Yesterday, on the last day of the Year of Our Lord 1852, I completed the fifth year of my Apprenticeship with Dr Hildebrand Challot, Apothecary, Barber Surgeon and until today the only professional medical man in the village of Muckleberry Peverell.
This morning, at six, I awoke Dr Challot to remind him that my Apprenticeship has been completed. He awakened for just long enough to confirm that I am now a fully licensed practitioner, Surgeon and Apothecary and entitled to call myself Doctor John Bullock.
I am, in consequence of my having completed my full Apprenticeship in all the healing arts, as dignified under the terms of our agreement, legally entitled to perform all those activities associated with the noble profession of Medicine. I am licensed to dispense medicaments, operate on the sick (or, indeed, the well), remove gangrenous limbs, extract teeth, shave away unwanted hair on the scalp, face or other body parts and facilitate extreme Purgings of the bowel. I am allowed to do all these things without supervision and, most vitally, am entitled to charge a fee for my services as a Surgeon-Barber and for what medicaments I might consider essential. Naturally, the fees I charge have to be accounted for and Dr Challot takes three quarters of my regular earnings.
In a way, my life will not change notably. It is true that I am now officially entitled to practice without supervision but I have been practising without supervision for a good while.
Indeed, I have been running the Practice pretty much by myself since Dr Challot first succumbed to the gout, the dropsy and a deeply troubled liver and prescribed for himself more or less permanent Bed rest with six meals a day, unlimited supplies of porter and mead and the constant attentions of two nurses who are permanently by his bedside or, more often within the bed, warming the cockles of his heart and, no doubt, other parts.
Dr Challot is a short, roundish fellow, no more than five feet four inches in height in his boots. He is as bald as the proverbial coot and wears a thick beard which is, he claims, a leftover from the Crimean War but he was never close to the Crimean War. Indeed, he wasn’t alive when it was fought. He wears the beard because he is a constitutional lusk and far too lazy to shave. For as long as I can remember it has been a motto of his to put off until tomorrow anything you cannot be bothered to do today.
After confirming my elevation in professional status, Dr Challot kindly presented me with my own Leech pot containing what he claims are 24 fine river Leeches. He took the pot from the cupboard beside his and handed it to me, with all the pride and delicacy that might be afforded by the Archbishop of Canterbury handling the Royal Crown, to celebrate the conclusion of my indentureship.
The pot and contents stank something fearful, and at first I thought he had used it in lieu of his chamber pot (which as is usual had not been emptied for several days) but on examination I could see that it was the foul looking Leeches which were responsible for the unpleasant stink. I suspect that the Leeches were brought in by Osbert Gibbon, a pot boy from the Peacock Inn who, I know for a fact, collects the Leeches he sells to us from the stagnant pond adjacent to the cesspit at the Everard Blossom’s stinky farm. Osbert is a professional liar, a Thief and a rascal on his good days and although he is but 14-years-old, he already has signs of the pox, caught I have no doubt from one of the Barmaids at the Peacock, neither of whom are better than they ought to be and both of whom are reputed to be willing to blow the grounsils with any man who can spare one and a half farthings. They both have suppurating sores on the lips that are visible to all and sundry and there are doubtless matching sores present on those lips which are not so immediately on show.
On close examination of my graduation gift, I could see that at least four of the Leeches were dead and putrefying, and it is not my intention to begin my work as a fully qualified Doctor by using putrefying Leeches so I fed them to the cat which did not seem to mind the putrefaction and ate them with relish, smacking his lips with apparent delight.
Dr Challot, customarily never entirely sober, was not too drunk to remind me (as though it were necessary) that according to the terms of the Apprenticeship which my naïve but well-meaning father signed for me when I was 16-years-old, I am obliged to work as his practice Assistant for ten more years or until one of us dies. If I wish to leave this employment I must pay Dr Challot a penalty of 30 guineas. The chances of my ever acquiring 30 guineas are about as remote as the chances of Queen Victoria summoning me to the Palace and begging me to stick three brace of my putrefying Leeches upon her Royal personage.
As Dr Challot spoke, I tried to work out whether or not he had acquired an additional chin. Several editions of that notable feature had already been published and it seems that there has not yet been an end to it. If Dr Challot had been blessed with friends I suspect that even they would have agreed that despite his shortage of stature there was probably too much of him.
Five years ago my father handed over 100 guineas for me to be indentured. This which was the sum total of his savings and when he died two years later there was not one penny left to me. I have no doubt that my father meant well but I would have much preferred it if he had not Apprenticed me but had merely handed me the 100 guineas. Still, one road is as good as another when you have no particular destination in mind.
As an Apprentice, I received free board and lodging. My board consisted of a small room in the attic which I shared with a large and ever expanding family of rodents and my keep, shared with the cat, was a barely edible diet of Turnip soup and stale bread. I once worked out that in five years I had drunk 1,478 bowls of Turnip soup.
My circumstances have now changed considerably for during the period of my Assistantship I will be entitled to keep one quarter of the fees collected for my labours when treating existing patients of the practice. In theory, one third of the remaining three quarters will go for the purchase of medicaments and for the upkeep of the surgery premises, and the other two thirds will go to Dr Challot to be spent on essentials such as wine, beer and the two gorbellied and ever-drunken strumpets who he ambitiously describes as Professional Nurses when making up patients’ bills. There is a clause in the contract which gives me the right to keep all the fees which are paid in relation to the care of new patients and all fees paid in respect of new treatments which are my own invention. I suspect that Dr Challot would have smiled when this clause was inserted for, since there are no other Doctors in the village of Muckleberry Peverell, all existing citizens are already, ipso facto, patients of Dr Challot’s practice.
And the chances of my inventing a new treatment seem as remote as the aforesaid likelihood of my being invited to attend Buckingham Palace with my new pot of Leeches tucked under my arm.
All things considered, I would have doubtless been much better off if I’d taken a job as a school master. My cousin, Archibald Pikelet, who took a degree at Oxford after three years of idleness, and who is now employed as a master at a small school in Somersetshire, receives 75 guineas every quarter day and is provided with a free cottage in the school grounds. He also receives free victuals and all the fuel, candles and tea he requires. He has his own gardener, cook, usher and valet – all paid for by the school. He is responsible for teaching just 12 boys and has an assistant master to help him with essential beatings and with his modest and undemanding chores. Oh, that my father’s aspirations for me had concentrated on a career in teaching rather than in medicine.
Still, looking on the bright side, even if I am unable to dream up any new treatments, or find any new patients, I will now be comparatively rich, for during the period of my Apprenticeship I was (in addition to my board and keep as mentioned above) paid an honorarium of three shillings a month from which I was expected to purchase all my clothing. I should now be considerably better off than I am at present. And I will, at least, be able to avoid any more of the meals prepared by Mistress Swain.
Mistress Swain, the resident housekeeper, boostering servant, cook, slut and Butler is a large, rather shapeless woman. I have no idea of her age and my best guess is that she is somewhere between 30 and 90 years of age. She is, I suspect, one of those women who has always looked old. She probably looked 40 when she was 20, not because she had had responsibilities thrust upon her but because of some inner and ungodly forces. Dr Challot once told me that she keeps her husband’s pickled head in a box by her Bed and puts it on the pillow at night but I have no knowledge of the truth or otherwise of this allegation for she has her own room in the attic and I have never even seen the door opened, let alone ventured therein.
Dr Challot pays Mistress Swain nine shillings a week, plus two frocks and one coat a year though I don’t think she has received the frocks or the coat since I was first Apprenticed. She also gets her lodging and her victuals but she has to find her own tea, sugar and gin. She has one afternoon free every month, to do with as she wishes, and the whole of every Mothering Sunday, from dawn to dusk, is her own. I was surprised when I learned how much she receives for I have never thought Dr Challot to be a generous man, nor a spendthrift one, and these are moderately better terms than I would have expected from him. A weekly income of nine shillings is very close to the sort of sum an established male servant might expect. Come to think of it I have heard some complaints from male servants that female servants are, in many cases, getting paid sums which are close to their own emoluments.
At Last Christmastime, for a treat, Mistress Swain made an iron potful of Turnip soup. She claimed that she had added a small carrot to the soup but I saw no sign of this in the portion with which I was supplied. And I could not tell the difference by taste though to celebrate the season, the Turnip soup had a sprig of mistletoe floating in it. The stupid woman clearly did not have the sense to know that the mistletoe plant is poisonous. I removed the mistletoe and flung it to the ground but since some of the berries appeared to have been crushed into the soup, I was too timid to drink the concoction and lay that night in such acute hunger that before retiring for the night I ate two tallow candles. Despite this, during the night my stomach rumbled with such anguish that I crept downstairs to the consulting room where I ate three ounces of the liquorice powder and glucose which we use for pill rolling, and all the rancid milk-meats, cocoa butter and gelatine mixture which we use when manufacturing Suppositories and Pessaries. I would have eaten a bowl of stale pap, made from bread and sour milk, but by the time I’d scraped the green off the pap there was almost none of it left. I hunted around for more candles but there were none. Remembering that Mistress Swain, who occasionally toyed with the principles of cleanliness, sometimes had soap in the kitchen I scraped mutton tallow from the wooden sink in the kitchen and ate that.
When I got up the following morning, I expected to find the stupid woman dead at the Table, poisoned by the damned mistletoe berries, but she was snoring loudly. She later told me that she and Dr Challot had drunk every drop of the soup and had much enjoyed it. I regard this as additional evidence that neither of them is human.
‘What about the mistletoe?’ I asked her.
‘Oh, we shared that between us,’ she replied. ‘The little white berries were especially juicy – rather tart, we both thought, but very juicy. We enjoyed them so much that I went out in the snow and picked another sprig from one of the trees in the orchard.’
Both Dr Challot and Mistress Swain consume large quantities of Alcohol (in his case anything which has inebriating qualities and in her case ale and ale alone) and I can only assume that it was this which preserved them from the deadly effect of the mistletoe parasite. My determination, were it ever to be asked for, would be that they are both so pickled that they are immune to poison of any kind. I suspect that if I were to feed them a diet of arsenic and strychnine they would both flourish.
Half an hour after eating the putrefying Leeches, the cat was violently sick on the carpet in the consulting room. Fortunately, the pool of vomit was nicely contained in one area and it was easy to step over it.
Note
Taken from `Dr Bullock’s Annals’ by Vernon Coleman – the diary of a young Victorian doctor. `Dr Bullock’s Annals’ is available through the bookshop on www.vernoncoleman.com
THATCHER WAS HATED BECAUSE SHE FORCED FREE LOADERS TO WORK BY CUTTING OFF GOVERNMENT AID AND REFORMING GOVERNMENT, THE BRITS WERE BROKE, ALL BUT THE RICH/ROYALS. REAGAN AND MANY AMERICANS PRAISED HER.
trade unions were done with; flourshing small, local shops were bled to death and subsequently taken over by Big Business; post offices, libraries, public transport gutted.... everything apparently had to become Big and the rest of Europe followed the example. still trying to come to terms with it all.
When I visited England during her time, I stayed with friends of my traveling companion. Most of the whole neighborhod had been put out of work; they desperately wanted a job but there were none. They hated being on the govt dole and were barely scraping along. They barely had money for food and not much else. This was in Birmingham, England.
From 30 September 2024, the LIBOR will end, the panel of private banks based in London that set the financing rate for the offshore, i.e. European, dollar as an alternative to the FED. Could this be another reason why the election was "won" by the far left? An interview with Tom Luongo and Joe Hoft explains on Mittdolcino.com
BVO, a chemical compound containing bromine — an element also found in fire retardants — has been used in small quantities in citrus-flavored drinks to maintain an even distribution of flavor. Despite its widespread use, concerns about its safety have persisted for decades.
BVO, a chemical compound containing bromine — an element also found in fire retardants — has been used in small quantities in citrus-flavored drinks to maintain an even distribution of flavor. Despite its widespread use, concerns about its safety have persisted for decades.
Historically, BVO has faced scrutiny and bans worldwide. The United Kingdom banned BVO in 1970, followed by India in 1990, the European Union in 2008, and Japan in 2010. The FDA had also expressed concerns about BVO’s safety as early as 1970, regulating it as a food additive while conducting further safety assessments.
So, regardless of the fact that the corporate elite feast on the finest organic cuisine at the best Sydney and Melbourne restaurants on a daily basis, the only question is when, not if, maggot milk and other such delights hit the supermarket shelves.
Maybe it’s time for more Australians to get behind Farmers Pick, a network of 50-plus local producers, who run a direct-to-consumer model where imperfect but fresh, seasonal produce boxes (no milk at this stage) are delivered to customers for up to 30% less than the usual cost from the supermarkets.
The job of the Coles-Woolies management is mainly to keep shareholders, not farmers, happy. But in recent years these pampered, corporate automatons, who live in the rarified atmosphere of multiple board room meetings, are about pushing the political agenda of the World Economic Forum. They earn brownie points and improved credit ratings, through their Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) programs.
Toxic Tampon Warning As Arsenic and Lead Found in Common Menstrual Products
Tampons from several popular brands, used by potentially millions of people each month, have been found to contain toxic metals including lead, arsenic and cadmium, according to new research.
The study, led by a University of California, Berkeley researcher, evaluated levels of 16 metals in 30 tampons from 14 different brands.
How did the Conservative Party lose? You know that obama paid a visit to Rishi Sunak not too long ago. Then soon after that Sunak said he was stepping down. What part is Nigel Farage playing in all of this.
Dr Bullock’s Annals – Diary of a Victorian Doctor
Dr Vernon Coleman
January 1st 1853
Yesterday, on the last day of the Year of Our Lord 1852, I completed the fifth year of my Apprenticeship with Dr Hildebrand Challot, Apothecary, Barber Surgeon and until today the only professional medical man in the village of Muckleberry Peverell.
This morning, at six, I awoke Dr Challot to remind him that my Apprenticeship has been completed. He awakened for just long enough to confirm that I am now a fully licensed practitioner, Surgeon and Apothecary and entitled to call myself Doctor John Bullock.
I am, in consequence of my having completed my full Apprenticeship in all the healing arts, as dignified under the terms of our agreement, legally entitled to perform all those activities associated with the noble profession of Medicine. I am licensed to dispense medicaments, operate on the sick (or, indeed, the well), remove gangrenous limbs, extract teeth, shave away unwanted hair on the scalp, face or other body parts and facilitate extreme Purgings of the bowel. I am allowed to do all these things without supervision and, most vitally, am entitled to charge a fee for my services as a Surgeon-Barber and for what medicaments I might consider essential. Naturally, the fees I charge have to be accounted for and Dr Challot takes three quarters of my regular earnings.
In a way, my life will not change notably. It is true that I am now officially entitled to practice without supervision but I have been practising without supervision for a good while.
Indeed, I have been running the Practice pretty much by myself since Dr Challot first succumbed to the gout, the dropsy and a deeply troubled liver and prescribed for himself more or less permanent Bed rest with six meals a day, unlimited supplies of porter and mead and the constant attentions of two nurses who are permanently by his bedside or, more often within the bed, warming the cockles of his heart and, no doubt, other parts.
Dr Challot is a short, roundish fellow, no more than five feet four inches in height in his boots. He is as bald as the proverbial coot and wears a thick beard which is, he claims, a leftover from the Crimean War but he was never close to the Crimean War. Indeed, he wasn’t alive when it was fought. He wears the beard because he is a constitutional lusk and far too lazy to shave. For as long as I can remember it has been a motto of his to put off until tomorrow anything you cannot be bothered to do today.
After confirming my elevation in professional status, Dr Challot kindly presented me with my own Leech pot containing what he claims are 24 fine river Leeches. He took the pot from the cupboard beside his and handed it to me, with all the pride and delicacy that might be afforded by the Archbishop of Canterbury handling the Royal Crown, to celebrate the conclusion of my indentureship.
The pot and contents stank something fearful, and at first I thought he had used it in lieu of his chamber pot (which as is usual had not been emptied for several days) but on examination I could see that it was the foul looking Leeches which were responsible for the unpleasant stink. I suspect that the Leeches were brought in by Osbert Gibbon, a pot boy from the Peacock Inn who, I know for a fact, collects the Leeches he sells to us from the stagnant pond adjacent to the cesspit at the Everard Blossom’s stinky farm. Osbert is a professional liar, a Thief and a rascal on his good days and although he is but 14-years-old, he already has signs of the pox, caught I have no doubt from one of the Barmaids at the Peacock, neither of whom are better than they ought to be and both of whom are reputed to be willing to blow the grounsils with any man who can spare one and a half farthings. They both have suppurating sores on the lips that are visible to all and sundry and there are doubtless matching sores present on those lips which are not so immediately on show.
On close examination of my graduation gift, I could see that at least four of the Leeches were dead and putrefying, and it is not my intention to begin my work as a fully qualified Doctor by using putrefying Leeches so I fed them to the cat which did not seem to mind the putrefaction and ate them with relish, smacking his lips with apparent delight.
Dr Challot, customarily never entirely sober, was not too drunk to remind me (as though it were necessary) that according to the terms of the Apprenticeship which my naïve but well-meaning father signed for me when I was 16-years-old, I am obliged to work as his practice Assistant for ten more years or until one of us dies. If I wish to leave this employment I must pay Dr Challot a penalty of 30 guineas. The chances of my ever acquiring 30 guineas are about as remote as the chances of Queen Victoria summoning me to the Palace and begging me to stick three brace of my putrefying Leeches upon her Royal personage.
As Dr Challot spoke, I tried to work out whether or not he had acquired an additional chin. Several editions of that notable feature had already been published and it seems that there has not yet been an end to it. If Dr Challot had been blessed with friends I suspect that even they would have agreed that despite his shortage of stature there was probably too much of him.
Five years ago my father handed over 100 guineas for me to be indentured. This which was the sum total of his savings and when he died two years later there was not one penny left to me. I have no doubt that my father meant well but I would have much preferred it if he had not Apprenticed me but had merely handed me the 100 guineas. Still, one road is as good as another when you have no particular destination in mind.
As an Apprentice, I received free board and lodging. My board consisted of a small room in the attic which I shared with a large and ever expanding family of rodents and my keep, shared with the cat, was a barely edible diet of Turnip soup and stale bread. I once worked out that in five years I had drunk 1,478 bowls of Turnip soup.
My circumstances have now changed considerably for during the period of my Assistantship I will be entitled to keep one quarter of the fees collected for my labours when treating existing patients of the practice. In theory, one third of the remaining three quarters will go for the purchase of medicaments and for the upkeep of the surgery premises, and the other two thirds will go to Dr Challot to be spent on essentials such as wine, beer and the two gorbellied and ever-drunken strumpets who he ambitiously describes as Professional Nurses when making up patients’ bills. There is a clause in the contract which gives me the right to keep all the fees which are paid in relation to the care of new patients and all fees paid in respect of new treatments which are my own invention. I suspect that Dr Challot would have smiled when this clause was inserted for, since there are no other Doctors in the village of Muckleberry Peverell, all existing citizens are already, ipso facto, patients of Dr Challot’s practice.
And the chances of my inventing a new treatment seem as remote as the aforesaid likelihood of my being invited to attend Buckingham Palace with my new pot of Leeches tucked under my arm.
All things considered, I would have doubtless been much better off if I’d taken a job as a school master. My cousin, Archibald Pikelet, who took a degree at Oxford after three years of idleness, and who is now employed as a master at a small school in Somersetshire, receives 75 guineas every quarter day and is provided with a free cottage in the school grounds. He also receives free victuals and all the fuel, candles and tea he requires. He has his own gardener, cook, usher and valet – all paid for by the school. He is responsible for teaching just 12 boys and has an assistant master to help him with essential beatings and with his modest and undemanding chores. Oh, that my father’s aspirations for me had concentrated on a career in teaching rather than in medicine.
Still, looking on the bright side, even if I am unable to dream up any new treatments, or find any new patients, I will now be comparatively rich, for during the period of my Apprenticeship I was (in addition to my board and keep as mentioned above) paid an honorarium of three shillings a month from which I was expected to purchase all my clothing. I should now be considerably better off than I am at present. And I will, at least, be able to avoid any more of the meals prepared by Mistress Swain.
Mistress Swain, the resident housekeeper, boostering servant, cook, slut and Butler is a large, rather shapeless woman. I have no idea of her age and my best guess is that she is somewhere between 30 and 90 years of age. She is, I suspect, one of those women who has always looked old. She probably looked 40 when she was 20, not because she had had responsibilities thrust upon her but because of some inner and ungodly forces. Dr Challot once told me that she keeps her husband’s pickled head in a box by her Bed and puts it on the pillow at night but I have no knowledge of the truth or otherwise of this allegation for she has her own room in the attic and I have never even seen the door opened, let alone ventured therein.
Dr Challot pays Mistress Swain nine shillings a week, plus two frocks and one coat a year though I don’t think she has received the frocks or the coat since I was first Apprenticed. She also gets her lodging and her victuals but she has to find her own tea, sugar and gin. She has one afternoon free every month, to do with as she wishes, and the whole of every Mothering Sunday, from dawn to dusk, is her own. I was surprised when I learned how much she receives for I have never thought Dr Challot to be a generous man, nor a spendthrift one, and these are moderately better terms than I would have expected from him. A weekly income of nine shillings is very close to the sort of sum an established male servant might expect. Come to think of it I have heard some complaints from male servants that female servants are, in many cases, getting paid sums which are close to their own emoluments.
At Last Christmastime, for a treat, Mistress Swain made an iron potful of Turnip soup. She claimed that she had added a small carrot to the soup but I saw no sign of this in the portion with which I was supplied. And I could not tell the difference by taste though to celebrate the season, the Turnip soup had a sprig of mistletoe floating in it. The stupid woman clearly did not have the sense to know that the mistletoe plant is poisonous. I removed the mistletoe and flung it to the ground but since some of the berries appeared to have been crushed into the soup, I was too timid to drink the concoction and lay that night in such acute hunger that before retiring for the night I ate two tallow candles. Despite this, during the night my stomach rumbled with such anguish that I crept downstairs to the consulting room where I ate three ounces of the liquorice powder and glucose which we use for pill rolling, and all the rancid milk-meats, cocoa butter and gelatine mixture which we use when manufacturing Suppositories and Pessaries. I would have eaten a bowl of stale pap, made from bread and sour milk, but by the time I’d scraped the green off the pap there was almost none of it left. I hunted around for more candles but there were none. Remembering that Mistress Swain, who occasionally toyed with the principles of cleanliness, sometimes had soap in the kitchen I scraped mutton tallow from the wooden sink in the kitchen and ate that.
When I got up the following morning, I expected to find the stupid woman dead at the Table, poisoned by the damned mistletoe berries, but she was snoring loudly. She later told me that she and Dr Challot had drunk every drop of the soup and had much enjoyed it. I regard this as additional evidence that neither of them is human.
‘What about the mistletoe?’ I asked her.
‘Oh, we shared that between us,’ she replied. ‘The little white berries were especially juicy – rather tart, we both thought, but very juicy. We enjoyed them so much that I went out in the snow and picked another sprig from one of the trees in the orchard.’
Both Dr Challot and Mistress Swain consume large quantities of Alcohol (in his case anything which has inebriating qualities and in her case ale and ale alone) and I can only assume that it was this which preserved them from the deadly effect of the mistletoe parasite. My determination, were it ever to be asked for, would be that they are both so pickled that they are immune to poison of any kind. I suspect that if I were to feed them a diet of arsenic and strychnine they would both flourish.
Half an hour after eating the putrefying Leeches, the cat was violently sick on the carpet in the consulting room. Fortunately, the pool of vomit was nicely contained in one area and it was easy to step over it.
Note
Taken from `Dr Bullock’s Annals’ by Vernon Coleman – the diary of a young Victorian doctor. `Dr Bullock’s Annals’ is available through the bookshop on www.vernoncoleman.com
THATCHER WAS HATED BECAUSE SHE FORCED FREE LOADERS TO WORK BY CUTTING OFF GOVERNMENT AID AND REFORMING GOVERNMENT, THE BRITS WERE BROKE, ALL BUT THE RICH/ROYALS. REAGAN AND MANY AMERICANS PRAISED HER.
trade unions were done with; flourshing small, local shops were bled to death and subsequently taken over by Big Business; post offices, libraries, public transport gutted.... everything apparently had to become Big and the rest of Europe followed the example. still trying to come to terms with it all.
When I visited England during her time, I stayed with friends of my traveling companion. Most of the whole neighborhod had been put out of work; they desperately wanted a job but there were none. They hated being on the govt dole and were barely scraping along. They barely had money for food and not much else. This was in Birmingham, England.
People hate being on the government dole, these people (citizens) would prefer to work, believe or not!
Socialist get to use to FREE.
Sunak: "Mission Accomplished!"
https://i.imgflip.com/8w1hri.jpg
From 30 September 2024, the LIBOR will end, the panel of private banks based in London that set the financing rate for the offshore, i.e. European, dollar as an alternative to the FED. Could this be another reason why the election was "won" by the far left? An interview with Tom Luongo and Joe Hoft explains on Mittdolcino.com
https://www.mittdolcino.com/en/2024/06/19/fine-del-usd-libor-il-30-9-2024-intervista-a-j-hoft-e-t-luongo/
That’s why they called for “snap elections,” why wait till tomorrow what you can do today!
Ha! exactly! (btw, I'm the presenter in the interview)
DAIRY DERIVATIVE OR SUPERFOOD: WHAT IS INSECT MILK?
https://thisismold.com/process/cook/insect-milk-superfood-gourmet-grubb
FB DINGED THIS ONE GATE'S NEW MILK
Is it maggot milk next?
https://australiannationalreview.com/politics/is-it-maggot-milk-next-www-cairnsnews-org/
FDA Bans Brominated Vegetable Oil in Food and Beverages
https://retailwire.com/fda-bans-brominated-vegetable-oil-in-food-and-beverages/
50 YEARS
BVO, a chemical compound containing bromine — an element also found in fire retardants — has been used in small quantities in citrus-flavored drinks to maintain an even distribution of flavor. Despite its widespread use, concerns about its safety have persisted for decades.
THE PATTERN JUST GETS WORSE.
FDA Bans Brominated Vegetable Oil in Food and Beverages
https://retailwire.com/fda-bans-brominated-vegetable-oil-in-food-and-beverages/
50 YEARS
BVO, a chemical compound containing bromine — an element also found in fire retardants — has been used in small quantities in citrus-flavored drinks to maintain an even distribution of flavor. Despite its widespread use, concerns about its safety have persisted for decades.
Historically, BVO has faced scrutiny and bans worldwide. The United Kingdom banned BVO in 1970, followed by India in 1990, the European Union in 2008, and Japan in 2010. The FDA had also expressed concerns about BVO’s safety as early as 1970, regulating it as a food additive while conducting further safety assessments.
GATE'S NEW MILK
Is it maggot milk next?
https://australiannationalreview.com/politics/is-it-maggot-milk-next-www-cairnsnews-org/
So, regardless of the fact that the corporate elite feast on the finest organic cuisine at the best Sydney and Melbourne restaurants on a daily basis, the only question is when, not if, maggot milk and other such delights hit the supermarket shelves.
Maybe it’s time for more Australians to get behind Farmers Pick, a network of 50-plus local producers, who run a direct-to-consumer model where imperfect but fresh, seasonal produce boxes (no milk at this stage) are delivered to customers for up to 30% less than the usual cost from the supermarkets.
The job of the Coles-Woolies management is mainly to keep shareholders, not farmers, happy. But in recent years these pampered, corporate automatons, who live in the rarified atmosphere of multiple board room meetings, are about pushing the political agenda of the World Economic Forum. They earn brownie points and improved credit ratings, through their Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) programs.
Toxic Tampon Warning As Arsenic and Lead Found in Common Menstrual Products
https://www.newsweek.com/toxic-tampons-lead-1921058
Tampons from several popular brands, used by potentially millions of people each month, have been found to contain toxic metals including lead, arsenic and cadmium, according to new research.
The study, led by a University of California, Berkeley researcher, evaluated levels of 16 metals in 30 tampons from 14 different brands.
How did the Conservative Party lose? You know that obama paid a visit to Rishi Sunak not too long ago. Then soon after that Sunak said he was stepping down. What part is Nigel Farage playing in all of this.
Unknown at this time.
Ahmed, thanks for the restack and reading, I appreciate it.
Abigail, thanks for the restack, reading and commenting. It is appreciated, thank you.
Thanks mcgdoc, for reading, restacking, and being a regular reader of my postings. Thank you.
Can we plrase change the "heart" symbol into a thumbs up, or something else?
These are very helpful articles, but unfortunately, there just isn't anything to "like".