Rule Britannia – continued again


, , , , , , , , , , ,

Three months on and the next Prime Minister, the Rt Hon Liz Truss MP has been in post for just over a month. She won the leadership battle in a fight with the deceitful, and underhanded Rishi Sunak who was at that time Chancellor of the Exchequer, so on first impression, a better choice.

But in the short term she’s been in office things have not gone according to plan, and there have been calls for Boris Johnson to return. That won’t happen. So, during the current tumultuous times of Covid, conflict, and cash flow, our great and wonderful United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland seems to be drifting without a rudder, or has at least a very confused compass, for the moment …

Put the kettle on and we’ll have a cuppa while we wait.


Rule Britannia – continued


, , , , , , , , , , ,

It was nearly three years ago that I posted ‘Rule Britannia’. It concerned our promised exit from the tyranny of the European Union, and awaiting the result of the Conservative Party’s selection of a new Prime minister.

That new PM turned out to be the Rt Hon. Boris Johnson MP, and he took office on 24 July 2019. He successfully negotiated our withdrawal from the EU, which became effective on 31 January 2020. (The original referendum took place on 23 June 2016, with decisive (52%) support to leave). This timely independence had almost immediate benefit as, when the Covid-19 pandemic struck around a month later, the UK was able to negotiate the purchase of critical vaccination supplies, while the EU leviathan struggled to agree their next move.

Although his term in office has not been without controversy, he has largely achieved what was expected and has been, in my opinion, a good PM. (Always a comparative thing, and not necessarily absolute).

Sadly history has repeated itself and another ‘night of the long knives’ happened. As with the Thatcher administration of the 1980s, the members of his party ‘gathered on the steps of the Senate’ and did for him that which was done to Caesar.

As with any person in power many will be pleased to see him go – but, which of the sly, scheming, deceitful, back-stabbing weasels will be voted in to replace him? Surely, looking at the options, it is a case of ‘better the devil you know’.

As with my post three years ago, time will tell.

Dusty’s Demise


, , , , , , , , , ,

Recently I made a sample for Tando Creative Ltd. using their Hexagons kit as the basis. It was a model of an old, derelict windmill and I felt it must have a story …

The best flour in the county! That’s what they all said. There had been a windmill on the hill for as long as anyone could remember. But subtle changes were happening. Dusty, the miller, said it was because he had to move with the times. The flour he produced was different; the colour, texture – and the bread. Jones, the butcher, said it had no guts, even Evans, the parson, turned up his nose.

Dusty’s excuse was that the big city folk would pay more if he took out The Glutens. Nobody knew what Glutens were, not even Dusty, but he had an idea – extra large and heavy millstones with special grooves to get rid of glutens.

Jones, the baker, was having trouble making his loaves stand up, so he went to the mill and banged on the door.

“What do you want, Jones?”
“The village wants their glutens back!”
“Not happening.” Dusty folded his arms, “I’ve invested in the technology now. You’ll have to bake your bread better!”

The door slammed shut in Jones’ face sending little clouds of flour dust in to the air.

As he trudged back to the village, wondering how he could bake good bread again, an idea came to him. When he reached the old oak tree he turned off the path and headed in to the woods. Deep among the trees, hidden behind a patch of Nightshade, was an old gnarled cottage. He knocked on the door. In the window a black cat watched him with her yellow eyes. A short, plump woman with a flowery dress and green boots opened the door.

“‘Ello m’duck! Wassup?”
Jones, the baker, took a deep breath, “Ivy,” he had known her for years, “We need a spell to sort out Dusty and his new fangled ideas.”
“Y’better come in, I’ll put the kettle on.”

An hour and two pots of tea later, a spell had been written. Ivy and Jones, the baker, would meet at the bottom of the hill on the next full moon.

The fateful night came and the pair met at the wooden stile. The moon’s light flooded the scene almost as bright as day, so they kept in the shadow of the hawthorn bushes. Luckily the spell didn’t require any nakedness, just a few herbs and beans.

As Ivy finished casting the spell the clouds thickened and rolled across the moon. The winds rose and the sails on the mill turned faster and faster until they were just a blur in the gloom. Above the howling wind could be heard the whining of wooden gears, and the grinding of extra large and heavy millstones.

A light was lit in the mill and Dusty’s silhouette could be seen moving around. He went to the gluten-destroying stones, now spinning madly in their frame. As he reached across to disengage the gears a storm-force blast shook the whole mill – he stumbled and fell headlong into the frame.

The piercing scream made the hairs on Jones’ neck stand on end. Ivy was unmoved and just smiled.

Minutes later the wind had dropped, the sky was clear, and all was still – bathed in silvery moonlight. The single light still glowed in the mill.

Next day Jones, the baker, and Evans, the parson, went up to the mill. The canvas sails were ripped and frayed, there was a gaping hole in the cob wall, and the door was wide open. Jones knocked on the frame, there was no reply, no movement. They stepped gingerly inside.

“Dusty!” Jones called out, “Where are you?”
They searched the mill from cowl down to the grain and flour store underneath, but there was no sign of Dusty.

What they did find was a small pile of white powder at the bottom of the flour shute. It looked like a couple of pounds of Dusty’s old-style strong flour. The millstones looked like the night’s frantic grinding had worn the grooves away, with just a little discolouration, “Probably due to the heat generated by friction,” suggested Evans.

“Shame for it to go to waste.” Jones bagged the pile of flour.
“Indeed,” agreed Evans, “The Lord provides.”

That Sunday, Jones, the baker, presented Evans, the parson, with a pack of biscuits for the communion.

“That flour wasn’t quite right for a loaf, ” he said, “Odd texture, but it was ideal for your ‘Body of Christ’ bit.”
Evans smiled. “Thank you, so much.” He ushered Jones in to the dark interior of the church. “Ivy has joined us for this special occasion.” She turned and smiled her gap-soothed smile.

Jones, the baker, gets his flour from the next village now, with a proper dose of the glutens. Dusty’s windmill is abandoned, nobody goes near. On the full moon the sails can be seen turning and the dry stones send out a mournful wail as they grind … They never found old Dusty.

Impossible data from Voyager 1


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“Something is afoot with Voyager 1.” The opening sentence from a recent article in an IFL Science article.
Voyager 1 is in interstellar space, some 14.5 billion miles away. The spacecraft was launched on 5 September, 1977, its long term task to explore beyond the solar system and beyond the Sun’s heliosphere – it is the most distant artificial Earth made object, heading towards the constellation Ophiuchus.

Apparently the attitude articulation and control system don’t seem to match what Voyager is doing. It seems to be sending ‘randomly generated telemetry, or some impossible data’ but no faults are apparent.

On 16 September 2013 I published on this blog ‘Grey Sun’ , a flash science fiction piece predicting strange events. I reproduce the piece below for your entertainment, wonder, and amazement …


Voyager has traversed into interplanetary space. The unmanned exploration craft has been drifting through the solar system for nearly forty years, getting farther from planet Earth and heading for outer space.

Voyager space probe

The planned missions were completed years ago, now it continues towards the void. Before it crossed the boundary, with a glance back over its shoulder, it took a last snapshot of our planetary family – Earth, just a tiny blue pixel amid a sheet of blackness, the scene illuminated by a grey sun.

But Voyager is not alone. On the side there is a gold plaque, inscribed with symbols and images to show where we are, what we look like, how we sound, and how to find us – incase there is anyone out there who wants to know. The plaque includes digital storage, and that is where I live. Not my body, you understand, but my being. My soul, if you like. All the little things that make me.

Before Voyager was launched the Stargate Project was running experiments in remote viewing, using agents’ psychic abilities to view remote places, to spy on enemy locations from the safety of their homeland. Russians had been investigation psi phenomena since the 60s, we were trying not to be left behind.

To be one step ahead the experiment went to extreme measures. My brain was scanned, probed, analysed. Every electron movement, every synapse connection was recorded – the spark of my being was extracted. All the data was processed and burned into the plaque. The real me is in this data plate. My corpse was cremated the same day as the launch – public attention was focussed on Cape Canaveral.

Now I listen. Sometimes I hear voices, see faces. Earthly faces, my controller, my colleagues, the scientists who put me out here. We communicate. Sometimes the faces are strange, the voices – not voices, impressions, questioning. They are getting stronger as the earthly voices get weaker.

The electronic systems will fail in around ten years, when Voyager’s batteries finally die, then I shall be alone … except for the faces.

* * *

(c) 2013 K. Patrick Moody

(Original footnote: Inspired by recent news of Voyager I entering interstellar space, my interest in the remote viewing Stargate Project, and the InMon Challenge of 9 September 2013)



, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Renewal, right now, means the annual car insurance. For me one of the worst things about running a car. I don’t know why but it is a job I resist doing until the last minute.

Photo Courtesy Unsplash

But spring time, a time of renewal, to make new again is, perhaps, the thing that has fascinated man most since his earliest history. 

Early Homo sapiens or Homo neanderthalensis would have noticed there is a repeating sequence. Long hot days, that cooled and shortened until harsh, cold weather and long nights took their place. He would notice the days lengthening again, warmer sun would drive away the frosts – and leaves and buds would appear magically on the bare trees, to rise up from the deadness of winter as if by some miracle.

His developing brain and mind questioned what unseen force could make this happen, but, with no other explanation, it had to be god-like entities who drove these changes.

As the eons progressed, and our hominids evolved, different gods and spirits were assigned to the duties of the annual renewal of life, and to the fertility that would ensure plentiful crops, healthy young for the herds, and of course children for themselves. Some gods were sent offerings to appease them.

As each dominant civilisation succeeded the last, so gods were either discarded, became redundant, or were superseded by the relevant god of the new regime – a bit like fashion accessories. Sometimes the systems overlapped and two gods worked together on the same tasks. Occasionally the new god was slotted in to the old ways to make the transition easier to enforce on reluctant and ignorant masses. Of course, like all good traditions, the stories were embellished as each generation retold them. Later these tales would be written, rewritten, and adjusted to suit.

Now, as enlightened beings, we can look at the new growth, the buds, the lambs, chicks, and rabbits and understand that it is just ordinary, wonderful, amazing life progressing as it should. Not so much a renewal, but the continuation of a natural and evolving process. No amount of sacrifice, whether human or symbolic, will change the outcome. 

Unlike my car insurance, which has to be renewed by the sacrifice of promissory notes or a transfer of wealth, to some faceless, ineffable organisation. In exchange I will be allowed to drive on the roads.

Sound and Light


, , , , , , , ,

Another piece for Soul Tales, a site that represents the inspirations and ideals of a group of people interested in spiritual aspects of life. The subject this time – sound and light.

Your comments are welcome.

Sound and light – son et lumière – two very small areas of vibrational energy that have a direct and obvious influence on the human condition. 
Vibrations we call sound start around 50 vibrations a second up to may be 20,000 vibrations a second. Many animals can hear sounds lower and higher than us humans.
Visible light (again for humans) vibrates around 428,570 billion cycles a second – red being the lowest and violet being the highest.
Lower vibrations can be felt physically, may be through the fingertips or feet. Between sound and light we feel heat emanating  from electrical devices – like clothes irons, vibrations carry data (radio waves) from one aerial to another, and vibrations higher than visible light we call gamma rays, and X-rays. 
But what about the vibrations so often spoken of by mediums, sensitives, and psychics? Where do they fit in the vibrational spectrum? Why are they not detectable and recordable (yet)? Why do paranormal investigators fail to collect satisfactory evidence of presences, sounds, or images? Are these vibrations above the frequency of gamma radiation? If so they could be dangerous. Or are they below those we can feel with our physical bodies? Can there be a negative vibration?
Perhaps these emanations exist only in our heads? If that is so, then either they are pure imagination, mental illness … or something else.
The following quote by Dale E. Graff in his book, ‘Tracks in the Psychic Wilderness’, may give us a clue as to that ‘something else’.
            “Psi phenomena, in general, may have a holographic or wave like nature that is similar to light. “Psi waves” might be the means for accessing a mind-like hologram that, like gravity, extends throughout the universe.
May be, one day, we will find a way to detect, measure, and decipher these waves. But for now it is just sound and light.
(Dale E. Graff is the former Director of Project Stargate – the 20 year US remote viewing project)



, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This week’s homework for Soul-Tales is … ‘homework’.


I’ve never heard of a pupil who liked doing homework. The classroom learning process is difficult enough with facts, formulas, and equations. In school we make notes, draw diagrams, and recite poetry, but rarely are we expected to think for ourselves.

We eventually give up learning and living takes over. We get on with the process of making lives for ourselves.

But there comes a time when profit, promotion, and possessions stop having the meaning they once had, a time when we realise that material wealth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

We look around at our nice house, our flash car, and our wardrobe full of designer clothes, we have everything our heart desires – or do we?

We examine our spirituality; church on Sunday, charity donations, the occasional confession. Or maybe we’ve moved up to something a little more alternative – crystals, Reiki, yoga, tarot, angels.

But there’s still something missing. And we won’t find it … it doesn’t matter where you look, library books, Google, the loft, messages from beyond the veil … until we look within. 

For this we stay home – alone. No church, no temple, no sacred grove; no vicar, no priest, no shaman.  Stay quiet. No music, no TV, no anything. Just nothing, as much nothing as we can manage. Then we can work on what is important, what is truly valuable – we can do some home work.

So, pupils, when you find ‘it’ submit your answers to your inner tutor. There are extra points if you show your workings, and if you give reasons for your answers.

The Magic Carpet


, , , , , , , , , , , ,

The ‘homework’ from Soul-Tales continues. The theme of this month’s efforts is The Magic Carpet. Of course it is a purely imaginary item and, in reality, there is no such thing …

Photo by Meruyert Gonullu on

A Magic Carpet

My first encounter with a magic carpet was with Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Then, I thought that magic carpets had to be the beautiful Persian types, with intricate designs and sumptuous colours.

It wasn’t long before I realised that the nationality, design, or colour of the rug had no effect on the magic it contained. It was all in my mind.

I found I could sit on the rug, with a couple of close friends, Teddy and Little Ted, and we could go anywhere. 

First we would chat about our intended destination, then get comfortable and off we’d go. I was always the pilot so I had to look after my passengers.

As we climbed higher through the clouds we saw the land – and sea – passing below. We picked out famous landmarks as we glided above, and soon we would be over our landing place. There was always a bit of a bump as we touched down.

We gathered ourselves together and headed out to explore. We checked out the lounge first, just so we knew where to find the rug when we wanted to go home. Then we would tentatively make our way into the hall, past mysterious plants and huge ancient structures. Gran said they were an aspidistra on its tall stand, and great grandad’s long case clock.

Soon we reached a dark opening, and after checking it for monsters, crept in. We jumped on to the bed and found foreign beings lurking – Penguin, Rabbit, and Golly. Luckily they were all friendly, so we played games for a while.

Then we heard a shout. We rushed back to the rug to get home. Gran was calling us for tea!

Life was simple then. Our ‘child’ was not restricted to being ‘inner’, we were allowed, nay encouraged, to be creative. We made our own worlds, made our own solutions. 

That was three generations ago. Now I realise how important it is to find that inner child, and to travel on that magic carpet – to meditate, to day dream, to travel in realms that only exist in my mind; to create, to imagine, to invent, to drift above clouds. For when we return we can see the world for what it is, clearly and not obscured by dogma, false hope, and ego. 

A world full of magic … if you know where to look.

The Power of Kindness


, , , , ,

This is a sort of discussion piece, set as ‘homework’ for the Soul Tales blog. Is global kindness a possibility?
What is kind for one …

Have a read, either here or there, and let me know what you think.



Oh, how wonderful it would be if the whole world were kind; kind to children, kind to other people, kind to animals, kind to the planet. If only we would treat all others as we would expect to be treated.

It is a fairly simple process. Or is it? Being kind can mean different things to different people, in different situations.

In the High Street there is a beggar. He sits on his blanket, a scruffy dog-eared dog lays next to him. They are both in need of a good bath, and a good meal. You drop a coin into the hat. That is kind.

Mid-afternoon our beggar gets up from his place on the pavement, rolls his blanket, tips the content of his hat in to his hand and walks away, hang-dog follows on a piece of string. He’s had a good day. On his way to the alley and his makeshift shelter he calls in to the corner shop and buys a bottle of the cheapest vodka. It helps him sleep.

Or maybe you took the time to drop into MacDonalds and pick up a burger, fries, and a coffee and hand it to him with a smile and friendly word. That is kind.

But he is angry, he shouts at you, telling you that the burger is no good and it doesn’t help, and tosses it to his dog. He only wants money. That’s not kind.

Later, driving across the heathland you find a pony with a broken leg. It had been hit by a car. You call for help and soon a park ranger arrives. He goes to the back of his truck and gets his holdall. He returns to the pony, loads his pistol and dispatches the pony with one clean shot. Is that kind?

Try as we may, we are only human, we can try our best to do the right thing, to do what we would hope others would do for us – the caring, compassionate – kind – thing. 

For a concept found in the Middle Kingdom of Ancient Egypt some 4000 years ago, and almost every ethical tradition since, we can only hope it catches on in a big way.


The Secret


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Having bumped in to another member of the Soul-Tales blog group, I was set some more homework. This time the prompt was ‘The Secret’.

This piece started life as ‘The Library’, and has undergone some re-writing, and it is presented here, and on the Soul-Tales Story Time page, for your entertainment.

Dusty old books

The Secret

The blackened oak door opened inwards. Inside the stale, still air was filled with the quiet hiss of whispered words.

“Listen, Sam. Communication!”

“But they are only books.”

They edged along the aisles. The shelves towered above them, leather bound volumes filled every inch-space. So much knowledge, so much information hanging in the air, waiting to be inhaled.

The deeper they went, the older and mustier the books. The tone of the voices changed, now they seemed like they were Latin, then Greek. There were scrolls on wooden spindles, wrapped in flaking velum, or perhaps papyrus, or tiles of sun-baked red clay, all too fragile for Man’s clumsy touch. 

The voices were deeper here. A darker tone, of knowledge serious with age. An original knowledge, a knowing without teaching, of natural laws. A knowledge of things only the gods should know.

At the far end of The Library, the only light came from the tomes themselves; a grey-green, primordial emanation from between the pages.

“Look, Joshua!” Sam’s whisper barely louder than that of the enveloping shelving. “Could it be the meaning of Life itself?” 

A crusty volume, embossed Number 42, glowed bright from the highest shelf, just beyond his reach – as always …