Luton Airport in The New World Robotic Disordered Dictatorship
By Joe Scanlan – Sovereign Independent UK -
If you were ever in doubt about the custom-built scientific tyranny in store for us all read on.
It was my job to simply pick up a colleague from Luton Airport. Unexpectedly, I found that there was now a £1.00 “drop-off pick-up airport charge” which allowed me 15 minutes to collect my passenger. My 15 minute time-ration allowed me to spend 10 minutes looking for a space on a gravel-patch that was chock-a-block with cars parked like sardines in a can.
Customers are expected to turn their car on the space of a coin and then there isn’t enough room to open the door. If my friend hadn’t been an ex-driving instructor to stand outside the vehicle and help us inch the car into position I’d still be there. So much for the first 10 minutes of my time-ration, I had now five minutes left to get back in my car and get the hell out of there before the pick-up drop off-charge morphed into a £4.80 drop-off pick-up charge as penalty for my non-compliance.
Naturally I failed as it was impossible to get out without the experience of a driving instructor directing the traffic out of the sardine tin. He was now leaving for his 10 minute walk to the terminal, not to mention his 10 minute walk back – and he is a fast walker.
Being a first-time victim of the Luton Mafia organised criminal cartel I then had to approach a robotic worker-bee in a universal yellow beehive jacket to find out where my extra protection-money had to be paid as I and my car were barracked in until the protection money was extracted from me. The yellow-striped bee wandering aimlessly and apathetically about, and ‘only doing his job’, gave a reluctant grunt and an indiscriminate half-wave of his hands like a grumpy pope or a queen on a bad-hair day. My friend had gone on his long walk by now to cordially meet our passenger and welcome him with hospitality to this great airport cascading, criminal cash-waterfall bleeding the public of every last penny they can squeeze out of their punch-drunk bodies.
In the queue of protection-racket money victims lined up to feed their money into the machine, were two types of victims. One camp I would describe as the Orwellians the other I would describe as the Huxlians.
The Orwellians were people like me who were disgusted and outraged but felt powerless to do anything about the anti-human robot that the world has become except to try to either expose it, throw a tantrum, or moan and groan about the global theft and continue to do absolutely nothing.
In the Huxlian camp in the same queue to fork out their protection money, were the Brave New Worlders – those who had been nicely reframed and had been worked through the Orwellian stage and were now past the punch-drunk stage. They were malleable, compliant and loving their slavery. The Huxlians were jeering and laughing at their inferior Orwellians who had not adapted and learned to love their servitude yet. This infuriated the Orwellians even more. Huxlians had the money, coughed it up, and believed they’d have the money to pay up tomorrow and tomorrow and forever. The Huxlians had been successfully and totally entertainwashed, and now, just like all the school-to-work worker-bees in yellow, were programmable anti-human robots with a sandwich. Psychopaths in other words!
Eventually, having paid my debt to society in the form of my protection-money for being cheeky enough to overstay my welcome, the barricades were lifted for me and I was released from Luton outdoor prison.
I then had to find my friends who would be trying to find me. Eventually I found them under an off limits bus shelter somewhere waving frantically as somehow they had managed to spot me. I would never have found them at all amid the treacherous swamp of endless meaningless road signs and senseless road markings everywhere; the designer clutter of mind bombing and twisting where no one is allowed to watch the road and see where they are going.
We somehow got each other out of that Saul Alinsky inspired war zone.
It gets worse, much, much worse.
This was only the beginning of the insanity in this open-air asylum. I still had to get our passenger through there again so that he could fly back to Belfast later that weekend.
Following the event I re-entered the robotic war zone of robocops, worker-bees, jobsworths, signs, road drivel, restrictions, cash cows, timings, fees, charges, chessboard cars, chessboard ambulances and whatever else you couldn’t dream up if you tried to make up this horror show.
We were willing to pay the newly-enforced £1.00 protection racket money. There were three of us in the vehicle and amid the drivel and road clutter not one of us noticed we had drifted into the wrong lane and suddenly ended up in a ‘taxis and buses only’ area. No sooner were we in there when we saw a fleet of interceptor fighter cars lined up waiting for attack. I dropped my colleague and his hand-luggage off (which was all he had brought) and was getting away as quickly as possible when the interceptor fleet was down on us, crawling all over us like cockroaches in uniformity. Driving off I was ordered to stop by the fleet of robocops. I politely said “look I’m sorry, I ended up in the wrong area by mistake”. The robot replied “your number plate has been photographed and you will receive an automatic fine to your house for £80.00 from the authorities”. I said “I dispute this outrageous so-called fine as I am the victim of an outrageous crime and I have done absolutely nothing wrong, can I leave now?” They said “NO!” I said “I’m asking you politely to quash this fine”
Here’s what they said…and I have a witness to this…wait for it…they said…
“THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE POLICE”
“This has nothing to do with the police? You are policemen sitting in a police car and you have just stopped me for nothing.”
“You stopped in a restricted area and tried to drive off and we had to stop you.”
“And that has nothing to do with the police?” I said.
They said it has to do with APCOA.
“Who is APCOA?” I said.
“It’s the airports camera operators”, they said.
I said “I refuse my consent to contract with a private corporation.” They said, “That’s between you and APCOA, it has nothing to do with the police. (Search APCOA)
I said “I’m sick of your totalitarian Police State, I know you’re only doing your job just like Hitler’s clones were only doing their job and you are the modern UK Gestapo”.
Their body language showed they were clearly embarrassed by this harsh truth striking a discord, so perhaps they need some more Common Purpose sensitivity training, or to be sacked and replaced by a fully-blown psychopath with no empathy at all, or better still some more efficient post-human robot just like the automated fine camerobot.
£84.80 poorer for the privilege of picking up and dropping off a friend at the piddling little Luton Airport I drove away from Luton Airport steaming with anger and pulling my hair out. We pulled into the vacated Capability Green Industrial State (The one with the stupid dancing-rabbit sculpture) to cool off and wind down as I knew I was in no fit state to drive.
As it was Sunday it was ghostly and empty of course. However, no sooner have we pulled over when a little Feminazi security worker-bee jobsworth surfaces out of nowhere, gets in my face with a gawk, a shrug with that half-opened arms kind of a “HUH” expression. I drive off still in no fit state to drive anywhere. I end up at my friend’s house to have a cup of tea and eventually head off on the trek back up to Suffolk.
All the way back, because it’s Sunday and people are more relaxed, as well as all the usual robotic EU police enforcement cameras, also called speed cameras and safety cameras (they all look identical to me) There are uniformed camera snipers on all the bridges, in the ditches, along the sides of the roads and hovering in every nook and cranny to ensure that nobody, but nobody, can safely watch where they are going without watching their speedometer, their signs, their road markings, their snipers and EU uniformed highwaymen in the European Soviet Bloc that used to be called Britain.
Welcome to the New World Order of psychopathy.