With those who fancy themselves our lords and masters telling us that an ‘insect based diet’ is really healthy and infinitely preferable to any form of animal protein, I find myself less than convinced. Are these people willing to put their stomachs and digestion on the line? Oh my goodness me, don’t be silly. They will have the best animal protein all to themselves while most farms and farmers go to desolation and waste, and livestock, ever a component of a healthy ecosystem, is confined to the plates of a select few and their hangers on.
Do you think the senior members of S.P.E.C.T.R.E. are going to give up their Chateaubriands to ‘save the planet’? If you do, I have a really excellent bridge to sell you. Absolute bargain. A never to be missed opportunity.
There is a food crisis coming down the tracks for those who will not or cannot take a few simple precautions. The global supply chains are not recovering fast enough after the COVID debacle and there are even people out there actively involved in trying to shut key elements down, usually ‘environmental’ protesters. Who seem to get gentler treatment from the farces of law and disorder than anyone else. Which, given the later content of this blog post, may not be such a bad thing.
Now, given that a crisis (Oh blood and sand, not another one!) is heading toward us at a high rate of knots, there is time to take action and make preparations. Imagine a scenario….
A senior member of the ‘Insulate Britain’ group is taking an early morning jog on a sunny morning, earbuds in, listening to sounds and generally having a pleasant interlude while plotting spreading misery to the rest of the travelling public. Another day, another protest. Not long now, capitalism is almost crushed.
To the background of pleasant morning birdsong, they turn into their privet lined middle class haven, passing a plain white delivery van with an open side door. As they pod alongside there is a swish of cloth followed by a short melange of sounds, a brief scrabble of trainer clad feet and a noise like someone hitting a melon with a hammer, followed by the metallic rumble of a van door closing. The birds keep singing. After a few moments the electric van whirrs away from the kerb. The joggers cellphone and earbuds are tossed into a well clipped hedge at the end of the street. The anonymous van turns left and disappears from sight.
A few short minutes later, in the concrete anonymity of a run down industrial estate, the same white van drops a black sack, quite heavy for its size, onto a pallet at the back door of an industrial kitchen. A steel roller shutter door rattles open. A bored forklift driver emerges and uses his machine to move the new arrival onto a belt of steel rollers. The forklift retreats inside, the van drives away and the roller shutter door rattles closed. From inside comes the buzzing whine of a bandsaw.
A while later a whiff of cooking heavily spiced pork drifts across the yard to a small group of vagrants who glance up expectantly. One grimaces. “Bloody hell, they’re going to feed us pork curry again.” His fellow down and outs berate him for his ingratitude. It’s meat, a rare treat in this day and age.
“I remember when there was beef, lamb, chicken and even goat. Kebabs even.” He comments sourly. “Now it’s either ground up tasteless insects or bloody Pork.”
“What would you rather have?” Snaps one of his fellows. “We all remember proper meat from before the crash. I think we’re lucky to have found this soup kitchen. We can’t afford to live, so we have to eat where we can. I’ll settle for this places dodgy pork curries and rice any day of the week. Stop your grousing or sod off.”
“I only meant I’d like something other than curried pork.” He mutters darkly.
“Beggars can’t be choosers mate, and guess what we are.” Says a sour faced woman to his left. “Come on. let’s get in the queue before it’s all gone.” She rises to her feet and begins to walk around the side of the building to join the early morning charity breadline. The others follow. One leading a scrawny dog, yawning mouth exposing it’s slack dripping tongue, canine eyes expectant. They join the already hundred metre queue for the long shuffle for their one meal of the day, not caring where it came from, only that their ever present hunger is appeased.
Okay, that’s just a fantasy. However the above scenario may yet be seen in the urban centres of dear old blighty. Seemingly random people kidnapped from the street, their bodies used to feed the victims of economic fallout from a crash engineered by those behind the ‘great reset’. There’s a form of poetic justice in my version though.
Yes my friends, if Schwab and his acolytes get their way, like those down and outs in my little vignette, there may well come a time when you will be grateful to eat your Greens. As most of them have never really worked for a living, they’re tender and juicy, and probably better for you than starvation.
Just a thought….