Prime Minister for Canyons wrote on Mar 1
st, 2015 at 8:10pm:
mmm poison through my veins yummy
yes you get paid to poison people
then you get your bonuses ...
you deal in death yet you are exposed
check out what happened to this bloke after his vaccine dose
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/11439622/How-a-jab-plunged-my-l...How a jab plunged my life into madness
BBC newsman Malcolm Brabant says yellow-fever vaccination led him to believe he was the Devil
'You don’t give up’: two years after the start of his ordeal, life remains tough for Malcolm Brabant, his wife Trine and son Lukas Photo: Clara Molden
By Peter Stanford2:00PM GMT 28 Feb 2015Comments304 Comments
Malcolm Brabant's face – round, ruddy, full-featured, and crowned by a bald dome – is immediately recognisable. For 30 years he has been an award-winning member of the BBC’s team of foreign correspondents, bringing wars, natural disasters, political stand-offs and occasionally something a bit more cheerful into our living rooms on the evening news.
If the countenance is familiar, though, his current location isn’t. His usual on-screen sign-off is ringing in my ears — “Malcolm Brabant, BBC News, Athens” – but today he is welcoming me into his home in Copenhagen.
He is, he explains, currently living in exile from the Greek capital, and thereby “missing one the biggest news stories of my career”. The reason is the biggest personal story of Brabant’s 58 years. As he puts it with what I quickly learn is characteristic bluntness: “I went bonkers.”
In April 2011, he attended an Athens clinic for a routine vaccination against yellow fever before an assignment in the Ivory Coast. As well as reporting from Athens, he has also travelled the globe to cover international stories, winning a coveted Sony award in 1993 for his reporting from a besieged Sarajevo at the height of the Bosnian crisis.
His reaction to the vaccine, however, was anything but routine. “It fried my brain,” he states simply. Overnight a previously sane man developed severe psychosis. An agnostic, Brabant became so convinced he was the Messiah that he telephoned his bemused fellow correspondent, Allan Little, to appoint him “first disciple” and ask him to record his words of wisdom.
One minute he was announcing that the Queen was aware of his divine status, the next he was claiming to be able to stop the traffic just by thinking about it, and control all technology. To prove the point, he flushed his Kindle down the lavatory.
It was utterly bewildering for those around him, especially when he switched into the persona of Winston Churchill, and then the Devil. Yet, because he had no insight into how strangely he was acting, Brabant also attempted to carry on reporting, with results that horrified previously admiring editors at the BBC.
With the corporation’s support, he was sent to hospital in Athens, then released, but shortly afterwards he experienced a second mental breakdown. Unable to work, broke and broken, he returned to his childhood home in Suffolk where he tried and failed to get the help he needed from the NHS. While there, and out of control mentally, he presented himself, clad only in cycling gear but minus a bike, at BBC Television Centre in West London, which was being picketed in a pay dispute. He demanded to see senior managers and generally caused such a scene that the police were called.
“I was the man in Lycra, come to solve the strike,” he recalls without flinching. “I really thought in my madness that I could do it but, of course, I was away with the fairies. That will have been the last time many of those people at the BBC saw me face to face.”
At one stage, he bumped into Frank Gardner, the BBC’s security correspondent partially paralysed after being shot in Saudi Arabia in 2004. Brabant attempted, Messiah-like, to effect a miracle cure by rubbing his back.
He ended up back in Greece and no better. He was persuaded by his Danish wife, Trine Villemann, to abandon their rented home, pack what few possessions they could fit into their estate car, alongside their 11-year-old son, Lukas, and the family dog, and drive across the continent in a desperate search for psychiatric help in Denmark.
Perched on the sofa beside her husband in their typically Scandinavian white-walled apartment in the Danish capital, Villemann grimaces when she recalls just what a state he was in. “I have been around mental illness before [her father hanged himself], but I have never seen someone so gone before. Malcolm was clawing around in the deepest, darkest parts of his mind,” she says. “It would have killed a lesser human being.”
She pauses as she pushes her long blonde hair back from her face. “I am ashamed to remember them now, but there were even times when I thought it would be better if he died because his suffering was so great.
“I have this nagging image in my head that won’t ever go away of Malcolm, sitting on his bed in the hospital, with his arms folded. He was rocking backwards and forwards, saying, ‘I’m the Devil, I’m the Devil’. Whatever anger I’d felt about the situation we were in evaporated in that moment.”