From the moment rumours of an all-original Black Sabbath reunion surfaced last summer – only to be scotched within what felt like minutes – I knew something was up. A new album, a full tour, the rock ‘n’ roll works. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why, but something at the back of my mind was nagging. The heavy metal storm sense gifted to me during a love tryst with an ancient dead gay Viking was throbbing. I could feel a PR blunder forming, like a methane bubble in a bowel.
Six months later, and we’re left with a single ‘Black Sabbath’ show, absent drummer Bill Ward; the rest of the tour is now given over to a far less interesting Ozzy and Friends type retrospective. And while new album plans are said to be proceeding, the whole thing suddenly sounds a bit mushy and vague. Let’s be honest, though, it would have been a farce even if Tony Iommi hadn’t gone and got lymphoma.
Angry fans, feeling cheated, are demanding refunds, and many seem to be getting them. Meanwhile, the reputation of one of heavy metal’s innovators sustains yet another healthy dent. And, who’s to blame, as ever, insist these grown-up metal men?
In a cynical ploy to garner some attention for yet another Golden Oldies turn around the block from her creaky, brain-damaged meal ticket, Sharon Osbourne has engineered the announcement of a full Sabbath reunion for no other purpose than to catch fans’ eyes; and then she has promptly found a way to sideline everybody except Geezer Butler – including giving Iommi cancer just by wishing it – so she can purse all the pop concert revenue money. Metal fans are convinced this is the case.
It’s a nice theory, but I think there’s more to it than that. What appears superficially to be a string of highly embarrassing and probably unconnected fuck-ups, is in fact, simply the tail-end of the greatest conspiracy heavy metal has ever known.
And only now can we exclusively reveal the truth:
Black Sabbath never existed in the first place.
Look at that. One logical step backwards, and suddenly everything is clear. That all-seeing eye is weeping tears of sadness, my friends, because it never saw us coming. It’s time to trace back the tear-tracks and find out who’s left holding the soggy hanky.
Instantaneously, I knew the best place to begin my investigation. But then I remembered I live in the north and my local library only carries books about vampires and crochet and plucky young shopaholics.
So instead, I took a quick visit to Alan Watt, curator of my favourite conspiracy clearing-house. What I read there chilled me to the frost-bitten hollows of my bones, my friends. Even worse than those bells in the rainy bit at the beginning of Black Sabbath.
This upcoming race of genetically manipulated servants will be called the Borg, very efficient when they act together, but that annoying trait of individuality will be obliterated.
And bringing in their organized society, a sort of technotronic society or technical society. A society where experts rule the world, and why bother with politicians and things like that. Post-democratic eventually, and that’s where we’re heading into today. We’re actually there, actually.
And they want to bring down the population to a manageable size, and using science once again, they can create a new type of human, basically servant, which won’t need entertainment, won’t need law enforcement to look after them. Something like Seven-of-Nine of the old Star Trek series.
Could what I was reading be true? An entire race of unthinking, robotic servants, content with a diet of bland, recycled, cultural baby food? And they are already among us? Who does that sound like to you?
My guts told me I was onto something, and that I’d better start being careful. To avoid being outed as a sex pest in the corporate press, like Julian Assange, I immediately ceased any and all sexual contact by taking my hand out of my underpants. I took to leaving the house only when strictly necessary, and shitting into a plastic tub while sat at my computer to minimise risk of attack by a government-controlled robotic laser-eyed sewer rat.
I started ingesting a lot of psychedelics, playing wild quantities of computer games and eating tamper-proof instant noodle snacks, while listening to nothing but thrash and power metal to keep my spirits up. Eventually, I had damaged my brain to the point that I had no fucking idea what was true and what wasn’t, and yet an unerring attraction toward arguments on Facebook.
Then, and only then, was I ready to delve deeper, in search of the blackened heart of the most sinister plot ever enacted on an unsuspecting populace. Only one man could help me connect these increasingly-scattered dots now.
David [Icke] goes far deeper down the rabbit hole than merely our daily experience of the ‘five senses’. He reveals the true nature of our reality where there is no ‘solidity’ or ‘physical’ – only vibrational, electrical, digital and holographic information fields that we decode into what appears to be a ‘physical world’. David calls this the ‘Cosmic Internet’, and in this amazing work he explains how a malevolent force has ‘hacked’ into the cosmic information source via the ‘Saturn–Moon Matrix’ to feed us a false reality very similar in theme to the illusory world portrayed in the Matrix movie series.
Even I was surprised how easily it came together. Everything fit neatly, like a jigsaw puzzle with hammer and nails included. Big Media… The unthinking slave race… The Saturn-Moon Matrix… The Cosmic Internet.
My mind was racing now. Where had the story broken? The internet. Where was the controversy now living? The internet. Where was Sharon Osbourne getting bollocked off a load of children – the self-same children we now know to be mindless servants of the New World Order?! The internet!
David Icke was right. Damn and blast his handsome, chiselled face, but he was right. And if he was right about Black Sabbath, then maybe he was right about everything.
But who – or what – was this ‘malevolent force?’ And how would it be stopped?