Mark Steele Has Just Explained London. I Am Begging You: Do Not Go There.

I have watched a great many things in my time — more footage of more men explaining more machines than any sane person should have to. And I am telling you, with my hand flat on the desk, that I have never seen anything as clear, as complete, or as quietly devastating as the conversation Kris Brookes has just put out over at LSB Film Productions: himself, and the one man in this country who has never once been wrong about any of it.

His name is Mark Steele.

You must watch it. But — and I say this with love — you must also let me walk you through it, because Mark is a genius, and genius, God bless it, does not always stop to translate. That is my job. That is what I am for. He builds the cathedral; I stand at the door and hand you the little laminated card so you know what you are looking at. So sit down, and let me explain what he has explained.

Start with the masts. You've been told they're for your telephone — “5G,” “connectivity,” all the warm little words. Mark says it plainly: it is a weapon. A phased-array weapon system, patented in 2006 — I checked, the patents are real, patents are always real — sitting, and this is the detail that stopped me cold, on ceramic heads. “If I see ceramics,” he says, “always concerning.” Now — you may not know why a man should fear a ceramic. I didn't, the first time. But you house a thing in ceramic when it runs hot, when it must not conduct, when it is not a telephone at all but a furnace with an address. That is the kind of sentence Mark gives you in passing and walks on from, and you have to run after it with a net.

“all those masts going up, the smaller box is a phased array weapon system patented in 2006. They’re sitting on ceramic heads. If I see ceramics, always concerning.”

— Mark Steele, to LSB Film Productions · 3:40

Then the cameras. The ones they call “low-emission,” the ones the Mayor's people swear blind are only reading number plates. Mark looked at the photographs — in the Daily Mail, mind you, hiding in plain sight — and asked the one question not a soul among them can answer. Why does it have a stereoscopic vision engine? Two eyes. Depth. Three dimensions. A number plate is flat. A child could read one with an eye shut. So why does a camera that “only reads number plates” need to see the world in three dimensions — the way a thing needs three dimensions only when it means to reach into the world? Total overkill, he calls it. I call it the entire case, held in a single lens.

“That doesn’t look like any ANPR camera … You’ve got a stereoscopic vision engine, which isn’t required for ANPR … So, why do you want a 3D image?”

— Mark Steele · 4:13

And now, right on cue, they've handed us the weather. Have you noticed? As I write this the health people have an amber alert over London; the ambulance service had, they tell us, the busiest single day in its entire history; twenty thousand souls across Europe gone in a fortnight — and the cause, we are assured, gravely, on every channel, is the sun. The sun. The same sun we've had for four and a half billion years, deciding — this particular summer, in these particular cities, under these particular new poles — to start filling the ambulances. And here, beside all that, is Mark Steele, calm as you like, pointing at a phased-array emitter bolted to the lamp-post. I only ask you to hold the two explanations up to the light and tell me, honestly, which one actually fits. They'll call me mad for asking. They always do. Ask anyway.

No — better than asking, let us do what Mark does, and simply follow the physics. What is a 5G transmitter? It is a microwave emitter. That is not my word; that is the plain engineering of the thing. And what does a microwave emitter do? It heats. It agitates the water and warms whatever sits before it — you have proven this yourself every time you stood a mug of tea in the kitchen box named, with no irony whatsoever, the microwave. So here is the question they simply cannot afford to let you ask: how could a hundred thousand microwave transmitters, every one of them pumping away morning and night, packed into a single city, not warm the air that hangs over it? You give one potato four minutes and it comes out scalding. London has been sat in the oven for a decade. They announce the result — “the hottest summer on record” — and have the gall to look surprised. Mark Steele is not surprised. Mark Steele read the label on the door.

“That’s a weapon system. That is the monster of a weapon.”

— Mark Steele · 20:42

Because here is where it took me, watching it, and I'll not soften it. London is not a city any more. London is a killing field. I said exactly that to Barry, Thursday, in the Alexandra — I said, Barry, it's Cambodia, it's the killing fields, I saw a documentary once, it was very upsetting — and Barry said, “Roy, it's just hot, and you've never been to Cambodia.” And do you see? Do you see what they have done to Barry? They have made the little word “hot” do the whole work of a cover story, and a good man repeats it without ever knowing he's been handed the script.

I'll say it as plainly as I know how: do not go to London. Do not take the children. It is a city of madness now — of a noise that never stops, of prices that would make a docker weep, of grown men eating hot food out of paper while walking, of a scooter on every pavement and not one soul who will meet your eye and wish you good morning. Decadence on the top floor and directed energy on the ground floor, and a stereoscopic eye on every corner, counting who is left. I would sooner walk my whole family into the sea than take them down the Jubilee line.

I am not a clever man. Mark Steele is the clever one; I only carry his bags and hold up the torch. But I have watched that conversation four times through now — you have to; these are deep waters, and you can no more skim Mark Steele than you can skim Sabrina Wallace — and every pass gives up another layer. Watch it. Then watch it again. Then, for the love of God, cancel London.

They'll tell you it's the heat.

— R.S.