medical advice of the Housing Secretary or Piers Morgan, and not, say, Dr Mike Yeadon, or any one of a substantial expert-panel of some eminence and global distinction.
But finding a full thirty minutes to research the yawn-athon of an emerging, authoritarian Bio-state appears quite some ask these days, even when it comes to the paltry matter of protecting our children’s health and futures.
They, ironically, have an abundance of minutes at their disposal, and yet due to the fact of their youth, are funnily enough not frittering them away on watching interviews with Dr Mike Yeadon et al. That’s our job not theirs. Although it’ll be they who shoulder the crucifix of our jumbled priorities.
Imagine your anguished 15 year old daughter had contracted a virulent strain of cancer. Before you – her creator and guardian – are four courses of action:
1) Follow the advice of a doctor too spineless to proffer effective treatment for fear of losing her job,
2) Consult CBeebies for guidance, or it’s adult equivalent the BBC,
3) Heed the counsel of a global team of renowned experts in her particular strain of cancer; who will offer gratis, no-strings-attached treatment right from the comfort of home, or
4) Obey the directives disguised as medical counsel, of a government the cause of your disinterest in politics – because they’re always ‘talking shite.’
If I came across a sick, stray puppy I’d call the RSPCA, not The One Show. When my car doesn’t work properly I take it to a mechanic, not WHSmith. And if my daughter’s life was in the balance, Westminster would be the very last place I’d turn to for hope.
Children are all at sea when it comes to the great voyage of life. Regardless of age, they have only fledgling concepts of what is ultimately best for their welfare in any given circumstances. Logical when you consider that even their elders have yet to ripen their own understanding of what constitutes a wholesome existence.
Between the ages of 16 to 19 I lived for skateboarding, girls, music, smoking pot and getting drunk with my friends – a rite of passage here in the so called civilised West. And provided two of the aforementioned don’t end up the catalysts of a crippling addiction, a young person will glean a great deal from this temporarily adopted, wanton lifestyle.
I don’t recall my parents taking me to a pop-up clinic to have me injected with an experimental vaccine, to protect me from a virus of no mortal threat to people my age, and that I was already immune to; an elixir whose clinical trials were still almost two years from completion and therefore, safety having not yet been adequately proven, should not have been authorised for human use. Maybe they did but I was too hungover to remember. Or too love-struck to care.
The update from the MHRA Yellow Card reporting system, dated 6th August, records a total of 1,120,009 mild to extreme adverse reactions to covid 19 vaccination, and a running total of 1,547 fatal reactions – death – from a variety of new illnesses emerging in the jabbed, post their oft-needless needling. Conditions such as: Cardiac Disorders, Nervous System Disorders, Respiratory Disorders, and Blood and Vascular Disorders, among many others.
The category indicating the highest casualty rate however is the disconcertingly-vague General Disorders category, at 519 fatalities. Nobody knows what may be lurking in store for the outwardly undamaged. Perhaps we’ll find out in thirty years once the relevant documents are declassified. But with the relevance of independent thought already all but proscribed, quite who will pore over the dossier is anyone’s guess.
But this is less a rant about vaccines and more an article on faith, and just who exactly you risk putting yours in during your daughter’s hour of need. And her hour of need is imminent.
Will you sing the hymns of the crooked Bishops with ties to Big Pharma, whose chronicle of specious covid events can be disproved and discredited with every new verse; whose Altar Boy’s modelling has been consistently out by an order of biblical magnitude, and whose proselytising behavioural engineers have been knocking on your mind’s door with the fire and brimstone of their psychological warfare since day one, and yet somehow we’re all still here – alive and well despite a perilous proximity to one another well under the mandated metre-age.
Or maybe you’ll genuflect to the over-bronzed, unqualified, Lego celebrities of the parish of St. Ofcom; their hands fixed in arthritic curls capable of grasping one shape and one shape only – that of their glittering careers.
Perhaps you’ll receive your statutory communion wafer from a healthcare professional at your local surgery or hospital instead, and have the host of the official narrative placed upon your timorous tongue – as it was once placed upon theirs – that your daughter may be assured of her name on the covid cenotaph of Laboratory Britain, post her corporate-sponsored stabbing jabbing.
Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll listen to those humble professionals with no stake in the Variant Cult; who have given practically their entire lives to advancements in Virology, Immunology, Toxicology, Epidemiology and Psychology, and who in a heartbeat could assure you that your daughter is not even ill – that she is not a sinner – and need not do YOUR ideological penance.
The vast majority of 16 to 19 year olds haven’t the faintest idea yet of what comprises informed consent; what the word wellbeing even truly means exactly. They are still at an age when hormones are running riot; causing them to believe they are beyond their years. Their beliefs are still very much at an experimental stage. It is foolhardy to assume they have faculties mature enough to arrive at a well-rounded decision regarding vaccination. Likewise their 12 to 15 year old siblings – who struggle to decide between Red Bull and Monster Energy; the branding, not even the drink itself.
Working on the assumption that yours was a relatively stereotypical British upbringing, cast your mind back to when you were young: to all the mischief, the crushes, the snogs, the raucous drunken nights out, the marijuana-tinged philosophising under the stars, the clumsy loss of virginity, the intense friendships, the euphoria of falling in love; the tears, the joy, the fears – the sheer wondrous rush of it all. That heady, hedonistic rite of passage goes on to become a part of you forever; never to be repeated.
Imagine your parents had snatched that away from you, or modified it’s potency beyond repair, because they opted to inject you with a geopolitical potion still under review; too lazy to take an hour out of their lives to seek a second opinion on the trivial matter of your health – or life. They chose instead to put their slothful trust in the advice of NHS billboards, headlines from papers they typically ridicule – and their armchair-expert neighbours.
I put my faith in people like Dr Mike Yeadon and Dr Peter McCullough. Why? Because they aren’t crouching poised, like scorpions, behind a suit and a preacher’s pulpit to deliver the stinging truth of their own sermons; whose messages couldn’t possibly be motivated by personal gain. It doesn’t mean I’d take my Audi to either of them for a full re-spray.
In early January this year, Matt Archbishop Hancock declared that once all the vulnerable of society had been vaccinated, restrictions could be lifted and he personally would ‘cry Freedom’. On the 15th February, gov.uk reported that all said vulnerable had been offered the vaccine. Six months later, with a canon of statutes still very much in place – alongside the spurious legislative infrastructure with which to re-impose the whole catalogue of commandments at will – the Papacy now want to put themselves in our kids, and fill them with an ejaculate still not yet fully understood; that has the capacity to both give life (back) and take it away forever. What about that doesn’t set alarm bells ringing? Or do you still hear only the pealing out of the Covid Cathedral’s great call to ‘arms?’
19th century Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard said ‘Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.’ We’re fully appraised of the benefit of hindsight and all that it teaches retrospectively. If you pursue his insight to the extreme, one could say then, that one is only as fully schooled as one could ever possibly be, at the moment of death.
What of our children then, still in the midst of their already somewhat fettered rites of passage – how illuminated could they possibly be at this very moment? And concerning anything, let alone medical ethics!
It is time to resurrect the capacity to believe – to have faith in something, anything, anyone – that doesn’t recite the rotten mantras of the corrupt clergy; because nothing so far in their prophetic, doom-laden scripture has yet arisen. Why would their proclamations on vaccine safety represent an inconsistent volte-face from the norms of their fanatical, brainwashing credo?
Despite in government employ and deluded defence of the realm, Transport Secretary Grant Shapps has no place discussing variants of concern with the media. Home Secretary Priti Patel is not qualified to advise on the use of face masks. Chief Medical Officer for England Chris Whitty, Chief Scientific Adviser to Government Patrick Vallance and his deputy Jonathan Van-Tam, despite healthcare professionals, have no business fusing their professions with the coercive, military-style psyops of the fear agencies with which they are in cahoots – in our name.
None of these betraying clerics are working in the spirit of Medicins Sans Frontieres: more that of Despots Without Limits.
And neither do any of them have the right to insist you encourage your child play Russian roulette with an emergency vaccine – especially not during a non-emergency. For all their collective, professional misdemeanours, cartoonish science, and total irreverence, it really may as well be Philip Schofield and Noel Edmonds up there moralising – from the unaccredited medical version of The New English Libel.
Prime Minister Boris Johnson is no vaccine expert. Turn to him if you want to fail your hairdressing apprenticeship, or for a tutorial in Cornetto-eating – how to maintain famine in Yemen even – and nowt else. Don’t turn to him clutching your sons and daughters – many of them yet to experience their first heavenly kiss – and offer them up for sacrificial inoculation, upon the altar of whatever pseudo-humanitarian vision of medical-apartheid he’s devotedly placed his own defiled faith in. Otherwise by this time next year, quite literally nowhere and nothing will be sacred.
You may still interpret as gospel the tenets of their faux-emergency, Hippocratic Oath – taken for the supposed sake of our salvation; without our consent. That’s your nutty creed, not your daughter’s. But vaccinate her, alongside children and pretend-adults of all ages, and it’ll be they who may eventually suffer the cloistered existence of a frail constitution – the indiscriminate damnation of what uncloaked itself to be your fealty to a heinous, ‘Hypocritic’ Oath.
As part of their regular series: ‘5 things you need to know about the coronavirus pandemic’, on the 7th April this year – over a full 12 months into this humiliating debacle – the BBC reported a shortage of tomato ketchup in the U.S, due to an accelerated demand for take-outs.
On the very same day Dr Mike Yeadon – Pfizer’s former Vice President and Chief Scientist for Allergy & Respiratory, who spent 32 years in the industry leading new medicines research – gave an interview to LifeSiteNews denouncing the government science as out-and-out, demonstrable propaganda.
From which of the two Good Books were you faithfully reading, while your daughter was distracted riding the euphoric waves of an innocent childhood romance?