The Fall

The grateful stood back

Watched

While we attacked

The blood spewed

Our eyes avoiding

The tortured

They knew

The Great Four sat

Surveyed, reviewed.

Others, apathetic,

Reigned

Bonded to greedy games

Enemy brought in

Boxed bright

Fuelling winnable fights.

She slips out from within

Unwanted, ugly, thin.

Her plan, simply to survive

To build, to love and to lie.

Understanding the lines in the sand,

She gathers feathers

To softly land.

The end.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

I hope that this poem resonates with some readers.

staycalmcarryon

Lab Rat Age – Lockdown Poem

Isolating for covid nineteen

All social distancing

It’s now twenty twenty-one

Another lock down has begun

Pfizer, Astra Zeneca and J & J

Motivated with shares and graphs

They wipe us away

Like fleas on an arse

Looking back to where to begin

I came across the story of Aspirin

Linked to Spanish Flu, who knew?

Pharma have us by the balls

Wanting funding for a new cause

Just how many more variants

Can really be found

In residents isolating, gone to ground?

We’ve vaccinated millions

Yet death figures soar

It takes no super sleuth

To unlock the cage

On Britain’s new,

Lab Rat Age.

The end.

Thanks for reading

copyright Samantha Harris (unextraordinarybint) January 2021

No Better – Review Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy. Honest/Blunt.

A week ago I had my appointment at NHS colorectal specialist regarding my butt pain.

This is now the third hospital I’ve been seen for looking into this. I wish they’d share medical records… I’m reminded of how, last decade, I used to go from hospital to hospital over the bladder pain. Then I read an article which told me it could be the TVT polypropylene mesh.

I read through the doctors letters that I had and saw that it was being mentioned as okay when I wasn’t really aware that this was what they were looking at.

Each consultant said the same thing “no erosion of the TVT”. I know now that there is no possible way they could have seen this by these investigations and each one of them lied.

Taking you back to 2005 when I had an Hysterectomy for Endometriosis because of night sweats and crippling pain. I was discharged from the ward six days after my surgery without clearing my bowels. I was re-admitted five days later having still not cleared my bowels.

Four years after that I am having a Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy, which I am unaware is a new procedure. The story of getting to that point is a whole book of horrors for another day.

I wake after the Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy in what the medical profession disgustingly call “exquisite pain”. That is not the correct term. The correct term would be horrific pain that will never be forgotten, worse than child birth. I woke screaming like a banshee. There was nothing exquisite about it. Sick sacks.

If you look up Stapled Hemorrhoidopexy, the gumph will tell you it is a painless, minimal invasive procedure and that you will be back to work the next day. It is not true. Far from it. This is a cut and shunt that you will be lucky to be standing up comfortably the next week, let alone the next day.

It definitely doesn’t suit everyone and if you have Ehlers Danlos like myself I would recommend not having it and demanding the older technique with biological material and a gentle hand. A huge mechanical stapler being shoved up your arse is not easy to recover from.

I have not yet found out what they used to fix the cut, the surgeon told me it was a ‘composite ring’. I am in the process of getting my medical records because of the TVT Mesh case I am trying to bring against the NHS, I am trying to find what this ‘composite ring’ is made of…because of my butt pain whilst I’m there.

It’s been eleven years since I had the Stapled Hemroidplexy to correct my evacuation problems. It didn’t work. It never worked and now it’s incredibly painful and has been for a few years – getting worse as time goes by.

Care is bad for women patients in the NHS. Since closing the women’s hospitals we have to travel hundreds of miles. I’m in so much pain, it is incredibly hard to to travel to several different areas of the country for what is essentially an inch difference on my body.

Common sense seems to have left the building and thousands of people are left on benefits because of operations and procedures like this…it costs the government and the tax payer millions.

During my recent (Dec 2020) consultation I was not asked my history…we didn’t have time. My kind doctor told me that my upper and lower abdominal CT Scan, poo sample and blood results had all came back normal.

To me, that is instantly worrying. They’d done a chest CT too… I have bullous lung disease, or cystic lungs…clearly visible on a scan if any one looks at it. At stage four I have a heavy shadow on my right lung unavoidable to any eye let alone a trained eye of a radiographer.

As a patient being told that they can find nothing wrong when you are unable to sit down during the consultation is an unpleasant situation. I had no option but to have the poor consultant physically examine me. She would be sure to feel the rectroentrocele (or something) to show that I am not mental.

There is no understatement when I say it really fecking hurt.

Like last year at Watford General, it was very difficult and upsetting.

More painful was her finding something, checking with me that it hurt, and then pushing on it…the pressure made my heart flip and my ears pop. I tried to go through the wall on the other side of the bench to get away from her soul pressing finger.

The doctor handed me a wipe and some tissues. Getting dressed I wondered what she had found and how on earth I was going to get through Christmas in so much pain.

The doc has told me I am in pelvic spasm and given me some cream to use until I see her again early next year. I will let you know how it goes. I’m due to see her again in February 2021 – unless we are still in covid19 lockdown and it’s cancelled.

Thanks for reading.

Poor guy.https://www.researchgate.net/publication/51172093_Hemoperitoneum_as_severe_and_unusual_complication_in_the_stapler_recto-anopexy_for_hemorrhoidal_prolapse_Case_report

Thursday is the Day – journal entry

So, I went for my CT scan at Luton hospital last week. The whole thing was utterly exhausting, and it was hard for me to keep things in perspective. I did get through it, I remained polite, I got my scan and left. This coming Thursday I will return to Luton Hospital and find out whether there is something sinister or not.

I find things difficult at the best of times but getting around during the covid19 pandemic is in league of its own, one needs a degree in logistics. To be frank, I’m in so much pain, the drive itself was a chore and I was pleased to arrive in plenty of time and find the disabled carpark fairly easily.

Because I use a wheelchair and/or a trolley seat (a mobility aid which means I can walk a bit and then sit for a bit) I had the foresight to call the hospital to check where I had to go. The information they had sent through the post didn’t include anything for disabled people. I wanted to make sure the scanning dept. was okay with me not having the blood test for the kidney function, as I wasn’t having the contrast.

The lady who spoke to me on the phone was really helpful and assured me that they always see people on time so not to arrive early, else I’d be waiting in the cold and that it was fine about the dye, I didn’t have to had the contrast.

The journey went well, I did arrive early in the carpark and thought it wise see the scanner zone and check out its location. Good job I plan for bad luck as it took me ten minutes to get out of the carpark.

I was not happy. You cannot imagine the pain I am in when I stand up. I have a walking stick and a light weight frame on wheels which pulls out into a seat. I walked around the disabled carpark, twice. I then pulled out my seat and sat down. A white van was parked near me. I could see someone sat in the driver’s seat. I stare at the windscreen.
The window of it starts winding down and a man puts his head out of the driver’s side. He shouts across to me,

“You okay love?”

“Not really,” I reply. “Am I expected to jump this fence to get into the hospital? Where’s the exit?”

He laughed.

Yeah, very funny, I thought, as I was barely keeping the tears at bay. He pointed towards the wooden builder’s hording wall just in front of us and said,

“It’s on the other side of that. Just go around to the right there, around the corner and you’ll see it.”

I thanked him, gave him a smile which hopefully did not say you fucking arsehole for watching me for what seemed like an eternity, stood up with the aid of my stick and pulled my trolley around the white painted hoarding and, yes, I found the exit of the carpark and finally, into the hospital.

How hard would it have been to put a sign there?

It was then a further ten minute journey for me of walking, sitting, walking to get to the zone where the scanner was. I arrived at 9.25am for my 9.30am appointment. The weather temperature was three degrees according to my car. I was glad to be wrapped up and was feeling smug that I had a flask of tea in the car for when I returned to it. My heart was proper pounding in my chest from the effort, but I was pleased I’d not used my wheelchair as it had all been up hill.

I had my mask on. I’ve got a black fabric one as I have lung disease and need to breathe. Since I was little, I’ve covered my mouth in the cold. It hurts less when you breathe in through a scarf or big fluffy collar or cowl. I don’t mind wearing the mask but when I walk, I cough. Nothing clears the pathway faster, like Moses parting the sea as I walked through the hospital grounds, people crossed over the road rather than walk near me.

I found the area where I needed to be as a kindly man could see I was lost and struggling. He pointed out that I was really close, and but for the lack of signs I would have known.
The kindness of strangers is something I’ve come to rely on since becoming sick. I’m thankful that as a tall person I used to help people out when I was able. As a tall person you are obliged to help out shorter people or people in wheelchairs, it’s part of the ‘tall people’s’ code.

Arriving in Area D…the CT scanner. I realized that it was directly opposite Area C, which is the children department. When I say opposite, I mean the CT Scanner door was approximately two metres from the entrance to the children’s hospital.
I only point it out as they were queuing to get in and I had to wait amongst them.

Social distancing rules have seen the hospital remove seats and benches, so I was pleased with my trolley seat and tried to position myself so that when I coughed, I was facing the scanning unit rather than the pathway. I heard several envious comments about my seat.

I feel it is an ill thought out plan to keep people waiting in the same area where sick children are also waiting. It was impossible to social distance. In order to get their temperatures checked before being allowed into the hospital this queue was being pushed passed by people leaving the hospital too.

Also, it is wrong to make people stand in the cold when there is a respiratory illness going around.

Getting temperatures checked before being allowed INTO the hospital. There are too many things wrong with this…I mean the point of coming to the hospital is that you are ill.

I listened as one by one the parents were told that only one of them could attend by the side of their sick child whilst being made to stand next to strangers coughing. There was one nurse on checking them in and she was doing a cracking job at moving the queue along. I cannot blame the staff, but surely common sense would suggest this queuing does not meet the anti-transmission guidelines.

As per a sign’s instruction, I knocked on the scanner unit’s door and waited. Nothing happened so I waited until exactly 9.30am and knocked again. A serious looking man put his head around the door and asked my name. I inwardly cringed as I feverishly hoped someone else would be in there and I’m not alone with him but keep my anxiousness under control smile and give my name. He doesn’t smile back, nods acknowledgement, repeats my name and closes the door again.

A few minutes later he opened it again and tells me that they have a patient in, and it shouldn’t be much longer. Then he squeezed passed me to go get a cup of tea. I will never know whether it was for him or the patient. I did feel that when he passed me with his warm cup of tea, he had a proper smug look on his face.

This is the perceived racism I feel when faced with some health staff since the attack, stuff I didn’t notice before but now take more personally. The sly looks. The extra waiting. The not smiling back when you smile at them. I’m more wary now, that is sad. I used to just accept it but now I cannot help but question if I am waiting longer because of my name or something else I cannot control.

I was coughing pretty much constantly by the time they opened the door, and the patient came out. I was in at 9.50am and was not in a great frame of mind. The tea man introduced himself, as the radiographer and then started to question my unsuitability claim for the contrast dye.

Back in March 2019 I had an MRI and I had contrast. It was awful and the burning didn’t stop for a month. A blood test, taken in A&E in April, showed my kidneys were showing signs of damage. The doctor told me to stop drinking alcohol rather than listen to me (and my daughter) that it was the contrast dye. I don’t drink alcohol. Not all white people like it. It is water usually in my wine glass so that I look like I’m joining in.

I did my own research and found out that people who have undergone lots of surgical procedures may not be suitable for the dye. The burning I was feeling was at the areas where they’d cut into my body at previous occasions and operations. The ions in the dye tend to group together in these areas which can cause burning sensations and pain. I don’t know why it affects the kidneys.

The MRI scan last year had taken over an hour and I’d eventually asked for it to finish as I couldn’t lie on the bench any longer. The report came back as everything okay. They didn’t note my lung disease, the TVT mesh, my leaky heart valve or the rectum staples. The only thing they noted was that I didn’t have a womb, but my referral letter had said I’d had a hysterectomy.

I thought they’d gotten me muddled with another patient, but this was all at Watford last year, now I was at Luton. Different time, different location and hopefully a different outcome.

I hand Mr tea radiographer man, the forms which they’d sent me. These are forms giving consent for use of the dye and for consent for the images to be used in research and the blood request forms.

He looked a bit annoyed.

On the forms I’d written I consented for diagnostic purposes only and not the contrast injection as I have a compromised immune response issue adding it is not suitable for me. And I signed it.

Clearly, I wanted the normal CT scan and as I had already phoned up them about it, I didn’t see why I needed to justify it again to an arrogant radiographer who obviously thought I was doing it just to annoy him. He came around from behind his glass screen.

“Who said you can’t have the contrast?”

“I did” was my response and I went on to tell him what had happened, but he waved his hand at me and went back to his little booth…he shouted,

“Which hospital did you have the MRI at?”

I replied and then watched him call Watford General. I look at him and I’m thinking…WTF. If he thinks for a moment, he can bully me into something which I know will hurt me he is sadly mistaken, and I start putting my coat back on.

I can hear him on the phone…”yeah, Samantha Harris, says she had a reaction to the dye….”

I catch the eye of the female nurse helping him. I tell her silently mouthing the words…”I’m going to go now as I’m not having the dye.”

I start to stand up as he isn’t listening…he is not listening to me at all. I’ve not had the blood tests to show that my kidneys are fine for the contrast dye. I’d had this at WGH, and it had come back okay. It obviously was not okay otherwise my kidneys would not have looked like a heavy drinkers a month after the scan.

He marches over to me and gives me the forms, releasing them just before I get my hand to them.

“You may as well have these back then.” He states as they fall down on floor near my feet.

He returns to the glass screen booth and the nurse introduces herself and helps me get up on the bench. I coughed a lot. I managed to lie still for the few seconds it takes to take the scan. I’m told I can go home as soon as I am dressed.

I make my way back to the car. I pour myself a cup of tea and cry. I then realise I’ve forgotten to get all the blood tests the consultant wanted done. I cry a bit more. I’m too tired to go back into the hospital, I drive home carefully and fall asleep until the next day.

I almost cried when the blood clinic nurse put the needle in my arm for the blood tests. It was nothing to do with her technique, it’s obviously me.

I think this shows that I am a baby. My pain threshold must be exceptionally low to be almost on the ceiling for a little blood being taken.

To me, this has to be a good sign.
Now it’s a waiting game.

I find out on Thursday afternoon what the colorectal consultant thinks about my sore behind…she is called Dr Brown. Bless her.

Confusion – Journal Entry Real Life

 

Don’t read any further if upset by injustice, neglect, poverty and perversion.

This be trigger city for some.

This is your last chance, I’m blunt but not coarse, I am going to discuss a terrible subject in the lightest possible manner.

Confusion.

When I was a child I was assaulted by an adult man (in the worst way). The most prominent symptom, apart from the physical pain was that of severe confusion. I became OCD as a result of trying to come to terms.

The whole thing was so completely and utterly at odds with everything I knew then, I was under ten years old and used to dolls, handstands and dresses. I went off dresses, handstands and dolls.

I’m fifty-one years old now. I love dresses now. Sod the handstands. It may surprise people to know that some actions are never forgotten – no matter how many other, lovely, consensual sexual moments one does experience.

If you were to get complacent and fool yourself, a flash back will remind you. Today I had one, it must have been ten years since the last. His face appeared when I was having wink. I decided to have an imaginary wiss on him. He went.

For a longest time, I thought along the lines of ‘why me?’ But then it became all about recovery, mainly because I have children. Many different pathways of recovery were tried.

I didn’t recover quickly because I was pushed towards forgiveness. No confrontation, no justice and no reasonable explanation. It took ages, as the confusion became anger, festered and grew  to become depression.

How does forgiveness help? If no one is saying sorry, you can only forgive so much.

Attending lots of therapy – when my children were young, I needed to deal with my anger and more recently, I started writing this online journal and some books to help. It really does help too. Whether it helps you or not is another matter…

These days, I feel that I am better, adjusted as much as humanly possible. I’m able to think about what happened back in Widewell Woods with less emotion and I apologise if I cause any harm or painful memories to those reading this. I understand it’s place in my life story.

It does not define me, but it is part of me, unfortunately, a regret out of my hands.

There are no safe places for children if we don’t fully understand. I feel it is not just a sexual fetish with innocence, even ‘perceived innocence’ is not the full picture. Control plays a part. It is a form of soul capture…making an imprint on a person for life. The man who hurt me was playing god.

Perhaps this is why the church didn’t help me. They couldn’t play god any more with me…I’d worked out he wasn’t really there to protect us at all because anyone could come along and trump him.

Obviously, no assault or abuse is the same. I’m going to come out with something controversial and declare that there was nothing sexually charged about the scene of my sexual assault.

It was a moment of ruination.

He wanted to ruin a female life, he planned to ruin it and he had, but it hadn’t ‘satisfied’ him. I suspect he wouldn’t have been satisfied until he’d taken more but a disturbance didn’t give him time.

He wanted to ruin a girl – in order to ruin a woman.

He did succeed for a while, but something was able to absorb the hatred I had, not the confusion, just the hatred. God was my buffer. I thank the ideology for that much, begrudgingly.

No one else cared enough for it to be effective if I was angry at them. It was only the church who had appeared in my life, made me feel some promise and then let me down, that it was worth getting angry with in my child’s mind.

No one promised life would be another way, ever. Since living with Dad and step mum I knew a life of pain. God had promised happiness if I followed certain rules. I had followed his rules.

I could be justifiably angry with him.

The assault shone a light on other confusions. Things my step mother had said some years before. I’d  started at school but was off sick. We had to go out. I’d upset her by slowing the process down. I was crying and she was pulling me about, putting my shoes on.

I said something to the effect that she was hurting me. The shoes were too small and they’d yet to be cut so that my feet could grow. This was a common thing for British families struggling in the 1970s. I had trouble with the buckles, they were too difficult for me to do up, she was angry.

In her defence, she was not my mother, I was yet to be diagnosed. Labelled stupid and clumsy because of the Elhers Danlos and extremely short sighted, it could not have been easy. I mean, it must have been frustrating for her.

It was horrifying for me, but I knew no different.

She spat her words at me,

“You should think yourself lucky, I could be shoving coat hangers up inside you.”

It was an odd thing to say to a five year old.

I had no idea of a vagina, only the vulva. I only knew the outside of my biological self.

My creative inners, ‘my vagina’, womb or ovaries were not on my radar. Biology is good like this, the female genitalia are not exactly accessible. I assumed she meant put coat hangers inside me via my belly button, that was, until Widewell, the man and the sexual assault.

In emotional health terms this is called ‘sexualization’. Children should not be sexualized early, it’s not healthy mentally, emotionally or physically. This is why we use terms like, the bird and the bees, the stork brought the baby and don’t discuss or do sexual things in front of children. We protect their innocence of creation.

The human act of copulation is not a child’s business. Children are just the result…

The man who assaulted me knew this. He knew he had no business going in my pants. I knew too and tried to stop him. It took him seconds to ruin my life, to change my perspective. In that moment, he set me apart from everything. He distanced me from my peers, my step mother, my father and just about everyone I knew.

How could a weak man gain control over strong, healthy and vibrant women other than to sabotage her as a child? This man is a coward, no more. A terminator of women…going back to a weaker point in their biological past to ruin them.

I know now he lacks the respect for women he should have, and his action is that of a misogynist.

I stayed fascinated with sex for decades, attempting to understand it’s dynamics. I can tell what desire is and what is hatred. I recognise love and respect and can see usage and control.

He was looking at my face when he hurt me. His was not a pretty face.

The man who assaulted me did not fancy me. He wasn’t attracted to me…he isn’t attracted to children. I’ll be very clear, he was into ruination, he wanted to destroy, to take my soul – his intention was only to hurt and cause pain.

He knew I was confused, he hoped it’d be hurting me forever, but it didn’t appear to make him happy. His brown, watery eyes were sad and angry as they looked into mine.

Gaining only sour gratification of his bitter hatred for women, he assaulted me, and then walked away. For all I know, back to his wife and children. Sorry, but it could be true – it’s all too late to do anything now and I didn’t do anything then.

The last human bone fuses for adulthood around thirty years old. I’m still confused at how females can be safely ready for child birth or penetrative sex beforehand.

Perhaps a doctor could explain it to me? Vets protect the youngsters from grown adult males in zoos.

Paedophiles are nothing more than human time travelling terminators, murderers of souls. They should not be given an audience at any level other than disgust. They should be kept away from society and not housed near families. I’d go as far to say that they should all be rounded up and put in Chinese style re-education camps until they change their views.


The End.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

A small part of my own life story.

 

 

 

Destruction- poem

The war machine swims unseen

It slides, drifts in between

Hammer, hammer, hammer

Push, push, push

Making their need a must

Jobs for the many

Death for the due

It could be me

It could be

You.

***

<p id="destruction_poem_samanthaharris" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">by Samantha "unextraordinarybint" Harris.by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

The Whiteness and Bloody Americans. Rant.

What is wrong with white people? This is aimed at white people in Europe not the States. I’m English and would also class myself as European. I voted to remain for Brexit.

How can white people not realise they may be a target for hatred? Because, in the same way my (white) ancestors had to scream out for help to London, most are not aware.

The media and social media only tell what it wants, but if you look you will find independent news outlets now giving out the very depressing news. Youtube is worth watching if you can circumnavigate the PR stuff, filters, sexist and racist search results.

Stabbing and shootings in towns up and down the country have increased dramatically during lockdown…they stopped collecting ethnicity as it was getting very obvious. In response, Far right activity rose by 4% to 8% of our countries total terrorist threat. This resulted in a news blackout of the ongoing attacks.

But, I want to talk about our health and the NHS, and a woman called Rano Bains.

Why should you be interested in what she says? Because she is Head of Equality and Diversity for many NHS Trusts and hospitals (national health service) in England. It is her words which drive policy, funding and training in our wards and universities.

Rano Bain’s words…

“The whiteness refers to white consciousness – the ‘silent’, pervasive, cultural norm that informs and shapes our racial ideology. Whiteness is constructed as a formless, empty cultural space that is neutral, natural and normative. Whiteness, because it is an unnamed, hegemonic position of privilege and power, becomes the point of reference for measuring others, unlike “blackness” which has been named in the language of white signification. Whiteness has defied scrutiny as it does not seem like a culture as everyone is apparently the same.”

hmmm…plain English would have been nice…..However, I will attempt to break it down.

Do white people know what other white people think? She makes it sound like we are plugged into an invisible big psychic cloud. Her claims of white consciousness of people in Russia, Israel, Poland being the same as white people in England, Germany or America are terrible.

It shows her racism immediately. The first line says that she is viewing white people from a position of suspicion and it is white people who declare racial identity, to her. Is Ms Bains the type of person who should be running our ‘equality and diversity’ departments?

Current serving Ministers have declared that white privilege has no place being taught in our schools, but are they aware that it is taught in our NHS to our healthcare assistants, nurses and doctors?

White people come lower down the humanity chart to many people in the media, the health care profession and education. This has to change. All lives matter all faiths matter, including those without faith – that doesn’t mean they make the rules.

When people are not offered the same facilities and services it is called discrimination. (eg. TB vaccine). When they are not warned of extra risks to them, (eg. flu vaccine) this is racism.

White people are the only race not afforded the indigenous land protections.

In this manner, the United Nations is racist.

My country – The United Kingdom of the British Isles, is a country RICH in culture and heritage. It is wrong to say we have none. To be frank it is racist to say white people have no culture.

Terms like ‘snowy peaks, and ‘the whiteness‘ are racist. They should not be allowed within training programs in our national health system. They should be discredited by academics within our schools and universities.

Explain to me why white people are criticized for holding positions in predominantly white citizenships or companies? How can that possibly be racist? But, it isn’t racist that African’s insist on their land being owned by black people? It isn’t racist that native American Indians have land that is just theirs?

If white people want their own space, it’s racist?

Explain why Christians can’t say they hate Islam? Both are bad, but Christians have become tolerant and are the standing religion in the UK along with paganism. Religion isn’t even a race but somehow it is being added to our ‘hate crime’ laws, originally designed to protect everyone. Soon I will be unable to say I hate religion!!!

This directly threatens our free speech and our security.

Explain why a black person (from anywhere) is on our national news talking about feeling hurt because she suspects racism? She suspects it was racism…? She may be getting hassled for all sorts of reasons to assume it is racism is not on. Because she is in a predominantly white country she declares racism, but she works within a predominantly non white environment in the NHS in London.

Regardless.

How is this national news when the same day people were stabbed, on UK streets, for being white? Another incident only covered at a local level, as all of these types of murders now.

Murder by colour code. If you are a white murderer or white child killer you will be plastered over the media, if you are black/brown/not English you may not even get arrested if your child dies unexpectantly unless the public pull the police up.

Explain why George Floyd is on BBC but Cannon Hinnant isn’t? Neither murder happened in Britain (BBC stands for British Broadcasting Corp).

I’m scared. I stand as someone who was attacked by people who were not of my colour. I am not imagining the hatred towards me. I’m verbally attacked when I leave my home by an awful Russian woman (white). I’m scared of the doctors and nurses no matter what colour they are, as many view me as spoilt immediately because I am English. White Irish ambulance staff can be especially mean. All white people are not the same!

As an English person I learnt a long time ago to lie about where I am from, but I will never again. I educated myself away from the white guilt, the same as I educated myself away from the Christian guilt and can now see it for what it is. Both are run for greed, envy, laziness, brainwashing and corruption.

I stand as someone who was born in Plymouth, Devon, England. The full history is not covered by the Americans EVER…they remain race blind on the slave trade history because of their own sordid history and because it suits certain people politically.

This lady, Rano Bains (no idea where she is from), has a nerve to say this of England with her Whiteness perspective. However, we are the most tolerant of countries. Perhaps she cannot see a long history or culture within our country, but surely this does not mean there isn’t one?

I read her pdf in 2018 and have been stewing since. I didn’t want to do a piece as I don’t want to add to a rise of hatred towards anyone but it seems I do need to defend myself and my life. A black lady is found online saying all white people are inbred and most of the comments underneath agreed…however, you will not be able to find it.

Search for any attack on a white person and google immediately takes you to black lives matter material unless you know the name of the victim and the date you will not find it on referenced on our news. Google is not relevant and neither is youtube.

White people are not the same, nor do we think we are the same. We are classed as white for measurement of resources for assurances to black and brown people to ensure that facilities are shared equally.

Also, we now appear to have strange advert quotas – air brushing blond people from TV, advertising, film and social media in Europe is also getting very tedious. European people are white. Get over it. Stop telling us we are racist.

White people are just people. We don’t deserve any more or any less than any other human. It is Rano Bain’s term, The Whiteness, that gave birth to many of my poems reflecting as The Blackness….ideally I wouldn’t be seeing the world in this manner. I never used to. But, this is obviously the idea, after all, you cannot capture a culture and it’s resources without upsetting a few people.

Our national anthem has come under attack. Us Brits will ignore it and will carry on with it but for the English (traitors), Americans, Indians, Pakistanis, Russians and African who called for it to be banned, please get a education by reading the following.

The history behind the British song Rule Britannia, UK national anthem.
In the 1600s the seas around Britain were ruled by North African Slavers(who were black). They boarded British ships and carried off the crews (whites) to be sold as slaves in Africa. The situation became so bad that fishermen wouldn’t put out to sea in case they were captured by African Slave Traders.
Between 1609 and 1616, 466 British ships were captured by Slave Traders in the English Channel, Irish Sea and North Atlantic, and the crews were sold into slavery. White crews.

Some other historical news stories from England include,

In 1625, sixty English people (white) who had taken refuge in a local church were dragged out, loaded up and taken off to Africa to be sold as slaves from Mount’s Bay in Cornwall

On 12 August 1625 the Mayor of Plymouth wrote to London for military help after 27 ships had been seized by North African Muslim Slave Traders in just 10 days.

In 1645, 240 people were seized as slaves in Cornwall.

White people – valued by other nations because of the colour of their skin for abuses in other countries. We didn’t value ourselves higher because of our skin they did because they wanted it.

One or two survived, made their way back to England and wrote of their capture, but most didn’t.

The situation only began to improve for Britain after the end of our English Civil War when the Royal Navy was built up under Oliver Cromwell.

By 1700, North African Slavers generally knew better.

It was in honour of this defence of our security, that in 1740, James Thompson wrote ‘Rule Britannia’.

Apathy will not help our children or our grandchildren. I stupidly did not go to the police over my own attack in Kings College Hospital but I did complain and I did go to my GP about my injuries so it is a matter of record. I also took photos of my injuries, they amounted to bruising.

People need to stop talking about racism as if white people are always responsible. Racists are everywhere and you cannot tell them by their colour.

Stop believing that because of colour you should have less and be grateful because you have nothing to feel bad about.

Stop believing that because of colour you should have more and other people owe you something.

The end.

Leave a comment if you like, I suspect this will be filtered out of google and bing search anyway.

Thanks for reading.

If anyone else can decode Ms Rano Bain’s words please enlighten me. Pardon the pun.

Letters 25th November 2020. RE Flu.

So, today I got a letter. Like the recent text messages, it tells me that I need to have my flu vaccine. It tells me that it is my responsibility to get it because of covid19…blah, blah, blah.

Good stuff you may think. I may add that I think vaccines, overall, are a good thing.

However, I am auto-immune deficient because of a foreign body reaction to polypropylene which was placed in my pelvic area during a hysterectomy for Endometriosis. I had my flu vaccine last year as I have COPD and Ehlers Danlos.

I didn’t know last year, that people who are immune compromised shouldn’t be offered the new adjuvanted flu vaccine and, it seems, neither did my doctor and I became very ill with flu over Christmas 2019. Two things –

  1. I shouldn’t have been offered this particular flu vaccine and should have had the normal one.
  2. My reaction to the new adjuvanted vaccine must not have been picked up by the system.

I called the GP. I spent three whole minutes listening to their automatic message telling me to go to the website and do the business online. Whilst listening I did try their online consultation but it is not possible to turn off the tracking cookies so my PC says no.

Anyway, I get to speak to the receptionist and explain I need a COPD check and to talk about the flu vaccine I keep being asked to have. A doctor calls me within the hour which is amazing as I just waited ten days for telephone consultation over my sore rectum.

We speak for around fifteen minutes. She checks my records, see the novel virus diagnosis and logged visits to myself last year after my flu vaccine. She has no problem checking the box which says that I had a reaction and not to be invited for it again. Brilliant stuff.

Having read the recent warnings from the American drug regulators I am wondering if the UK will also issue a similar warning. It is not suitable for everyone. Vaccines are not a one treatment for all and should be used on patients able to cope physically.

As always, thank you for your time.

Ruby Wax and Me – Nipple Poetic Story

There is a woman called Ruby Wax.

A more lovely woman you would not see.

She has cheeks of red which glow, and she hates them so.

Excitable she be and there are none funnier than she.

In earlier days she travelled around England to circumvent our inhabitants.

With Hit and Run, she met me.

Robert Lenkievitz’s model was I with breasts that you could anchor a ship on.

A study of St. Anthony found me naked on the BBC.

The next day, at my work, Boss was grinning like a jerk.

By lunchtime she’d made me coffee and then slyly asked me.

Yes, it was me.

Modelling naked on the TV.

Better though, I said, glowing rather red, was being interviewed by Ruby Wax.

I was immortalised on canvas and TV and that history could haunt me.

But proud, eventually, I would become; of my breasts, nipples and bum.

Meeting Ruby Wax who is a comedy best was the making of that assignment for me.

Afterwards, she went down to Longleat, for tea.

I went back to my bar, as the maid I really was, then I got fired because I’d posed naked for The Painter. See? One rule for one and another for me.

Now, I have Ruby Wax on my Facebook but she does not know that I was the body on which one of her episodes did close.

The End.

Thanks for reading.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY – you tube links are rather unreliable in UK so you could search for,

“Ruby Wax meets Robert Lenkiewicz in Plymouth, 1990. Hit and Run. “

Thanks for your time.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY

It took a year for this program to air – hence the two job reactions.

Ancestors Race – Poem

Ancestors tell me

In voices clear

Be close, but not near.

For centuries they took us

Never seen again

Ancient bones remain hidden

Under greed, envy and pain.

Wrath settles in dust.

Waken state they wake

Soldiers shoulders wide

Enemies show their scales

Poking the bear on the line.

Snakes rattle and spit

Ancestors remind me of it

Pirates of Barbary

Fair freedoms fought

Hold children safe

Whilst history is untaught

As we move into darkness

I hold to brotherly faith

I remember the contest but

Never the race.

The end.

By Samantha Harris

Friday the 13th Flash Adult Horror

Friday the 13th November 2020

The Modelling Assignment.

“Good Luck!” Jessie’s mother shouted seeing her daughter readying herself at the front door. The tall blond girl pulled her Chelsea football scarf from the hat rack and threw it around her neck and put her head around the kitchen door. Her mum was stood at the counter making a cup of tea.

“Thanks Mum. See you later for dinner. ‘love you.”

“Just remember you are as good as everyone else there…better! I love you too!”

Jessie pulled the front door behind her and pushed her scarf up against her chin. It was cold. It was an oddity of modelling work to be ahead of season. Today’s casting was for swimwear. It would be filmed in December for the following Summer.

The beaches will look enticing, empty, and warm because the models will make it look hot and inviting. The reality being that they were usually modelling bikinis and one pieces in between dashes into warm blankets and gulping down mugs of soup. There was always lots of makeup to cover up the red noses.

Today’s casting was in Paddington Recreational ground. Jessie travelled across London on the underground and stood waiting for the 81 bus for the remaining part of the journey. There was another model, Jessie could tell by the portfolio, stood waiting and they smiled at each other.

The woman was tall, blonde with blue eyes just like Jessie but her skin was clear, and her hair was long and extremely straight. She had a different shape to Jessie in that her body looked more toned and you could see a hint of muscle.

“Are you going for the Yellow Studio casting for Weeelo swimwear by any chance?” Jessie asked.

“Yes, I am doing this.” The model replied with thick Eastern European accent. “You doing this also?”

Jessie smiled and nodded as the bus came chugging into the stop and they both got on. The rest of the bus watched as they showed their Oyster cards to the driver and looked for somewhere to sit. A middle-aged man sat on his own stood up and invited them both to take his bench so that they could sit together.

“Thank you, very much.” They both said in unison and laughed together.

More people got on the bus and it threaded its way over speedbumps and through narrow streets until the stop at the bottom of the Park. They got off and brushed themselves over, using each other’s eye to check over each other’s back and hair. Both satisfied that they were as presentable as possible they walked into the leisure block where the casting was to take place.

A woman with a clip board approached them, “Girls! Are you here for the Weeelo casting?”

Her energy was high and contagious, both Jessie and her new friend and competition replied,

“yes!”

They were given pens and led to seats where they could fill out the forms. They were the usual model declaration. They gave the rights of the photos to the photographers but also stated that these were just for casting purposes and could not be used for published work.

A few moment later the employee came back with a selection of swimwear and told them a makeup artist would be with them shortly. She introduced herself as the photographer’s assistant and then said they should wait while she went to get drinks.

Jessie and the other model looked at each other.

They were both thinking the same thing. Why did they need makeup artist on a casting for swimwear? These were supposed to be ‘dummy’ shots. To see if the fit is right and whether they can model. Jessie walked to the end of the waiting room they’d been put in and opened the door. Expecting to see photographic lights, umbrellas, and rails, she was shocked to see nothing.

She looked at her perspective coworker. “What’s your name?”

“Greta Hombronas. What was in there?”

“Nothing was in there. There is no photographic equipment in there.”

“Maybe they shoot it on phone?” Greta responded her eyebrows raising optimistically.

“Maybe. Maybe we should get out of here Greta. After all, I got this lead from The Standard so where is everyone else?”

“True, it is not very busy here.” Greta looked seriously around the place, as if for the first time, “I think, maybe, you are right. Shall we go and get coffee?” She smiled at Jessie with a perfect set of railings and stood up.

Footsteps drew their eye to the door.

“Not going, already are we?” Stated a tall, dark haired man, stood there. Jessie moved closer towards Greta as four more men gathered behind him. The girls looked at each other nervously picked up the forms they’d filled out and tried to walk through the men, out the door. The men blocked their way and pushed them back into the room.

Jessie stood helplessly as two of the men held her arms fast on either side of her. The only man who had spoken took a syringe from his inside jacket pocket and jabbed it into her stomach. He pulled her chin up to his face as he plunged the contents of it into her.

She was aware that Greta was also being held and injected as she slipped onto the floor, between the strangers, into a deep sleep.

******

It was dark when she woke as she could not see through the binding on her eyes. Her arms and legs were bound with rope. Her fingers and skin could feel the familiar touch of wood. But this wood was unfinished and rough. She was in some sort of crate. It felt like it was packed with straw and there was a strong smell of animals and urine.

Trying to shout out for help found her mouth packed with cloth and her throat could only manage a low moan, raspy from thirst. What had they given her? Her head was hurting, and the straw packed between her naked thighs and under her arms was itchy.

She banged her bare heels against the wood at her feet three times. Listening out she thought she could hear three bangs back as engine sounds bombarded the space around her head, hurting her ears with its powerful thrusts.

Jessie tried to sleep, going in and out of consciousness with waking moments where she felt that the crate was being moved. The soft sensation of swinging and men’s voices shouting in the distance before a bone bumping journey which lasted over a day and was unbearably painful. It was three days and two nights before they stopped still, and silence surrounded.

Jessie could hear low whimpering faintly in the distance, she tried to bang on the floor of her crate, but the straw had shifted down under her during the journey and she achieved no sound that Greta could hear and be comforted by. Tears started flowing from her closed eyes as the crate was opened and she felt hands stroke her breasts, her stomach and between her legs.

“She looks good. No damage that I can see. Aww look, she cries. Is there more sedative?”

Jessie felt the prick of the needle as it entered her stomach shortly before passing out again.

***************

Jessie woke up lying next to Greta in a large marble room. The floor was cold and hard. Raising herself up to sitting position she started massaging her legs and arms. Welts were red on her wrists and ankles where the ropes had been but now, she wore a simple white robe.

Greta was also dressed in white. Her face was bruised. She had been savagely beaten as her face was swollen, both eyes were blackened and her bottom lip badly split. She laid on the floor looking up towards the crystal white ceiling without moving. Blood was spotted on her gown around her pelvis and her feet were bleeding.

Large, golden doors at the end of the room opened and a group of children, lined up in a row, walked through looking straight ahead of them. Behind them, also in a line, came nine women dressed in dark green with yellow sashes and veils. The women stared at them as they walked past and stood, queued, near a smaller door, looking back at the entrance.

Jessie tried to stand up, but her legs were not able to take her weight and she fell over. The women chuckled as the men made their way into the hall. One of the men shouted something out towards the women that Jessie did not understand and they skuttled away still laughing.

“They think your blond pubic hair is very funny. I must admit to finding it a little off putting so my aids will come and shave you to my tastes. It is lucky you are a virgin.”

He walked around them, his shoes tapping on the floor near her hands.

“Your friend was not so good at looking after her honour. He prodded Greta with the tip of his shoe into her torso. She did not react. It was not felt necessary to protect her from the workers. She fought hard, as you can see.”

Jessie tried to say, “What will you be doing with us?” but her voice was still suffering from the effects of the cloth and she needed water badly. Her head spun but she could make out three beds being rolled into the room, scraping lightly along the marble. Greta was lifted on to a white single width bed. Women came in with screens and placed them around the larger bed.

Three women came over to Jessie with a bowl of warm, scented water and a razor. Two of them held her legs open whilst the third shaved her bare. She sat, in shock, just watching them. Willing herself to wake up from this nightmare and be back at home. Time for her tea, sat chatting with her mother. The women continued to talk and laugh. Jessie blinked furiously but could find no words.

The woman shaving Jessie turned to the man and asks him something and the man shakes his head. His eyes closed and a smile dances upon his lips as the woman pinches Jessie’s bud hard between her finger and thumb. She brings the razor down hard across it and in one swift, strong movement, removed it. Blood splattered over the white gown as Jessie tried to kick the women holding her.

Her screams were met with a punch in the face and cloth back in her mouth whilst the women then swiftly stitched up the gaping hole and sprayed it with antiseptic to stop the bleeding. One of the women clapped three times in the air. A white hatted dwarf, his eyes facing the floor, came with a gold dish and collected up the bloody flesh.

The women pulled Jessie up onto the larger double bed. Partitions screened her off from the rest of the room. Her arms were tied up above her and her legs were tied apart to golden attachments on the bed. The women came, and one by one, left a red rose on her stomach.

Jessie’s eyes grew large as the tall man came to the bottom of the bed. He lifted up his robe, “Ah such beautiful body. You will be forever beautiful my lovely.”

He pulled her down towards him, her arms stretching, and shoulders popped. Her screams muffled and she tried to twist her body painfully away. He pushed his fingers into her bloodied vulva, exposing her vagina. He lifted his gown and penetrated her with one sharp thrust, releasing himself immediately.

Raising his hands in the air he raised his hands and clapped three times as he withdrew from the bed, his gown falling back down to cover him. Jessie turned her head to see a young boy come in with a water bowl. Without looking at his master or her the boy reached underneath his gown and sponged him clean of her blood.

The partition was removed, and Jessie was untied from the large bed and placed on a single bed near to Greta’s lifeless body by four of the men carrying each limb. Jessie could feel their hands touching and probing her before binding her again with cuffs attached to the beds.

One of the men approached and stuck sticky tape across her mouth. Forcing the cloth deep into the back of her throat it muted the moaning sounds which had been escaping her.

Silence then descended over the large hall as everyone left. Jessie and Greta were laid head to head, naked and bound for what seemed like hours. Jessie wrestled with her right hand, forcing her thumb to dislocate she pulled her hand free. Working quickly she pulled the tape off her face and spoke to Greta as she worked to free her other hand.

“Greta can you walk?”

Jessie reached out her free hand to touch her new friends face. It felt cold and sticky and she knew Greta was dead. Cold, stark fear flooded through her as the coldness of Greta seemed to seep into her own body and sap her strength.

“Oi. Nah!” Shouted a deep male voice from across the hall.

Jessie saw the tall man. He’d changed his gown to a black robe with white flowing ribbons and was flanked by the children. Jessie looked at his face and at the children’s.

“Please let me go. You have one murder on your hands. Do not make it two. Please. You don’t have to do this…” She pleaded, staring at him deep into his black eyes.

“Ah this is not murder my lovely lady. My Queen. This is ritual. My family have performed this ritual for luck and prosperity for over three thousand years. We feast upon the most honored rose lady and she brings us luck. This year, this is you.”

My children will prepare you for the feast.

Jessie screamed, pulling at her tied hand, as the children open their long red satin coats. They each drew out a blade and ran towards her…

The End.

Still Here – Song

I’m still here.

Waiting around

for you to come round 

if you’re near

I’m still here

Division around

I’m listening for sounds

That you hear

I’m still here. The weakness keep coming and I keep driving it away

I’m still loving you every day

I’m feeling you getting weaker but I keep pulling you my way

I’m still here, I’m still here, I’m still here

I’m still here

Divison around

I’m listening for sounds

That you hear

I’m still here

Waiting around

For you to stop acting

Like a clown

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

Stlll Here By Samantha Harris written 7th November 2020 Watford, UK.

https://soundcloud.com/samantha-harris-33/still-here-by-samanthaharrissoundcloud if you have an account.

Thanks folks.

Calls for Harrow Council to clarify Harrow Viewpoint works | This Is Local London

https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/18860123.calls-harrow-council-clarify-harrow-viewpoint-works/

This is an extremely important pagan site.

They closed it off saying they were going to redo the carpark.

However, there is zero access to the public now and it looks like they are redeveloping.

Zero public consultation.

This land is our land!

Leviticus 2-13 Salt

I’m looking into some bits for research and come across this Bible passage.

It has undergone many changes over the centuries.

I like King James version but I suspect believers have their own take.

All the versions are fascinating and say something of the time they are in.

They are all to do with offering meat or grain to God but ensuring it had salt.

Does God have a savoury snack thing going on?

In my country, UK, we have a very popular saying, “I’ll take that with a pinch of salt.”

It means that what you are being presented with is not worth believing.

Funny, as both that saying and the Bible were made/printed and published in England, UK.

Many people have told me that because I live in England I must be a Christian. No, we lived UNDER Christainity for centuries but now the law and the Church are separate.

Most people in the UK are pagan or atheist. The rest is divided by the many surviving different sects of Christianity and other fashionable religions.

Stone Henge is still our cultural spiritual home. Wood Henge, close by, reminds us of the movement/growth of faiths and how they change.

Most of what people read about UK is propaganda. It’s like the shock I got when I went to Israel. The media lie.

Religion has it’s place but it should be taken for what it is, words written by humans.

Leviticus is saying something with this passage and I believe it’s about not taking it too seriously…

Thanks for reading.

By the way, I was researching, ‘How to Make Bible Cake”, when I found the passage.

Could be a good covid19 challenge for you all – boredom is a good motivator.

Stop Discrimination in Medicine

Over and over again we are told only some people can get certain diseases and other races cannot. Even if results come back indicating a blood disorder, sickle cell will not be tested for…maybe even rickets would not be picked up because of your childs genetic makeup…although they don’t know your child’s genetic makeup…they do that on sight, by name or nationality. They = Doctors.

Rickets is a disease where monitoring and treatment is being targeted towards non whites when every child is at equal risk. Here is a medical paper saying it isn’t just non whites who suffer from it…attempting to make racist doctors understand that white children get ill too.

https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(14)60211-7/fulltexthttps://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(14)60211-7/fulltext

We’ve accepted racism and allowed it to enter our health professions. As a result Rickets is on the rise and many of our sick children go undiagnosed with painful diseases for lengthy periods.

We must call out racist papers and medical trials. If a drug is to be safe or a treatment, it must be safe for everyone. As genetically we are all different – not all white people are the same, not all black people are the same and there are billions of people inbetween.

Allopurinol – known to have vicious side effects in non whites is not usually prescribed to black folks in England, or shouldn’t be. It was given to me though and caused major rash and major gout attack.

But, much worse than that, I found this video. It doesn’t even warn against giving it to black people…

So, we are all at the mercy of this distrust and it is caused by the Pharma companies.

Please be cautious about any medication given to you and read the small print carefully.

Stay safe.

Thanks for reading.

I wonder how many other drugs are known to cause harm depending on your genetics?

We're the sum of ourselves.

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