While Barbara Broccoli frets over her Bond movies being able to make her and a handful of people a billion dollars, my fictional Ian Fleming character, is concerned about the Orange Parades in Northern Ireland. Never before in the annuls of history, has there been such a prophetic work of literature – still in the works – like my novel ‘The Royal Janitor’. This makes me the foremost Prophet of our age. Who saw this coming? I did! No prophet has ever been so punished and oppressed as I have been. The Broccoli Bond has been drafted to save a Bond Movie………while I fix my sites to save Britania!
I thank my two muses, Rena Christensen, and Lara Roozemond, for being my plumb line, my crystal ball, my psychic light that took me into…….The Endless Tunnel! How do things become manifest? I am kin to Fleming via my cousin, who was married to Richard Burton, who Ian wanted to be the first James Bond.
My ancestors were famous Pilgrims who did not believe in the heresy of John Darby who pushed this insane Rapture and End Time Tribulation on the West in 1740. This false prophecy has consumed the being of POTUS who through his Jewish son, has a Messiah Complex that will divert him from the real problem at hand. Europe is in great crisis, especially Britain whom I have been trying to save with the help of Victoria Bond, and Miriam Starfish Christling.
Never before in the annals of history, has an author believed he/she could author a book that would save England. Am I the return of Nostradamus? I am the Merlin of my time! My newspaper has been in the vanguard of the future. I am a Futurian! This entire blog – IS PROOF! It should be titled a National Treasure!
I have immortalized Rena and Lara, and, Yulia Rose! Yulia is recruit as a member of BAD because she is an expert in religions and mythology. Victoria is captured by a ancient religious cult working out of the Eel & Pie Houses that is the source of the Catholic angst towards Protestants. Starfish claims her great grandfather is Rasputin.
The Royal Janitor is about a Great Friendship that materializes out of the abyss, and goes by your side, when you need a friend the most. This friend, will forever walk by your side. I wrote this promise that will be the end of my book.
I am a friend of Northern Island – and the Red Hand!
President: Royal Rosamond Press
“I am going to kiss you now. Victoria opened her mouth just enough to match the beautiful open mouth of Miriam. She placed her lips upon her lips, as one would put a rose upon a freshly dug grave.
She was – right here, right there. And now she is somewhere else. But, not for me. My chance, our chance, is gone -so completely. How utterly unbearable, my being. So alone, all alone. Without her. I am left on the living side of death. Here, I must make my way.
I walk alone along the road. But I will never be alone. For thou art with me my love, on that road that runs on the dark side of the moon. You will go with me, her Lord, when I am in most need of her to be by my side. For she is with you, now. She knows the way.
James Bond Fans have gone over every Bong Thing with a fine-tooth comb, and, can not answer the riddle of the Red Hand of Ulster being in the Bond cote of arms.
John Presco 007
Red Hand of Ulster
The Red Hand of Ulster (Irish: Lámh Dhearg Uladh) is an Irish symbol used in heraldry to denote the Irish province of Ulster. It is an open hand coloured red, with the fingers pointing upwards, the thumb held parallel to the fingers, and the palm facing forward. It is usually shown as a right hand, but is sometimes a left hand, such as in the coats of arms of baronets.
“I had no idea the work of Ian Fleming was going to be a vehicle for my Psychic Gifts. I am a Seer. I soon saw that there was this Guessing Game going on about Bond 25. The Mass Mind was being fed from above, they allowed to play the Bond Game. I suspected they were being polled, in a covert manner. I had seen evidence of this in News Items about Bond Fan Clubs. One newspaper lifted a Bond drawing, done by a fan. Chas Cunningham was aware of this game, and was controlling it. When he saw my posts about me being kin to Elizabeth Taylor, he knew I would eventually get some attention from Roving Head in the Sky. This is why he banned me.
In April I posted on The Post Parade. I had to get some of my visions down. My head was overwhelmed with INSPIRATION. This post are PROOF I can see into the future. I state I am having a prophetic experience. This gift is rendered very important because I did not see the Pope coming to Ireland, and did not know until two days ago. When was this decided? Sure Francis knew how important his visit would be. He is trying to save the Catholic Church. What was going on in his mind in the last five months – should be made public! Francis needs to author an book. If he represents God and Jesus, then his inner thoughts belong to all the people. We need to see if God-Jesus instructed him. I am talking about a FULL CONFESSION the likes the Catholic Church has never known. For, God will find a way!
Albert Broccoli, known as Cubby, was a producer of 17 James Bond films — but one of the most interesting things about him has nothing to do with Bond. Broccoli (1909–1996) got started in the film business as a mailroom worker at Twentieth Century Fox and eventually, after serving in World War II, formed his own production company. He and co-producer Harry Saltzman, who had an option on the film rights to the Bond movies, founded Eon Productions, the company that would make all of the “official” Bond films,in 1961. But, before all that, Broccoli worked on the family farm where he grew up. And yes, that’s Broccoli as in broccoli: according to family lore, Cubby’s uncle brought the first broccoli to America around 1870.
When I wrote the following I was composing Victoria Bond’s Orange Parade. The Orangeman played a big role in the foundation of Canada as a Country. I compose via VISIONS. I make a movie of what I am going to put down on paper – first! I can see into the future this way. I worry everyday about My Doubters and My Distractors, who only want me to BE INSANE. This is – what they do! They do nothing else. They are not creative souls. They go after CREATVITY.
Before the computer and the internet, writers presented a finished product to the public and the critics. The publisher’s editor has done his job. He wants The Book to be judged a good, sound, and sane book. For me to talk about dying and coming back to life, assigns everything I author to the Funny Farm File. Sure my muse will be afraid, never more so when it appears – I can see the future! No one saw the President going after Canada! No one saw Erdogan calling for a Holy War against Austria.
When I call Lara Roozemond ‘My Wing’ I am saying she is my winged muse. These are sketches for my story. These are my notes. President Trump is now called a ‘Peacemaker’. But, he goes after the Canadian People promising to make them suffer. Who saw this coming? I am not strictly a reporter for my newspaper. Am I a Nostradamus? Is there any title I can apply that will make me appear – SANER?
Lara drives me insane. Why should I give that up? Why should I look for a woman who does not drive me insane? Poets are supposed to be insane. I have poems hidden in half my posts. Lara’s poems are mind-bombs that explode inside my being. Does she have a muse? All those toy soldiers that Kim Jong Un owns. A woman wearing a man’s hat.
Roozemond goes to the mirror to check in on her madness. She is The Trojan Epic. The Trojan Horse is pulled along, in our human parade. Enemies within. Enemies, without. Beauty with a pen. Can there be any doubt?
Virgil is traditionally ranked as one of Rome’s greatest poets. His Aeneid has been considered the national epic of ancient Rome since the time of its composition. Modeled after Homer‘s Iliad and Odyssey, the Aeneid follows the Trojan refugee Aeneas as he struggles to fulfill his destiny and reach Italy, where his descendants Romulus and Remus were to found the city of Rome. Virgil’s work has had wide and deep influence on Western literature, most notably Dante‘s Divine Comedy, in which Virgil appears as Dante’s guide through Hell and Purgatory.
Roozemond is a paid model. Creative people adorn her with their visions. They don’t know her, or, have to know her. She does not object to the results. I used her as my model. I worked from photos of her. I wanted to get to know her, and make her money. She chose not to. She is NOT Victoria Bond. If I have my Bond creation do things Lara does not like, too bad! Sue me, or, ask for money! How she and anyone she knows, can ignore this incredible intuitive hit I got, about her families connection to the House of Orange, is the real wonder here! Surely it is out of the realm of ways – most people do things – and that is scary, because…………….? You can’t control it? Maybe God does not want you to control it? Not able to handle that, or, invest anything in discovering how the Creative Mind and Soul operates, you assign it to the work of the Devil – and burn me alive!
Being part Dutch, and able to trace her lineage to William The Silent, got Victoria Bond an invite to march in the Orange Parade. But, when she insisted she play her ‘Contraption’, some of the most diplomatic folks of the Isles slithered up to her, and, as calm as can be, tried to talk her out of it.
“There will be trouble!”
“What kind of trouble? There’s always trouble. I’m not giving up my pipes – mon! That would be like me, asking you, to give up your nuts. Coo’mon! Drop em!”
Has it been six months since I had my vision of Victoria Bond’s Orange parade, that I was reluctant to post on Royal Rosamond Press, for free, because God is on the verge of allowing me a payday? There’s the question of the age! I just read a Bond movie might make a billion and half dollars. No wonder there have been so many lame mind games. Not every Christian is going to be Raptured up. I will direct you to a discussion site, when I find the time.
If I relate my vision, then no way would my story ‘The Royal Janitor’ ever be made into a movie. However, I just found out the Pope is coming to Ireland, and minds are being opened. Many are concluding things can’t go on the way they are. Loss of trust is the Great Bug-a-boo!
The Rev. Brian D’Arcy — a priest, radio host and survivor of clerical sexual abuse — said such declines are partly linked to a loss of trust in the institution.
“Trust broken is trust finished,” he told NBC News. “People had to make up their own mind about their own moral stance, and they discovered the roof didn’t fall in when they did.”
The waning influence of the church and the shift away from social conservatism has also been reflected in the the country’s landslide vote to repeal its ban on abortion this year. And in 2015, Ireland backed the legalization of same-sex marriage.
Art Therapy – With Parade
‘The Royal Janitor’
Admiral, Sir Arthur Lancelot Nelson Swinburne, at forty-five was considered the most handsome man in Britain. He was impeccably dressed – beyond the call of duty! His dark blue uniform had a cosmic depth to it. His gold braids were constilations, and his medals were awarded from Neptune himself. When he slid onto the leather seat of the Bentley S1 Continental, he gave the officer and chaufer a smile of approval. The seat was tailor made for him. The ornate wood bid him to run his white glove over the warm grain. This lovely work of art was taking good care of him, and rocked him gently on the road to Osborne House.
“All is well, Admiral. And all, will be well. Some aspects of human existance – are perfect. How do you like the fountain in the circle, and the drive to the lower level of Queen Victoria’s favorite home? Not all of it was turned over to the public for their enjoyment. The headquarters for BAD found a home here in 1939. Churchill came often and wandered the woods and hills with his easel. Were you aware of this?”
Sir Arthur had a voice in his head. Being an avid golfer, he identified this voice as belonging to Peter Alliss. For years, Arthur did not identify himself as a homosexual, even though he had male lovers since he was nineteen. Only after he was forced to see a psychologist, did the truth sink home. Seeking a cover identity, Peter’s voice now called all the shots. It was like the sound of deeply waxed wood, and a loyal butler polishing the family silver. Peter’s voice made his inner panic go away. A golfer, is a golfer. On the course, only golf rules apply. One day a peer exclaimed;
“You sound just like Peter Alliss! Have you been practicing!”
As a joke he would call the play of his friends, lowering his baratone voice so as not to disturb them. At first they broke up laughing. And then they got into it, and shot the best scores of their life.
“Now teeing off……..From the Westmoreland Country Club!”
Arthur’s therapist showed him what a sequestered existence he lived. He dwelt in a all male world that only the Brits could build. Everyone was a Lord Nelson Fellow until there was another Queen of England. Victoria knew where she was, because she constructed it as she go. She lay down a feminine red carpet, that had its fare share of male opulence due to the husband she married,
For a change of scenery it was suggested he take the assignment of escorting Victoria Elisha Bond to the Orange Parade in Ireland. Why she insisted on being in this parade, was the talk of the town. The Intelligence Community was baffled. They were shanking their wild guesses into the out of bounds. Their male dandruff was up, because they couldn’t figure her out. She was an enigma.
“Oh dear! He shanked that one. I’m afraid he’s going to have to take a drop. I would hit a provisional ball – just incase it is unplayable!”
Standing before a wood door with quartz glass, Arthur tried the brass knob. The door was locked. Down a long corridor he saw a black woman sitting at a oaken desk. She had on native apparel. He waited to be buzzed in, but, this receptionist just stared at him. Perplexed, he raised his hands at his side, palms up, and tilted his head. This was the universal sign that asked;
Kwiango Nattitude gave the sign of pushing the buzzer with her forefinger. Looking to the side, he spotted the brass buzzer that had a shine on the nipple. He pushed it. There came the sound of a buzzer. But, when Arthur put his hand on the knob again, the buzzing stopped – too soon! Looking at the receptionist, he waited for some commentary.
“Oh my. The dreaded lip-out. So close! I’m afraid he’s left with a dreaded five-footer!”
Arthur lifted his manicured forefinger to the buzzer, and this time, gave an extra long buzz! Looking at Kwiango with the hint of a smile, she let go a dazzling grin! She had the cutest dimples. There was sparkling gems in her eyes. She made a twirling motion with her forefinger that came down over her buzzer, then stopped. At the same time, Arthur’s hand was poised to grab the knob again, but, he knew she was going to tease him – again!
Now, at this juncture, one realizes being outraged would get you nowhere. How far would she go? Is she willing to get fired just have her way with you, own power over you – just this once? Had something gone terribly wrong? How does one get out of this? This black native woman had him on the defence. Things were not going as expected. Before this incident, Arthur had a thousand options. Now, he was heading for Dunkirk to be evacuated. Arthur did not own a cellphone. A call for help, was out of the question.
“What a terrible lie in the bunker. His ball is plugged on the downslope, and the lip looms over his ball!”
Arthur looked deep into Kwiango’s eyes. His urge to laugh aloud, waned, when he beheld a more serious look on her face. This told him there was a way to get in, and he has not found it yet. Arthur is reminded of the three riddles the knight must solve in order to cross the bridge. Why Hitler’s army was able to defeat the British expeditionary force so easily, came to mind. The British generals expected things to go their way. There was no plan when it did not. Being utterly predictable almost put Albion in Hitler’s back pocket. The motto of BAD came to mind:
“Never expect the un-expected. THINK!”
There is a solution. This woman would not go so far, if there was not. Arthur……
“……steps away from the ball, studies the lie and the lip. Now, he addresses the ball. Makes sure he has a firm footing, and – swings as hard as he can!”
Arthur’s nose was pressed to the glass, he in a spread-eagle position as he grabbed the doorknob, and pressed the buzzer at the same time.
Kwiango claps her hands in joy. Arthur can barely hear her laughter above his own merriment. This is when he felt the eyes of the chauffer were upon him, he wondering what kind of fool these mortals be.
“What a shot! He’s holed it. Unbelievable!”
To be Continued