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offsite link US Announces It Will Leave Ukraine Witho... Thu Dec 08, 2022 12:13 | Anti-Empire

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The Saker
A bird's eye view of the vineyard

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Public Inquiry
Interested in maladministration. Estd. 2005

offsite link RTE in breach of its own editorial principles Anthony

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offsite link Formal complaint against Robert Watt Anthony

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Public Inquiry >>

Voltaire Network
Voltaire, international edition

offsite link Coup attempt in Germany Wed Dec 07, 2022 13:36 | en

offsite link Capable of the worst, the union of certain rulers makes World War possible, by T... Wed Dec 07, 2022 04:27 | en

offsite link Ukraine bans Orthodox Church Mon Dec 05, 2022 04:06 | en

offsite link Death of David Ray Griffin Fri Dec 02, 2022 06:31 | en

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Covid Restrictions Lament

category international | rights, freedoms and repression | opinion/analysis author Tuesday February 01, 2022 16:34author by Joe Terry Report this post to the editors

“Under British regulations, passengers arriving from Ireland are not required to self-isolate, nor undergo covid testing.” This situation contrasts greatly with the horde of travel restrictions promulgated in the Irish Government citizens advice website, obstacles that have proved insurmountable:



- Covid Restrictions Lament -

Listening for almost-silent breathing, I need not bother as I lie alone. Exiting from an agitated slumber, slowly I come to unsettled awareness. The cones of daylight peeping over the tops of folds on the bedroom curtain tell me it’s time to arise to a day of an upcoming occasion to remember, an event where I will play no active part. My mind struggles, going over the barriers to get to a celebration on the other side of the Irish Sea. Feeling like a rat trapped in an inescapable maze, I’m a prisoner in the country of my birth. All seemed well getting to my planned destination in the west of England: “Under British regulations, passengers arriving from Ireland are not required to self-isolate, nor undergo covid testing.” This situation contrasts greatly with the horde of travel restrictions promulgated in the Irish Government citizens advice website, obstacles that have proved insurmountable: “NHS appointment card from vaccination centres is not designed to be used as proof of vaccination and should not be used to demonstrate your vaccine status - If you’re not fully vaccinated, you’ll need to complete a Passenger Locator Form and show proof of a negative PCR test (taken no more than 72 hours before entry) - All travellers to Ireland must fill out a Passenger Locator Form before departure. Failure to complete this form is an offence - Individuals travelling from Great Britain to Ireland via Northern Ireland should also complete a Passenger Locator Form - The Irish Government advises all travellers to undertake daily antigen tests for 5 consecutive days, beginning with the day of arrival.”
Every possibility to return to my home in Blarney explored, all with negative results, I suffer this humiliation because I have not yielded to being a guinea pig for experimental covid injections, one, two and a booster, injections since proved to be ineffective.
Easing out from under the duvet and onto the floor, I draw back the curtains. I put on my slippers and dressing gown and passing by my morning suit hanging on the wardrobe door, I make my way to the kitchen and have breakfast alone.
Breakfast over, and returning to my bedroom, I hang my morning suit in the wardrobe, probably never to be worn again, except, when it may be forced over my rigour-mortis body.
I dress in casual clothes, leave home and wait for the 215. Mounting the bus steps, I observe the driver holding the thumbs and forefingers of his closed fists together in front of his mouth and pulls them apart as if tearing off his lips. Staring at me as if I have two heads he says “mask”, his tone condescending. “I don’t wear masks”, I reply and place my Government-issued bus pass on the reader. The reader gives out a beep. I take my card and walk past his perspex-enclosed cab and sit away from mask-wearing passengers. I sense “Big Brother” tracking me till I get off at Blarney village square. From the village, I walk upstream on the leisure path by the River Martin till I reach the Mill Pond. I sit on a bench to rest, but alas, my mind is restless. Absentmindedly looking at a flock of Mallard ducks on the rippling surface of the pond, I reflect on where I should be, two hundred and eighty miles to the east as the crow flies. I should be shaking hands with my son and his bride, wishing both of them a happy married life together. Conscious of being a victim of apartheid, Neurenberg 2.0 comes to mind. Bring it on.

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