As the Omigod variant continues its march through our populations, ‘vaccinated’ or unvaccinated alike, conferring the blessing of natural immunity upon all but a very unlucky, very few, it’s perhaps time to talk about the Covid deniers. No, I’m not talking about those of us who, from the start, had this ‘pandemic’ pegged as a wet dream for secular middle-class millenarians. I’m not talking of those of us who refused to be cowed by the curtain-twitching doom-sayers with their pathetic obsessions with illogical, catastrophically expensive and socially corrosive restrictions.
I’m talking, rather, about the wave of Covid denial which is about to break as the masses awake from their ‘mass formation’.
My father, who died just soon enough not to be counted – or miscounted – as having ‘died with Covid’, flew as a ‘navigator-radar’ with the RAF’s 100 Group. In February 1945, his Mosquito night-fighter was shot down by return fire from a German night-fighter on which he had just opened fire. His pilot, a burly Boer, was too big to get through the Mosquito’s notoriously small hatch, and perished with his aircraft. Dad parachuted to safety near Berlin. Comparative safety, that is – the RAF were extremely unpopular in Germany at that time, and he was, in his words, ‘roughed up a bit’, before being rescued by some Luftwaffe personnel who took him into captivity. The rapid diminution of the territory remaining under German control meant that he spent short periods in a succession of overcrowded, verminous camps, moving on as approaching Allied armies threatened to overrun each in turn. One of these moves was made on foot, in conditions Dad described – I suspect with understatement – as ‘trying’. He described being guarded by aging volksturmer, who were often barely able to keep up with the prisoners they were guarding. One old boy was apparently so feeble that a prisoner took pity on him and carried his weapon for him.
At one point, Dad and his mate chanced to find two duck eggs – a nutritional bonanza, but one which needed cooking. There was an abundance of nettles, and they decided that a nettle omelette would be the most nutritious use they could make of their find. During a rest break, they approached a local farmer, who duly lent them a frying pan, taking, as security against its return, my father’s pipe. Unlike the civilians in the environs of Berlin who ‘roughed him up’ a few weeks earlier, the farmer was by now the very soul of amiable conciliation. As Dad and his mate handed back his skillet and prepared to resume their march away from the advancing American army, he tugged at Dad’s sleeve, saying ‘Hitler‘ – he mimed a cut-throat – ‘Kaput!’
And so it went, all over Germany. Apart from a few unrepentant fanatics chugging across the Atlantic in commandeered submarines to take refuge in South America, by the time the surrender documents were signed on the Luneburg Heath, there was scarcely a Nazi to be found. Everybody, it seemed, ascribed the empowerment of Hitler, and the utter destruction of Germany that had ensued, to someone else. The hordes who had received him at Nuremburg with rapture had apparently evaporated, leaving a shattered nation, entirely populated by Hitler-deniers.
I can confidently predict a similar trajectory for the Covid faith.
As predicted in these pages, the mildness and impressive transmissibility of the Omigod Covid variant is ravaging the logic of Covid countermeasures, and hitherto faithful adherents to the cult are beginning to allow their averted eyes to fall on the distortions and lies they have been fed for the last two years. They are noticing the difference between the real numbers of deaths from Covid, and the deaths ‘with’ Covid that have captured the headlines. They are daring to look at the real numbers of adverse side-effects from vaccines they were promised by the self-ordained priesthood were vanishingly rare.
As the genuinely terrified emerge from their trance, and register the chasm that lies between the catastrophe they were duped into believing in, and in whose name their liberties have been trampled on and their society spavined, and as the really rather modest threat the Covid virus actually posed becomes retrospectively clearer, they will allow themselves to start asking questions they should have asked in March 2020. And as the faux-terrified (who were responsible for terrifying the genuinely terrified, and revelled in the sense of importance and power it gave them) begin to realise that the jig is up, and that the finger of blame for the immense damage they have caused is beginning to veer towards them, we will see a similar repudiation of everything that has been most dear to the Covidistas – the pointless lockdowns, the fatuous, performative mask-wearing, the compulsory vaccinations.
Soon, it will be as hard to find anyone who owns up to ever supporting them as it was in July 1945 to find anyone in Germany who raised their right arm at Nuremburg.