By James Fitzgerald I was never labelled as a conspiracy theorist because my position as a newspaper editor gave me license to call out the consensus reality — and my stock market advice always made people money, which gave my other musings credence. That said, I am no longer a conspiracy theorist because the people in the stores with plastic bags over their heads and the ones jogging in the countryside wearing formaldehyde and Teflon-infused surgical masks have superseded me in the crackpot stakes. This plandemic saved my life. I had been commuting 60 miles a day; getting up at 4am and returning home at 10pm. When you’ve sat on a cramped and stuffy coach for three hours in heavy traffic for the second time that day, after a long spell in an office, you start to entertain notions of spontaneous Ascension or becoming a dry-stone waller. After the first…