All Hail Covid – by an NHS Physician

“He’s not Covid, he’s just a cold.” The Life of Brian

He’s not Covid, he’s just a cold.” The Life of Brian.

26th November 2021

What has been witnessed in the last two years is not medical science. It is the death of reason and the birth of a religious cult. The Church of Covid fathered illegitimately by the financial elite and delivered from the womb of governments. Its Holy Trinity, the Pfizer, the Moderna, and the Aztec-Zeneca. Baptism is by experimental vaccination. Its priesthood (SAGE), itself controlled by the papal WHO. Pope WHO mediates between the people and the Viral Gods mostly through belief systems of fear and disgust. The cult even possesses strange triplet mantras, ritual ablutions and symbolic headgear. Fit, healthy children are being sacrificed at its altars. Those who willingly joined are too scared to leave, many were coerced, a minority resist hoping for a saviour and a promised land. It is more effective and covid-safe to believe in garlic, silver bullets and wooden stakes.

To hold dominion the cult practices peculiar sorcery. It redefines our currency of ideas: words. If it cannot cherry-pick statistics, it invokes alchemy to make them lemons. It inculcates a suspension of critical faculties and delusional mass behaviours by an indoctrination with fixed false beliefs. Hence, the public seems hypnotised to suspend belief in their own eyes and ears, replacing it with the cult’s doctrine that everyone is at risk of a horrible, premature death and our sole saviour is the covid jab. The NHS piously chants along reinforcing it all like a church choir. If one effectively challenges the beliefs, it casts more spells: censorship, cancellation, lie bigger. Heretics are exhorted to drink from the poisoned chalice lest excommunication. It falsely stains outsiders as unclean, unbelievers, anti-vax infidels. The masses flock to the cult. They are thrilled: each could help save the world. Finally, little lives had big meanings, mission, and a free holiday. They would do whatever it took in an extreme solidarity. Why on earth would they wish to return to reality?

One Last Cult Ward Round

Spiked Patients

Renal failure man, 60 years. He calls. My headset is ready. He is desperate to have the third jab. He has called the 119 covid call-centres and exhausted their algorithms. Okay, I say, book in with the vaccination nurse for your booster. However, it is not okay. I am thinking: your immune system, suppress and interfere with it at your peril. Renal man cries, but they only do the booster. I need the third jab! I confess, I do not know the material difference. But who will? He moaned, becoming more frustrated. I apologised, knowing I would not have either over my dead body, yet alone three. He said his renal specialist had advised him to have the third. Before I even speak to say I would write to confirm what my colleague meant by ‘the third, not the booster’ he slams down the phone. Regardless, I write to my colleague to resolve my desperate patient’s personal covid nightmare.

The answer comes two weeks later. Lymphoma man, 74, calls. The NHS has written to him. Doctor, he asks, do I need four jabs? I raise my eyebrows. What is this new NHS hell? I have a copy of the letter filed in his notes. There is no date on the letter, where it should be, there is a menacing QR code looking like a mutant space invader. The letter confesses it does not know if he is immunocompromised or merely a normal punter. In either case, it recommends a further jab. The letter reasons, if you are immunocompromised let us call it “the third jab of a course” (as if the third jab six months later was always the intention). The letter explains, “It is different to the booster as it is part of the first (‘primary’) course.” It appears like a sentence constructed in the abstract by a team of highly-paid, clueless government lawyers, not medics.

It continues, sagely, “If you … have already received a booster following your first and second dose, please treat this as your third dose.” I shake my head. Curious. The answer seems to be same jab, different nomenclature. So what do these semantics mean for the future of my patients? Who should have the booster? How many boosts will they need. When will they need them? How is it decided? The language seems to anticipate a ‘secondary’ three-course covid meal for the immunocompromised. It does seem all rather arbitrary. Sadly, lymphoma man is not done. He couldn’t care less if he has three or four jabs. He just wanted to know. Know what his duty to Queen and country is. I probed tactfully, testing his feelings: didn’t the language disturb him? No. Didn’t he find it concerning that four weeks ago (after his glorious first and second super jabs) he was hospitalised with a primary covid diagnosis, and treated for a secondary bacterial pneumonia on the hospital ward? No. Given this, did he have any reservations about a third jab? No. Not one tooth of one cog could be turned. He was sold on it, ‘til death would he and the Nth jab part. The degrees of covid irony are infinite.

Then there are the jab mix-scepticsThis is what our triggered health secretary thinks of them. Mr Agonised, 81, smells a rat. He had the AZ custom clot-shot twice. He survived. He is aggrieved. Why can’t they give him a third-time lucky AZ? He is being offered Pfizer. Can it be safe or effective to mix them? It’s a good question. But not the only one he needs to ask. He rang the call-centres, they cannot help him. They have referred him to his doctor. ‘Doctor’ is likely going to refer him to the corporatised government advice: Just do it! He tells me his daughter is a district nurse, and is going to do her research. Good luck. She will need access to the Dark Net to get an iota of truth. He asks me what I think, and while he’s here (he is not, he is on the phone) should he have the flu jab at the same time? Just do it! I tell him he should do nothing of the sort while he is on antibiotics and steroids. He need to be well. And besides, Pfizer don’t want his immune response to be suppressed by steroids. They want to see its full glorious spectacle. As for mixing vaccines, Lord knows, it is as speculative as the whole show. I tell him I cannot comment, it is all so novel and phase three trials are not even complete for two shots. He is frustrated. I mitigate. Does he really want the AZ? Did he know that it has been withdrawn from under 40s because of the clot risk? He did not. All he knows is he needs a third something, and will make god damn sure he gets it by hook or crook. He resiles a little. Should he have flu and covid jabs together? I tell him that’s what the government would advise, but it would hide the culprit should he become unwell with one. It would be best for him get well, get off steroids and to stagger them. What’s the rush? Of course, for the vaccine companies the more immunogenic the response, the better for efficacy. But it comes with the risk of unpredictable inflammation. Besides, a significant number of patients paradoxically develop respiratory infections after the flu vaccine (and possible the covid jabs). Vaccine-derived viral interference may be responsible.

Mr The Tide-is-Turning, 76, is similar. Should he get the third Pfizer with the flu jab? I run through the basics. He is with me. He confides in me his neighbour got the third recently and then ‘got covid’, whatever that means. He is skeptical. Next week he returns, calling me for more advice. I have made an ally. I discover his son works in the practice admin department.

Mr & Mrs Compliant in their 30s. She asks when can he get his booster. Will his piles delay this? I can tell that this is an important social rite of passage from her excitable tone. She does not need Dr. Party Pooper. Her man needs to hold down a job with a triple jab and feed the three little ones. Besides, what would the neighbours on her row of terraces say?

Parkinson’s man, 65. He said the job was very stressful. Three of his colleagues all had TIAs at the start of the year. I took a double take. That was not the medical stuff of stress. If it were, I would also be in the stroke unit most days over the last two years. Could it be the jab? But it was too early for most. I checked his notes. He (and his colleagues) had the first jab Feb 2021 as they were key workers in a high security government facility. We eye each other. He was a canny fellow. He left, remarking it was ‘nice talking to someone who thinks like me’.

Possible Parkinson’s man, 70, cannot speak properly, probably due to Parkinson’s, but no one really knows. He has been waiting for a NHS neurologist’s diagnosis for two years. Again it is all on a headset. The weak, distant, shuffling bradykinetic monotone of a suffering man. A simple generic medication would cure it and release him from a covid-measures jail sentence. There is no emotion in the voice because he is neurologically unwell. A colleague wrote, self-appeasingly, that the mask-like facies of Parkinson’s was not observable because of his face mask. Really? She did not dare even peak through a gaping aperture? This was written to abrogate clinical responsibility for a simple diagnosis. The universal excuse for everything is “’cos of covid”. I apologise, and do what has become a daily ritual – a letter to expedite what was already urgent a year ago. Non-specialist GPs would not generally make the formal diagnosis nor initiate treatment for Parkinson’s. He is trapped in a manufactured, immoral situation of spineless, supine risk-aversion. However, I will make an exception in this horrific situation. I instruct him to call me if there is no progress within seven days, I will diagnose and treat him myself. This is the real emergency. Not covid.

Quinsy man, 46 is a medical misnomer of three months standing. His battle-axe wife strong-armed me through the headset. He could not speak (she said he had a speech impediment). It would become clear why that was the case. But he hasn’t been seen in two years by you! Sure enough, the frequent patient contacts, meticulously documented and crafted to feign the safety of physical presence were all by telephone. She went on. He had been given three courses of antibiotic via telephone consultation for quinsy over three months. That was really interesting, given quinsy is a medical emergency. Something was not right. I sacrifice a precious face-to-face slot. He confesses to being an ex-smoker and a heavy drinker. I look in his oropharynx. It looked like tonsillar carcinoma until proven otherwise. Shocking. His wife pulls the ‘whilst we’re here, doctor’ manoeuvre, twice. I am glad she does. A ten-minute consultation again becomes thirty, but how can I ignore these poor people deceived by the government into vainly still relying on an NHS they can no longer rely upon. He had a four month neck lesion. He was promised a referral three months ago. It never materialised. I take a peak: barn door rodent ulcer. Skin cancer, festering and eating away at this pale, ginger fellow’s neck. Two fast track cancer referrals in rapid succession for one patient. Patients are meant to be seen within two weeks, but it is not happening. I anticipate this by asking them to call me if there is a millisecond of delay. It is not that surprising after two years of neglect, given the lifetime risk of cancer is 1 in 2. It might get worse. Dr Ryan Cole explains cancer is a possible effect of covid jabs upon TLR receptors. Moreover, it might if as suspected the jab-manufactured spike protein does in fact ‘strongly interact with p53 and BRCA-1/2 proteins. p53 and BRCA are the well-known tumour suppressor proteins’.

Sleeping Beauty is 21. She fell asleep at the wheel driving to the gym, dreamed of the impact, and was later woken up by a prince passing by. My task at the end of a long chain of practitioners was to tell her conclusively that her TATT bloods (Tired All The Time) bloods were normal. No cause for tiredness, bye-bye. She was about to accept the good news and slam the phone down. But, I am genuinely concerned for my patients. I stop her, and ask, but are you sleepy or tired? No, it just happens at the most unexpected of times. I know the likely diagnosis. I click on the patient’s list of medications. Tragic, really. I need to be tactful. No one believes they are unsafe or ineffective. They get offended. I ask when her woes began. Is she sure? Yes. Did you have anything new around that time? No. Are you sure? Yes. This is the problem. The event is so insignificant as to be forgotten. Did she realise she had the second jab two weeks before? No. No memory of this life-changing event. I politely apologise for casting aspersions, but explain she may have narcolepsy. I explain this is extraordinarily rare, and one of the causes is vaccine injury. I self-deprecate more, I am only telling her because no one else might, and I will be mentioning this to the neurologist, just for her information. I will request an urgent brain scan since at the current rate she might receive a telephone call from an NHS neurologist in a year or two. Scans are one of the only primary care requests to hospitals which seems to happen more quickly during covid. She must report it to the DVLA. She must not drive until advised by them she can. She seems to take it in her stride. The seed does not seem planted. Even if it is, evil fairy Malepfizer is immune, unless it is proven it was underhand in someway that would put her in additional danger (as happened with the swine flu narcolepsy cases). Pfizer is rich enough to settle out of court with a non-disclaimer to boot, but it probably won’t have to. For the nominal vaccine damage scheme, £120,000 is all she could get, but she won’t. Who will class her as 60% or more disabled? She can jolly well walk and reduce her carbon footprint at the same time.

Dot Cotton is 73. The worst of the deranged zealots are the nicotine-stained COPDs. She is part of a new wave of chain-smoking geriatric covid wokeness. A bronchitic terrorist. She puffs in, suffocating herself further with her mask + face-shield combo. She is one of the brand-new radicals readying themselves for the Nth booster while they roll up tobacco. She is chesty, but mostly paranoid about being more chesty. Complaining that she hasn’t seen a GP for over two years, she does not recognise the irony of the NHS managing to jab her three times in 10 months while she continues to insist on her divine right to smoke herself to death. These are the NHS red-carpet patients whom sensible doctors and nurses like me will wave goodbye to as we are escorted off the premises as NHS lepers. She slaps her biceps, and beams. I’ve had my booster! Wow, rub it in my face whilst I’m at work, won’t you. I appear underwhelmed, whilst she is expecting extra social credits. I gently challenge her health ideas for the heck of it. It is patently clear I am not going to find a member of the French résistance hidden under her storm trooper headgear. You do realise that government advice is not necessarily the same as medical advice? Oh yes, of course, Doctor, she fawns. I become adventurous, you do appreciate the benefit of the government advice is not conclusive? Her eyes distorted by bent plastic visor briefly scan me. As she leaves, she turns like Columbo (she is wearing a beige mackintosh), asking pointedly if I’m not one of those against vaccines. Rather than asking if she is one of those who does not believe in stopping smoking, I answer politely, I believe all sides should be respectfully heard. She concedes courteously and disappears. Everything is between the lines, all eyes and smiles, a sliver away from professional crucifixion.

Swab Refusenik is 57. He is livid. He is double-jabbed and asymptomatic and the hospital still want to swab him before he has his colonoscopy. He cannot fathom it. What the hell is going on? He is scared, too. While booking a date for the procedure, he protested at being swabbed, the lady at the other end was reactive like only the NHS can be … ‘so are you refusing the colonoscopy, sir?’ No, just the swab. She puts the phone down on him.Now he confides in me, and asks what an earth he is going to do. I sympathise, and agree to write to his consultant to sort it all out. He admits me he only got jabbed to make life normal again. He did not want either. He is not having the booster. Allegedly.

Mr Plumber, 53, tells me he developed bad guttate psoriasis after the first jab, shingles after the second, and he is worried about the third. What could be in store for him next? Smallpox? Leprosy? We will find out. He still wants it. He is confused as all he ever deals with are covid call-centres. I counsel him on alternative strategies such as not having it, but feels he should have it. The propaganda is too strong. Even offering a speculative exemption letter sounds schismatic to him. He becomes anxious. His daughter is a nurse and is looking into it – but what more does he need to know? He is alive and kicking two years later, after the world’s most over-hyped and over-televised pandemic. He is low risk. The jabs are producing disease in him. I am dealing with a mental health pandemic.

Ms Clock-Ticking, 36, is desperate for pregnancy. Irregular periods post-jab are so common they have passed into folklore. She shrugs of the three month lapse of her Swiss clock-like menses as mere piffle to her wish to be with child. Yes, doctor, my period became irregular after the jab as I thought it might. Presumably as the regularity returned, her faith in the non-science government narrative returned. She thinks the rot stops there. I wish her luck.

Ms Siren, 40. Periods absent since the second jab. Nevertheless, she went back for the third a month ago. She wonders about menopause but her mother went through it it aged 55. She admits that her periods became irregular and prolonged after the first jab in January. She is part of a hospital study (SIREN) into the jab, and has regular PCR and antibody tests. No-one has asks her about jab adverse effects.

Village fête lady, 65, takes the biscuit one busy morning. She hobbles in sporting a blue rinse perm and a home counties accent. The conversation degenerates from her poorly ankle to ‘you must be so busy these days’ to covid, rapidly. She is restrained in her frustration, but her voice quivers, why oh why can’t they all just get vaccinated, doctor? She asks as if it is a matter of mere politesse. Can’t they all just say please and thank you, doctor? Why can’t they? Then we could all go back to normal and have a merry Christmas together. She quickly moves on to covid Santa Claus … ooh, and Dr Whitty … isn’t the country so lucky to have him? This time words nearly fail me. I remind that her view is predicated on the assumption that the vaccines are safe and effective, but tens of thousands are dying from them and there are millions of ADRs. It beats the mortality of all the other vaccines rolled together over decades, and it hasn’t even been out a year. No, it’s not, she retorts, coldly. This time words do fail me. Whatever her view is predicated on or not, it is not worth being detected and singled out. The programming is way too deep. Props to the propagandists, they have done an incredible job.

Derek and Babs, my eighty-something old neighbours are loyal to the government narrative and measures. This is despite Babs being hospitalised with a near-fatal, mystery lower gastrointestinal bleed soon after the second jab, and their middle-aged son developing a mystery pancreatitis after the second jab. They still test themselves twice a week. A fortnight ago, over the street’s Whatsapp group, they announced another ten day embargo on the remainder of their precious lives. Both test positive the day after Babs got her booster. They blamed it on that damn birthday party they went to. Stay safe! came the replies. Trouble is, the elderly couple were never unwell. Both remained absolutely fine. There was no death, no disease, no deterioration. No mention of natural immunity’s infinite superiority in preventing re-infection (the jab abjectly does not prevent infection). Nor was there was any questioning of the jab. It was all as clear as mud: the jab had unclearly prevented another two inevitable deaths. Derek had not had his booster, yet. I am relieved, but Babs must be tutting. I am particularly fond of him. Later that week, we’re all in my car. Derek’s ancient mobile trills, ‘Hello Mr. Derek! So-and-so ignoramus, calling from so-so surgery. We have an extra-special Saturday unmissable booster clinic. Are you in? No pressure.’ He is apologetic. He is booked on Sunday at a pharmacy. My heart aches. ‘But, why not have it 24 hours sooner, Mr Derek?’ I can tell she is pressuring this unsuspecting old man and thinking of the money-grab. It is a veritable meat-market.

Mr Healthy Home-Worker, 55, no medication, no previous maladies. Sat slouched for two years in the loft office working 16 hour days, immobilised, dehydrating late into the night. Before, he would cycle to work, socialise there and do a regulated eight hours. He double- jabbed. He called me. He didn’t feel well. Chest pain and lethargy. I insisted on an immediate admission. Diagnosis, bilateral pulmonary emboli, DVT and diabetes. Other colleagues of mine have mention a six month post-second jab clot phenomenon. Legs, lungs, heads and hearts. I am seeing it in real-time. Merry Clotmas. More über-irony. He met a similar DVT sufferer in the scan room of the hospital. The fellow sufferer was a fellow GP who suggested they write a paper entitled, “Lockdown increases clots” reasonable… but wait for the punchline. My astute, clotted colleague predicted they would certainly find the unvaccinated would be suffering more thromboembolic events than the vaccinated. She had no cognitive latitude to suspect the only active variable, the experimental clot-shot was blameworthy. She was certain that those who simply did nothing would suffer more. Why?

Mr Blister Head, 88, is a wily old devil. But he is obedient to his wife. He took of his flat cap and revealed his alter ego. He developed a herpetiform rash to most of his scalp after both the first and second jab. It persisted, and because he struggled and failed to see a GP, it slowly improved over six months in any case. His good wife did not want him to die. She sent him off for his booster jab. He did not want it nor a chronically weeping head-sore, again. But anything for a quiet life. His rash returned. It reactivated within seven days. It resolved in a fortnight with aciclovir.

Mr. N.H.S. Phobia, 23. He only went to the vaccination joint so his grandmother could get the first jab. But the crazed nut-jobs found out in the banter that he worked with the elderly, so they pounced on him with it before he could rustle up the courage to scream rape. Granny was dead in a fortnight, and he developed severe central chest and left arm pain after week three for three solid days. He toughed it out alone. He came to see me six months on. Last week, calf pain, this week, short of breath at rest. Pulse 130, with no clear explanation. Pulmonary embolus, DVT or latent heart failure secondary to jab myocarditis? I sent him urgently to the hospital medics. Back to his perpetrators. He looked disheartened as he left. I cannot follow him up. He does not answer his phone, and there is nothing from the hospital. I suspect he was too scared to be abused by the NHS, again.

14 year old Rash Girl’s mum calls. Now the children are starting to come in. She sends some photos. She had the Pfizer five days ago. She has come out in a rash all over her torso. With relative fortune, it is a blanching rash. Urticarial in nature. I ask if she was unwell immediately after the jab. Oh, only a headache, doctor. Really? Only a headache. She speaks with natural authority. I safety-net for the future. She must be alert to cardiac, respiratory, neurological and coagulopathic symptoms. She appears unconcerned. As if to rub in the episode, before I go, she asks, so what do you think it is, doctor? Do you think it’s just her immune system? I must agree with her authoritative, if somewhat cavalier diagnosis. Her mere immune system. So what if it is irreversibly damaged? Surely, Pfizer will just peddle her a gene program for a new one.

An anxious mother. 12 year old Johnny’s peri-pubertal nipples are asymmetrical, what do I think? I do not. I am relocating my jaw. His notes say he had a covid jab last week. What about his gonads? Of all the thing she should worry about, she is oblivious to the state-assault upon her child. Perhaps she does not know herself. There are NHS trusts vowing to keep it secret from the parents. What if the child became ill overnight? How would the parent be able to react responsibly to the illness unfurnished with the key information? Do they expect the child to secretly slope off in the night to A&E incognito to retain patient confidentiality? What if it died? What would the death certificate say? How could the parent query the cause of death properly, unarmed with the vital, missing information? Who else would care enough? Only parents would wail for an eternity and stop at nothing to obtain posthumous justice for their child. It beggars belief. What have we become? I require an ‘over-25 check’ to purchase zero percent beer at Morrisons. This lad can opt for dangerous, unnecessary experimental gene therapy at school in sworn secrecy. It is healthcare hell on earth.

Little Miss Worry, 13. She was well but had slight asthma in 2019. Then the whole family, panicked by the government terrorists in their living room, all became hyper-vigilant. The little one did not recover. She has not been out of the house for over a year. School is a figment of a former self. Her first overdose aged 12, she now ruminates on self-harm. The mother cries for help, but all services are too drained with the covid charade. They pass the buck, GP to CAMHS to private-provided lip-service telephone counselling service. The impersonal touch distresses her more. She is put on a waiting list to see a physical person. She has been waiting over a year.

Another 12 year old. Single, Ex-Pat Mum is desperate to get back to Australia. She needs childcare, she needs her family. She cannot afford the quarantine costs which run into thousands of pounds. Unlike most, she is aware of the risks. She sees her only choice is jabbing him. Two weeks later he is in an emergency room covered in electrodes, wearing a mask. He has chest pain. It is labelled as pleurisy. I do not trust my colleagues. Did they exclude pulmonary emboli, pericarditismyocarditis? She has regret. It is not her fault. It is all our faults. Is there any tests she can order to secure his future health? The trouble is, gene immunotherapy is entrenched and irreversible. He did not need the mask, he did not need the jab. He did not need this.

There is no time to report and unravel all the complications. It is a biblical deluge. Many patients and medics do not make a cause-effect link even after a few days post-jab, let alone months. Such is the blind faith that a panacea jab can do no harm, it is quickly forgotten. I cannot be the only medic swamped by this mess. Foetalneonataladolescent and general mortality rates appear to be rising since the year of Lockdown and blanket vaccines. So do heart attacks: the jabs appear to increase the risk of acute coronary syndrome, NSTEMI rates have risen by 25% in Scotland; this may explain it. I predict far more pain. According to one raw analysis of ONS data vaccinated English adults under 60 are dying at twice the rate of unvaccinated people the same age, and have been for six months. A more nuanced analysis shows no all-cause mortality benefit for covid jabs. At best, the data on covid jabs is equivocal representing an extremely expensive and destructive way of doing overall harm. At worst it evidences the world’s greatest and most audacious crime.

That weekend, In a central London health food restaurant a French waiter channels his inner de Gaulle. He heroically vows to draw the line after the third jab. I remain unconvinced.


My incredulous senior colleague reports from an A&E department I spent ten years working in. Forty of the old guard have left. Some more-senior staff are holding off the booster jab, now not so keen. The new-starters, for that is mostly what is left, believe A&E has always been like this. Increased and premature cardiac events. Loads of elderly falls post-double and triple jab. Lethargic, listless youngsters with odd neurological symptoms and motor disorders. It is now no significant event to have three non-trauma patients lined up for platelet or blood transfusion on one shift. Before covid, a bag of platelets in A&E would be a rare show-stopping event. But now platelets galore? All those patients have been double or triple-jabbed. The prevailing departmental tendency is to re-frame blame upon covid-19 without laboratory proof. There is only token gesture paid to proper deep-cleaning and barrier nursing against covid, now. Forget N95 masks, anything obscuring your mouth in blind obedience will do.

The Family & Ivermectin

We all contracted clinical covid this July. Whilst it was certainly strange for us all to have a low grade flulike illness in the heart of summer, there was no panic, no need for clinically pointless testing, no long covid. None of us have received the genetic mark of the corporation. The children barely had a fever or slight tummy ache and were well within 24 hours. Of the four adults, one recovered with no need for any intervention, within two weeks. The other three all started Zinc, Vitamins C and D, quercetin and quinine tincture. Only the matriarch in her 70s also had ivermectin. Within 24 hours she was babysitting the grandchildren and nursing the rest of us. All her pre-existing chronic joint pains disappeared. The ivermectin supply was precious and it was stopped after 72 hours due to the remarkable recovery. 48 hours later, the fever returned. It was restarted and continued for another 10 days. She did not cough until seven days after finally stopping the ivermectin (a full 21 days after symptom onset), and then it was only minor and lasted a few days. The rest of us had hacking coughs for about a month. We have all had the best chance at natural and sterilising immunity. It was free and efficient. This cheap, safe pre-hospital trial of early intervention with ivermectin was far more convincing and impressive to me than the government alternative: take the known and unknown risks of the toxic jab, prove it failed with the free government tests, and wait to get ill enough to justify a hospital admission where there is no good treatment. My home experience is real convincing clinical medicine in action. It tells me more than the corporate-captured world of evidenced-based medicine.

Grandmother, 95. Granny TCP passed this year after a four day stay in hospital for a cardiac event. After a year under government house arrest there was a merciful aspect. Granny tested negative for covid in hospital. She was taken to die on a ‘covid’ ward. I suppose it gave the NHS the best chance to manipulate her death statistic as she died. She died before the NHS could get her to test positive. In spite of this, a junior doctor caught in the act of fraud and desecration of a his patient’s death, had to be made by family to remove covid from her death certificate. Before covid I would never have believed such conduct from a colleague was possible. How many times has this crime occurred in our hospitals? I am ashamed of the role the NHS has played in this rich man’s trick.


Since this might be my last piece as an NHS GP, I should reflect upon my own recent personal and professional experiences of the covid phenomenon. I stand to lose my career and my patients soon for no good reason thanks to the government mandate. It’s not the way I would have chosen to go, but the decision is surprisingly easy: if I must medically assault myself to continue in medicine, I will spare myself that personal and professional humiliation.

It has been a depressing two years. The psychologists of SAGE reside in my head 24/7. I dream about vaccines and patients. Pfizer taunts me with every patient’s computerised medication list: Pfizer’s jab trade name is ‘Courageous’. Not bad, but better maybe ‘Outrageous’ or ‘Contagious’? I despair at the ritual damage being done to global health and my patients. For Dr Thomas Jendges, it proved unbearable. He died trying to stop the madness.

Even my professional GP appraisal (via video-link – NHSE’s choice) was awful. My colleague’s cheery opening line after two years apart was brazen, ‘Good morning, so are you double-jabbed?’ He knows it is none of his business, and I politely told him so. I suspected he was put up to it by NHSE. It had sent out an agenda for our delayed appraisal. Last year, it promoted the covid fear and rewarded us for being covid heroes by suspending this annual professional box-ticking exercise. I was over the moon. This year, following the world’s most deadly and scary event, the appraisal agenda would be soft-touch. We were to talk about the effect of covid upon us. I sensed the NHSE was tapping for information to decide when and how to nudge further, My reply was honest, succinct and designed to curtail conversation. Covid made my life easier, reduced the standard of patient care, and I was glad for the cast-iron job security job while my patients were losing theirs. He moved on swiftly. NHSE doesn’t want to know that. The worrying legal point to all this scrutiny is a doctor’s professional and supposedly confidential appraisals have been used in court as legal evidence against him.

I wake up after broken sleep each morning, praying for a safe passage through the mounting complex of avoidable death and disease in my surgeries without blowing cover or a mental gasket. Leery-eyed patients proudly announce they have had their booster, expecting my congratulations. I am horrified. There is no escape for a heretical NHS doctor. I am outflanked, and outnumbered. I am thankful for small liberties. Being allowed to shop, drive and dine unimpeded. I fear another imminent lockdown, denial of personal healthcare, and a permanent medical apartheid. I have become more peripatetic, a fugitive physician desperately trying to earn money before I am crucified for having critical faculties. Since covid, I have experienced work in six general practices over two regions across two major cities and four rural towns. For those who think GPs do not see hospital deaths, so how can a GP know the true extent of what happens to their patients, be informed that GPs write the community death certificates, and receive notifications for every hospital death. Nor am I siloed as some of my colleagues within one practice population, I am not left to speculate that the contagion must have skipped my sole practice population by mere good fortune. No. My experience in all six practices of this overwhelmingly-hyped contagion has been uniformly underwhelming. In my professional practice, covid is more an uncommon phenomenon of a minority’s weakened and dysfunctional immune systems being denied appropriate early treatment rather than a pandemic disease. However, medics feel medics are not allowed to discuss the stark inconsistencies between government messaging and the reality on the ground. Woe betide anyone who dares says it is not that bad.

In one practice, where the unspoken truth and the distinct, understandable lack of fear was expressed by a reasonable culture of not bothering to wear masks, some government informer squealed, spilling the beans on these heathens. The result: the wonderful practice manager resigned, and now the place is haemorrhaging staff.

Patient care has deteriorated. There is now an entrenched culture of tele-consultation. The justification is contagion, but it is in reality cheaper and easier. Easier to fob off a patient on the phone and avoid all accountability. As the patient has not been physically seen, there is not the same palpable notion in the patient’s mind that this was in fact a consultation with an attached duty of care. The scale of the medical denialism is shocking. Thus, it isn’t at all hard to believe the level of criminal neglect that is occurring, without as much as a squeak from anyone. No one dares. Medical freedom of speech is nearly dead in the USA where in spite of the global, woke-inspired movement of linguistic fascism, the first amendment still notionally counts for something. In the UK, a couple of high-profile medical lynchings from the GMC, combined with Ofcom’s monopoly on medical misinformation has completely killed it. The supranational institutions which have constructed the covid cult as a tool to install a global, unregulated and centralised digital prison needs to be swept away. An alternative needs to be created.

I leave the last word to the Aztecs. The truth appears most unexpectedly in the strangest of places:

Human Sacrifice at Tenochtitlan

“Whatever else it may have been, human sacrifice was a symbolic expression of political domination and economic appropriation and, at the same time, a means to their social production and reproduction. The images of the gods reified superordination (and subordination), and sacrifice to them was symbolically equivalent to payment of tribute. The sacrificing of slaves and war captives and the offering of their hearts and blood to the sun thus encoded the essential character of social hierarchy and imperial order and provided a suitable instrument for intimidating and punishing insubordination.”

The Covid Physician is (still) an unheroic NHS doctor. This article is a personal view and does not necessarily represent the views of the NHS. Patient details have been anonymised. Dr. TCP tweets at @tcp_dr and blogs at at

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