I was born and raised mid-1974 in Loughborough, within the landlocked East Midlands county of North West Leicestershire. I am from a working-class family, my father (Jullian) was a printer's clerk and children's book author, my mother a factory assembly line worker. My married parents became deceased in 2013, my mother and father died the same year, both were aged 66. My sibling (an elder brother named Justin) was born in Crewe.

My self-obsessive father often kept his own company, he was an self-contented man appreciating moments to himself; undisturbed he would reservedly offer fractions of his time towards his family. Before he met my mother, he was discharged from the Royal Air Force after mere several months, allegedly after being diagnosed with a personality disorder. As a capable printer's clerk, he authored a small children's Ladybird book entitled “Flying Models” (ISBN: 978-0721405346) from his flying model hobby that was confined to his man shed.

Flying models were rotational tethered aeroplanes which he flew at regional held British Model Flying Association club events. These were often held inside damp, frosted aeroplane hangers. Distressed by the high-pitched screaming of these model's micro engines and the tense, often angered look of men spinning themselves senseless. I would often distance from my mother's grasp towards fresh air and light of the open hanger door, avoiding lurking shadows of elderly men that would linger with ulterior motivations nearby.

My mother (Mirriam) worked hard during pregnancy at Brush Electrical Machines as an assembly worker, together with joint earnings, my parents saved significantly to enable a move into a detached house within a working-class suburban area of Shepshed. The relocation moved my mother into a more traditional role, where she focused attentions on being a devoted mother. Whilst in good health, she baked cakes, cooked nutritious meals, timely placed food upon our family dinner table.

After my father became redundant from Ladybird, he found work as a travelling book rep for romance book publisher Mills & Boon. The transient nature of the job demanded long hours driving, leaving him to frequently arrive home late; his dining room chair was often empty, each time this happened a pre-emptive stillness, a fear instilled in our family household.

He had many sleep-induced car crashes, his last crash hitting the fast lane barrier of a motorway. Fequently arriving late turned into nights of absence, before lights out I would often overhear my stressed and lonely mother cursing her frustrations at lonely emptinesss, from underneath her voice. Eventually, her suspicions proved correct, father had absconded and disregarded every care for us to share his life with a then married woman located in the Malvern Hills, a place completely unknown to either myself, brother or mother.

My parents worked hard and saved to take annual holidays at resorts within the United Kingdom, often to Lyme Regis, camping in a large tent along Dorset's gold cap coastline. At this (then proposed) World Heritage site, my father took an overly keen interest in fossils, in particular ammonites. His strange obsession with the fossil was the causation of him breaking two of his fingers somewhere between chiselling a hefty ammonite out of a cliff and placing it into his car. At Lyme Regis I reluctantly remember residing in leaky damp, condensation filled tents, eating fleshy tinned fruit and bland, undercooked food. Whilst at the campsite I never mixed with other children.

I disliked going to the seafront, my father pulling and yanking at my hand, wrist, arm and shoulder, behind my buckling knees and twisted ankles as they knocked painful vibration between crab infested rock pools; incoherent my father's excitement earnest to discover one more fossil discovery before the tide came in. As tears rolled from my eyes, over my cheeks and off my chin, I released I did not, and would probably never share enthusiasm or even want to partake in his inconsiderate fossil hunter activities; as salt became salt, as tear drops are to sea water.

My mother hurling accusations of infidelity at my father eventually proved substantiated, she became withdrawn and emersed in her thoughts increasingly paranoid sliding upon the verged slippery slope of a nervous breakdown. Being unable to keep up with mortgage repayments, my mother relocated us to a much smaller, semi-detached house a mere half-mile away.

In this new environment her behaviour became increasingly irrational. A lonely, heavily perfumed paranoid schizophrenic mother wearing a beige trench coat chose to stay out many nights, wandering dark roads for miles, possibly searching for a sense of reason. She'd often go missing for days; sometimes returning from detained by the police, her feet cut and caked in dried blood.

Crazed with paranoia our mother stormed the bedroom most nights, raging with mania fuelled accusations, that encited her deluded mind to impulisvely beat the living hell out of both me and my elder brother; terrorised and tormented by a delusuion of being raped and poisoned by an ex-boyfriend; alleging that myself and, more my sibling, were in some kind of co-hoots with this imaginary intruder, her deluded assertions alleging we were giving this intruder nightime access into the safety of our home. Food thrown in the bin, we were sometimes fed by a neighbour or relatives, otherwise we went hungry.

Throughout the debilitating and torturous paranoia of her psychiatric illness she managed to unfocus from her delusions just enough to be retrained as a linker (sewing arms onto jumpers) and thus began work for a hosiery company named Mansfield Hosieries. She struggled and endeavoured to keep this job after persistently complaining of not only malicious gossip, but also accusations of deliberate sabotage of her work. Shepshed was a small town renowned for local gossip and being in a small area of women for many hours, her allegations could probably beeen substantiated.

Child care was often hard to find when she needed to work overtime, we would both go to an uncle (Kenny), he lived in Thringstone. Kenny was a retired miner, during the eighties miners strike, as a scab he broke picket lines, enduring dispossession spurned by community resentment that ultimately deteriorated his state of mental health. I remember him scratching his stretched out shaking palms, rubbing them hard upon any table corner he could find. As a result of suffering stress, he made many recurrent visits for treatment as an outpatient at Calton Hayes mental hospital.

Many people wrongfully stigmatized my mother's brother Kenny as being Jewish because he carried in his pocket a considerable wad of cash, often over a thousand pounds. He counted this money over and over again, I remember him losing a ten-pound note and going nuts, recounting and recounting trying to prove himself wrong, until he was blue in the face. During social rejection, he sought fellowship as an evangelical baptist. He bore fever pitch disdain for my avid taste in heavy metal music (often describing my taste in music as hell-raising and satanic). My outdoor adventures in the wildwood often gave him discomfort; dispondent and disociate I never managed to familiarize myself with this “second home”.

Kenny eventually confided in the assistance of a hypnotic, invasive preacher that unsuccessfully attempted to divert me from my music taste and love of the great outdoors, my childhood sanctuary. Both the preacher and his religious nuts also attempted to exploit my mother into their fellowship, issuing her with an old torn up bible and instructed her to begin praying and preaching unto her children. She took to wearing a white silk glove on her left hand and drew out seeming endless chalk circles on our black tiled living room floor; claiming this protected her from demons.

The church eventually disappeared after performing a supposed exorcism, which involved removing our home of all our personal effects; after this episode, we never again saw this twisted preacher or his beligerent goons again.

So, lifelessly traumatized was my inherent projection that my other uncle named Colin, a warm, kind-hearted man who had broken his back labouring on building sites. Colin, through the Royal Anglican Army Cadet force, thought he might be able to restore some movement into my vacant, catatonic demeanour. The effort proved a miss, already traumatized the shouting failed to spur projection or even compartmentalize me, after being drilled a few times any mutual interest dissipated. However whilst in the Army Cadet force, I took part in two forty-eight-hour exercises held at Yardley Chase and Catterick garrisons.

This effort involved dragging around a heavy Lee-Enfield DP 303 (barrel filled with lead), a historical WW2 rifle that was almost as tall and weighed at least as much as me, at that time. The itchy woollen uniforms were uncomfortable and the annoying damp fustiness was near impossible to wash out. It was futile attempting to build a rapport with the cadet force detachment commander, the stressed man was seemingly to busy and maybe quite rightly consumed with conducting his affairs to take an individual interest in Cadets; from retrospective, maybe I searched for responses in him I had never experienced from an absent father.

Life at my Aunt's (Dorothy) and Uncle's (Colin) small terrace house located along a busy, polluted Charnwood road in Shepshed was a sheltered, safe environment from the crazed reaches of my psychotic and often violent mother; it was here during worse episodes of her grief-stricken illness I resided. Both Colin and Dorothy were caring, compassionate and loving but such endearing notions were almost completely alien to me. Colin was stocky and grizzly, being a multi-generational local he told many folk stories, explaining that the surrounding area of North West Leicestershire used to be revelling in “Witchcraft”.

Between filling his heavy tobacco pipe and filling his nostrils with white menthol snuff he'd tell intriguing folk tales, stories of leaper pits, ghost trains et al. As a family of five, sometimes six often journeyed compacted into a vehicle that was nicknamed a “Plastic Pig” or officially known as a “Reliant Robin”, an orange three-wheeler, low CC and fibreglass moulded. This was a restricted choice of “car” because Colin only held a motorbike licence. He often refused to buckle his draped across his chest seat belt, claiming static between his belt and his jumper would be enough to hold him in place if the car would crash. He rolled this three-wheeler car many times.

Along with my two cousins, we went on a two-star working-class holiday to Benidorm, Spain. The holiday was tolerable, but in many places almost becoming a disaster. My aunty was almost robbed when an infamous “woman with the roses” attempted to dip then snatch the contents of her purse. We also were lured onto a building site by the dodgiest time-share selling couple you could ever imagine. I found the heat intolerable, my pale shoulders were burned to a crisp, my northern European skin did not tolerate the strong Mediterranean sun at all.

Culturally I never really got to experience Spain but at one point did go out for a long walk on my own, at the age of twelve / thirteen this launched my guardians into a degree of havoc, at least for a few hours. I did not savour the bright, hot, dry climate and in many ways was glad to arrive back at a grey, cold, rain-swept East Midlands airport from a blisteringly hot, dazzlingly bright Alicante. During my stay at Charnwood road, my cousin suffered badly with stomach pains that, I believed, were caused by his diet of fizzy Corona branded soft drink.

As “latch key kid” I would nearly always arrive into a cold, silent, forbading stillness that I somehow, through dispondence defined as my home. This changed when my elder sibling found mother upstairs, self slain, limp and semi-conscious, her leaking life contained inside a white and red streaked bloody bathtub, her wrists deeply cut open, sprawled limp dripping congealed blood. I was pulled back from observing this, but the picture from that momentary glance remains with me to this day. Mother withdrawn confining herself to darkness and bed rest until she was observed and reported to the police for pulling out a kitchen knife on a canvassing politician.

Upon arrest, a distraught mother finally got much needed psychiatric help to alleviate the years of suffering she had endured with Paranoid Schizophrenia. As I walked away, led by an allocated social worker, attentions fixated on the reflective glass of windows and doors being bored up with wood boards; my emaciated and trembling body was turned away from the hectic single-parent family life that my disturbed rationality had clung desperately to signify a validated existance.

Subsequently, (originally my mother agreed to me going into care but then retracted) I was subjected to a “full ward of the court” whilst my elder sibling was bundled into Loughborough student bedsit land accommodation, were alone, without much support he struggled to manage with ongoing episodes of bulimia and recurrent flashbacks from Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

My sibling and I were fetched (without being given a choice) from North West Leicestershire and driven at least twice to the Malvern in Worcestershire by my lucid and estranged father. Once for a defacing visit and the next and final occasion was to attend his second wedding to a callous would be but never materialized stepmother who had so abruptly removed our father from our lives. She disliked us immensely, as an unsightly inconvenience when out of our sight she frequently and abruptly referred to us as “ZOMBIES”, noticeably when enquiring how much longer we would be present within her house.

At a meticulously planned wedding ceremony, we were left outside with a family member, such as the strength of feeling toward our unwanted, uncouth presence. A broken, unrecoverable chapter of unsightly history both the bride (Mistress Susan) and the groom (my father) wanted to forget, disregard and move on from. Although these two were overheard after bedtime in debate during our stay, no concern or empathy was ever directly shown to us in the vaguest concern of our neglected and poverty-stricken situation back in North West Leicestershire.

Observing this poorly written grammar you'll probably guess I suffer quite severely from dyslexia, I have always got my b's and d's back to front and even had a problem with writing the number “2” upside down. I received a poor, disrupted education. My school attendance was minimal, vague, tormented and ostracized; I was denounced and stigmatized by older children as “FREAK” or “ALIEN” at almost every attainable instance of inclusion. So vindictive and grievous was this bullying (for years my elder sibling went along with it) that I was slashed deeply across my right hand with a craft knife when seated at a table within the kitchen of my home.

For five years remaining, I was repeatedly abused in local governmental care, exposed naked inside children's homes, fiddled by foster parents and mentally abused by relatives and insidious “friends of the family”. All photographs of me & brother as children, along with close family and distant relatives were all cut up into misshape triangles with plastic-handled scissors, then thrown into the rubbish bin of my drunken mother's void of Holstein pills dissolution. At first, she cut out my father, but I guess the act of damaging the photo of us also became unbearable, hence destroying all of them.

Adolescent life away from home during primary schooling, between the years of five and ten, I can only describe as utterly sinister. I used to dance away my obsessive-compulsive disorders between tarmac pavement cracks as though they were deep crevasses of to be or not to be, cursed misfortune. During my final year at the primary school a creepy and maybe malicious teacher regularly asserted his directive by pulling out my blonde curly hair in chunks whilst he mocked and taunted me “sly child” and on other occasions as “BaBy BlUe EyEs”, often constructing a spectacle of stigmatizing my slumbered presence at school assembly for refusing to sing from a torn, peeling woodchip wallpapered Christian hymn book.

Despite this unnerving altercation, I found a sense of relief, freedom in movement, resulting in myself cross-country running for my town twice in school country championships. I also learned to play a dented trumpet (loaned from the teacher who regularly pulled out my hair). The teacher, Mr Benison also segregated what he considered “Brighter Students” which he claimed were more intelligent and should therefore not be distracted. To escape alienating abuses I would often find sanctuary by a brook (an overflow from Black brook Reservoir) that eventually ran down to a steady flow, just beyond a trickle to the borderline edge of my home's rear garden.

In high school when not absent (having the second most poor attendance record in the entire school) I excelled in the study of foreign languages, most notably German (not French), my teacher stipulating I had near precise vocal pronunciation of Germanic words. After a couple of brief scrimmages with the truancy officer, my social worker began attempting to escort and drive me directly into school attendance. At the car park, she watched me walk into the main entrance but as she drove off she did not notice me walking straight through the building and out the other side, through a playing field and over a fence where glue sniffers used to frequent.

Frequented and favourite areas of my childhood in North West Leicestershire included White Horse (south of my Shepshed) and Piper woods (north of Shepshed), Beacon hill (two miles south), Bradgate Park (four miles south), Swithland Woods (six miles south-east). I rambled and coddiwompled everywhere within my reach at various ages, expanding my reach through BMX riding (for fun) and still do today (for exercise). This area of Leicestershire was a stronghold of Viking settlement, and many places ending or beginning with the name “Thorpe” still tell of this within their names.

Although I have a birthed connection to this central England vicinity, my family were proper Northerners who came to this area, arriving into the East Midlands to earn a living wage from working-class, manual jobs. My Scotto-Norman father originated from Batley, Yorkshire, my scandinavian mother was born in Durham. They were both experienced arrogance from being outcast as intruding outsiders by locals in Leicestershire. Anybody who was not of 5th or 6th generation within this locality was viewed and thus stigmatized as an outsider, beyond any conception of locality.

Distant visits via car with my family to the Towers mental hospital were incredibly stressful, initially, originally my sick mother had been misdiagnosed with depression and subsequently received many shock treatments of Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT). By the time we were allowed onto the locked down ward, she could not recognize us as her family by our appearance.

It was claimed that due to the treatment, she also had immense trouble speaking clearly, varying in volume and tone which was alarmingly alien and impossible at times to understand. Wards she resided on were always locked and upon our last visit to the ward, we had to be rushed off the premises as another impatient caught our eyes and proceed to direct malevolence towards our presence.

After being made a “ward of court”; from the age of eleven years onward a transient, dishevelled four years ensued, ghosted between placement after placement, a faded existence consisting of fifty-two designated residential care placements. This involved residing under the roof of many foster parents and misplaced foster siblings who were exploited underage prostitutes, suppressed drug addicts, some were quick-tempered, others violent psychotics troubled with unpredictable and unresponsive personality disorders.

After the redundant failure of satellite foster placements (around the locality of Shepshed and Loughborough) in between moves to Leicester, I was resettled in a now redundant mining town of Coalville. Schooling was transferred to King Edward college, where I fell behind with work, unfocused on learning I was taken to see the deputy headmaster who was ill-informed enough to be mystified as to why I wasn't being graded after he tested me to an IQ of 150+.

For several months, I was residentially placed in a semi-detached town house located mere footsteps away from Coalville's busy London road. The foster parents were both busy teachers, they never expressed any nurturing love towards me as they did to their maternal children. I could not relate to a functional nuclear family life that I hadly experienced.

A tall grey hair foster father named “dick” enjoyed his own time with a bottle of Scotch, routinely sitting himself down in a leather chair placed in between two pedigree great Dane dogs which often evacuated the smelt of excrement, a lingering unpleasant canine discharge that was overtly pungent to the nose. Next door I made friends with a neighbouring teenager with brittle bones, he hung on a lot where he could but due to his nervous silly attitude was not tolerated much by other people.

Over a busy main road was some green iron gates at the perimeter of the town's park, here a made friends with heavy metal bikers, some hells angels. I found myself attracted to the bright embroidery of their denim cut off waistcoats and felt enamoured not just by their taste in powerful rumbling motorbikes but also by the uniqueness of their heavy metal music. Just past an allotment, the park backed off onto Whitwick Colliery, which had been abandoned and demolished into an enormous pile of dusty rubble.

The boarded derelict town was financially redundant and in many places almost lawless; underage drinking, rowdiness and in the midst of confusion fighting was a very common occurrence. I was illegally served a copious amount of alcohol inside pubs and two clubs (snooker and nightclub) at the age of fifteen, these teenage nights would end either with a bloody nose or projecting vomit over filthy pavements. Trouble became so bad within this dying town the council demolished our hangout, the park shelter, a brick building with park seating removed, leaving us nowhere to go.

Nothing changed in this dreary town, I would often turn away from the sun and face off towards ever-changing patterns of rain that gave relieving indifference to awareness of the stagnated surrounding. Crumbling and dammed conceptual reality cast far away from any upliftment via urban regeneration. Any gentrification would have looked obscured, if not odd, to the emotionally torn faces of this broken, debilitated mining town.

Through a friend, I met with the good company of an ex-biker by the name of Bill who introduced me to intricate selections of cords in the electric guitar and his infinitely wide taste and knowledge in classic 70s to late 80s rock music. His family were kind to me, shared food and drink whilst I was there. Bill had some mental health problems and had lost two inches off one leg due to a motorcycle accident, which in retrospective had probably anchored with trauma to a house he rarely ever left.

Due to my surname being Cooper they gave me the nickname “Alice” which kinda stuck but only whilst I was resident within the town, I never chose to hang on to this nickname. I believe Bill's family had considered fostering me at some stage, but a police caution resulting in their house being searched completely wrecked and finished any chance of a placement within this home. From Coalville, I was again returned to the city of Leicester, after a few days stay in the Holt (childrens home in Birstal) I was transferred to a hostel located on Gopsal street, in a run-down Highfields area of Leicester.

The hostel was geared towards rehabilitating institutionalised “Children's Home” residents into independent living; there were no new introductions to these residents, as already previously known them from many other children's homes I had previously resided in. The idea behind the hostel was beneficial, but was floored with apathy from years of unresponsive dejection.

I spent eight months ascending the council waiting list for a flat. Arriving near the top, I was offered a studio flat housed inside a grey concrete high rise flat block named “de-Montfort House” located next to Leicester's busy main Railway Station. Here I was awarded and squandered my “leaving care grant” leaving me either seated on the floor in silence or staring out of one of two thick double-glazed square windows at the ant life below. Whilst here, I avoided the notorious King's Head and drank at Leicester de-Montfort public house located on New Walk.

Here I met Pip and Blacko, two pot-smoking Hells Angels (ex Rat eye members) thus enabling me to copiously drink alcohol (Newcastle Brown Ale) and smoke both tobacco and weed profusely. I was also befriended by a geeky guy from Rushymead who shared the same birthday as me but had nothing else in common other than lucidly similar taste in heavy metal music; he presents himself a few times before fading away, I once met his reclusive parents who I found owned a vintage Austin Cambridge car.

I was temporarily housed, sometimes for months in three different children's homes (but still managed by the same local authority) within the city of Leicester; twice at The Oaks, (Highfields) — three times at Dunblane Avenue, (Rushy Mead, Thurmaston) and three to four times at the notorious Holt reception home (Birstall). Many unwanted mixed races, gipsy and mentally ill and just pure angry children co-inhabited these state-run adolescent institutions alongside me.

There were other places named “secure units” for more damaged children. Lucky, I narrowly avoided the Beeches children's home (haunts of child-abusing predators Frank Beck & Lord Janner) although I assume this deliberated as an 'option' many times during years of social worker meetings. In 1990 finding me kicked out of temporary accommodation, I happened to catch onto the tail end of a white diaspora nomadic subculture known as the “New Age Travellers”. During this period of a mere few years I lived in converted coaches, ramshackle caravans and shuffled around inside makeshift shelters called benders.

Many of the sites divided into tracks, at noisier times live music would be play, at chilled times giant pots of opium poppies were simmered, distributed as communal tea. Vintage vehicles broke down and were stationary and often in need of repair, so many travellers used “blat motors”, usually run down errand cars purchased from motor auctions. Post humorously inside these cars, travellers replaced tax discs with beer labels.

Whilst inebriated to the eyeballs with Carlsberg Special Brew I also occasionally took skullcap and valerian, seasonally during dark, colder months spiritually journeying out realms, self-guided and exploring enhanced perceptions via consumption of magic mushrooms (liberty caps). Recreationally I dabbled a little with amphetamine but repulsed and avoided “nowhere ketamine”, the false friendships of MDMA / cocaine” and a sleepy cosy blanket death I came to know as heroin, more commonly known throughout our circles as smack.

Despite these often far removing altercations, I was generally well-liked and accepted, which I suspect was somewhere in affirmation of my run down and jilted childhood background. On an autumnal sunrise arrived the gift of an incredibly cute puppy dog. I had gained the loyal company of this collie/retriever dog for several years. He was spoilt with food and treats (mainly by old ladies) but there was nothing I could do to discourage him from eating faeces and licking urine from lampposts.

In 1992, I met the Druids holding a quarter year festa eisteddfod at Avebury. After some study of the eight-fold year cycles I held hand fastings, naming, and remembrance ceremonies. I instructed Gorsedd's at Avebury, Bath Circus, Stanton Drew, Glastonbury and eventually Stonehenge during (Winter Solstice). Early 2001 I was recognized as a Druidess (one of the youngest) by unanimous vote in a meeting chaired by an elusive but by now deceased Douglas Lyne AOD, chaired as representative from Welsh Iolo Morganwg Liaison of Wales.

Also, present were representatives from Glastonbury Order (GOD), Secular Order (SOD), Druid Clan of Dana (Steve Wilson, the fellowship of Isis), Insular Order of Druids, Iolo Morganwg Fellowship and lastly Cotswold Order of Druids (Rollright Stones). Some might think it bizarre that I never held social correspondence with any people from these orders, but we met in ritual order as robed Bards, Druids.

Somewhere between 1993 and 1996 I held a short held tenancy on a tiny “shoebox” basement flat in the area of Montpellier area of Cheltenham. Here I occasionally frequented a hell's angel clubhouse until they attempted to put pressure on me to sell my small chopped motorbike. In the Cotswold pub, I drank myself up to the eyeballs, often alongside a bearded spook named Eric medicating his dislodged memory from a disturbing legacy of working at GCHQ.

At this time in between my tenancy in Cheltenham I temporarily became resident in a small first floor flat on Westgate Street in central Bath. I lived with a female flatmate (a street stall ex-flower seller) who owned an old Bella Vega bus converted as a mobile home, the bus was previously used as a space to promote the raising of the Mary Rose ship during a children's programme's “Blue Peter” appeal. She was also an ex-drummer for an all-girl rock band. We enjoyed drinks at a music gig pub known as the Hat and Feather.

During the bronze and gold autumnal months of 1993 I was evicted by police from my Bohemian life, becoming familiar with legislation known as the “Criminal Justice Act” then manipulated and realigned towards a “moved on” transient lifestyle. Viewed as unsightly and angered by an oppressive state that denounced my existence and others as “not in this age, not in any age” (UK Prime Minister John Major) I merged myself into the 90s road protest movement which for me began at Twyford Down M3.

As an environmentalist, I contributed to direct action campaigns of Newbury bypass A34 (destruction of Snalesmore common) and Nine Ladies of Stanton Drew (reopening of a quarry for stone to be used abroad). Rambling my childhood, hearing the cries of Beagles whilst walking the Malvern hills with my estranged father (who shrugged my questions) made me a near lifelong vegetarian / vegan and an increasingly compassionate animal rights activist. Whilst in Wiltshire, I joined an environmental campaign for around three months in a joint effort to save an allotment brownfield site from Strategic housing.

The field was located in a small market town named Highworth. Locals from a Wiccan Coven among other people from surrounding areas were very active in politically campaigning. Some locally as councillors, others taking direct action (working professions restricting) against five-hundred thousand new homes being built, mostly on green belt land surrounding the area of the city of Swindon. The protest camp was erected and occupied by members of the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, a ceremonial circle with quarters marked by hazel pole gateways, there we performed Druidic rituals in our effort to connect with the people and land.

We built shallow vented tunnels and walkways high up in the trees to prevent eviction, whilst we petitioned the newspapers to apply pressure on the Swindon council to cease development on the site. The occupation was lost after a freak weather storm, providing bailiffs with an early groundbreaking opportunity to drag us off-site. Tunnels had become flooded and walkways wrecked, thereafter the campaign dissolved and the planned houses eventually erected. Next I became aware of a copse being put up for sale whilst hitchhiking upon a motorway junction between Wootton Basset and Swindon.

The existing woodland, Hagbourne Copse, was in disrepair, the land had blocked drainage, resulting in trees rotting from their roots upwards. The previous length of woodland cut down by developers to build locks brook industrial estate. I contacted a handful of activists still in the area from the previous Highworth campaign and after some discussion, we decided to create a protest camp in the woodland to secure its future. A month or so after I had given an interview with a local newspaper (appearing on the front page as “Owl and friends move in to save woodland”) I was informed by a informative journalist that Wiltshire Wildlife Trust had been bidding for the purchase of the woodland.

This woodland, an invaluable corridor for nature, was eventually purchased by the trust and thus was secured for wild animals to use and nature-loving people to enjoy to the foreseeable future. One warm evening, a few days later, we packed away all our belongs, intending to leave the woodland as though we had never been there. This woodland exists today as a tended nature reserve, at seasonal times of the year the woodland floor will be covered blue, in thousands of bluebells. I moved out from the reflective surrealness of this nurturing woodland and with a brave, tearful face walked towards a busy Motorway M4 roundabout and hitch-hiked westwards.

A lift quickly arrived and landed me upon the outskirts of Bristol. Clockwise, I walked along with the cities busy ring road to discover a road protest in a set-aside field located on an area known as Syston Common. Here I walked a further few yards through a gate, I was welcomed over to a group of people kindling a fire. Here I met Dr Margaret Jones, a veteran anti-nuclear weapons protester (Aldermaston) who openly debriefed me as to the goings-on. I remained on the camp for a few days, meeting elaborate characters who all had their reasons for protesting. Jones although with compassion, treated the occasionally functional camp with mild regimental authority.

The torn and tired wind flapped tents were aligned in straight lines and affairs on the camp overseen if somewhat controlled. One member of the came was named Bangles (because of deep suicide scars on his wrists), female protests flirted with him as he had the appearance of a fairy tale pixie, this was consistently edged off by a possessive girlfriend named Robin who had been raised by her mother through “Rainbow Tribe” hippy gatherings for most of her adolescent life.

Margaret struggled to keep numbers up at the protest, the camp became sullen and drunk, leading her to ask “Why do they behave like this, the army wouldn't?”. The protest was also infiltrated by two undercover moles, allegedly from construction company Costain leading my distancing after they were invited back onto the protest camp from expulsion.

I began to wander the West Country, performing Druidic ritual, staying on travellers sites. On one Beltaine I hand fasted protestors Bangles and Robin on the summit of Silbury Hill to last for a year and a day. The stag night was full of merriment and held in wake vigil of our ancient ancestors who had been desecrated by excavation at West Kennet Long Barrow and in the morning I requested they should join together for “as long as love shall last” rather than a year and a day. Confident on a year and a day I knotted their wrists together, they jumped a broomstick, drank plenty of mead and fell asleep together within the stone circle of Avebury.

One year and a day later I returned to fill my duties of renewal by returning to Silbury hill, but to my dismay neither of them were present. Also, the Silbury hill had been taped off as dangerous; shoring from a Victorian excavation had collapsed underneath living subsidence within the centre of the mound. I eventually caught up with the pair, Robin had run off with her Kebele rent arrears cheque and bangles had illegitimately moved on to another partner, bizarre sometime near the collapse of Silbury hillside archaeological shoring.

I decided to make a change to the world through the order of legality. In 1999 I gained resident Walton Street entrance as a mature student, to study an access course tutored at Ruskin College, Oxford. During the three months in residence, I originally chose to study politics then after a mere few weeks changed to read law inside the corridor depths of the Bodleian library, gained life membership to Oxford University's world-famous debating Union. Friendless and marginalised I was approached by an Earth First activist who safeguarded my guided introduction into the East Oxford's binge-drinking, substance misuse, Bohemian social activist/environmentalist scene.

Some activists, as a last resort, would take advantage of a late-night opening hours of a Jamaican bar, but I was turned away at the door, barred from premises yet unknown to them; surmising management did not like my “too White” Nordic face; thus this grubby bar became boycotted. There was also a party collective situated around a derelict mansion in the Boar's hill area, as well as regular pagan parties at riverside scrubland known as the kidneys. Over the years of infrequent stays in Oxford.

I also occupied and opened several squats whilst around and about in Oxford. I also met a friendly couple (Ali and Jill) who lived in a bender just outside Oxford until they decided to associate themselves with a Kabbalah group in London. Ali disappeared completely off the radar but Jill returned to Avebury (after finalizing the sale of Chalice Well, Glastonbury) and raved her madness about “Mother Mary” at Silbury hill. s) I quickly found many socialists students (some ex-trade unionists) at Ruskin college unduly disliked me; most notably, one black supremacist student from London who talked about murdering me in a conversation overheard then made known to myself from the Oxford Union housemaster.

Incidentally, the Union housemaster of year 99 said he had initially thought wrongly of me, though I'd be the first “to go” before apologizing profusely enough to purchase me a drink at the union bar. I also frequented the Purple Turtle nightclub and although indifferent to the ruling classes I felt that my presence, there was not at all unwelcoming, worlds apart I quietly and inquisitively observed the privileges of this succession of aristocracy.

With sleepless nights within the hall of residence admit lucid dreams of strange men entering my room and piling up non-attendance of classes, I departed Ruskin College by abseiling down the halls' stairwell, ran out of the side door into an awaiting van load of cheering Anarchists returning to Bristol from having demonstrated a vivisection cat breeding farm.

Life in urban Bristol had changed, multiculturalism had become tort and abrasive, unlike fellow anarchists I refused to chew on the climate change agenda and was at constant fever pitch conflict with masculinity obsessed feminists. I also detested Communist narratives that were being to prise and twist repugnant divisions into the existing Anarchist movement. Drawn to the opportunity of a “hard to let” flat and given the keys by Kirklees council just after one day (no1 Gelder Terrace) I sat comfortably with a can of special brew and watched the televised collapse of the crumbling twin towers.

The council flat, a terrace house conversion, was in a high mortality rate area of Huddersfield. I consumed copious magic mushrooms, picked from surrounding hills, whilst tearfully stooped in unresolvable depression, burned by a roasted red painted living room. I eventually picked myself up and abruptly left this windswept, run-down, near future less city of West Yorkshire. I arrived into a mesmerizing and bustling South London via hitchhiking some two hundred miles down the A1 descending deep into a mesmerizing and bustling South London; an unknown location I had told myself recurrently I'd never, ever enter.

I was invited to London by a multimedia activist woman who had come to be made known to me through an activist named Sussie. Whilst residing in Oxford, Sussie and I had become close friends infrequently enjoying each other's company; although during later months of absence, after arriving in South West London, our friendship stretched, strained, and thus became diminished. The South Western location of Lambeth felt like any other district in London but with quieter areas, where a sense of calming peace from ongoing commotion could be found, not dissimilar to suburbia.

Whilst at Dulwich road I authored and maintained three websites, Pirate TV, Road Alert and Global Elite. I also made a series of short environmental films viewable via the internet and also published in MP4 format on a CD-ROM accompanying the SchNEWS activist yearbook. I was also duped into illustrating a pick of published “top trump style” control cards. The release was heavily defamed by main media critics, the album a struggling flop and the record label was unnervingly threatened with libel, a fall out argument ensured.

Along Dulwich road towards Herne hill, there was Brockwell Lido, where I attended (for six months) regular twice-weekly Buddhist meditations of “Metta Bhavana” and “mindfulness of breathing” with the Friends of the Western Buddhist Order (now known as Triratna Order) who had arrived from Croydon.

Enabled by London's Quakers allowing their facilities at the Euston premises to host his visit allowed London Buddhists to take Refugee and also Bodhisattva vows with the Lama. Curious upon invitation I visited an auspicious event, I spoke to the lama and decided to take refuge but cannot remember reciting any Bodhisattva vow. The lama took some of my hair, gave me the Tibetan name of Pema, written on a piece of white paper in both English and Tibetan language, he tied a multithreaded protection cord around my neck and I guess from that day onwards I became divided Buddhist; via my refusal to give up my belief of ATMAN.

After some years (2003 – 2010) it slowly dawned on fickle me that these “Anarchist” were all virulent, crypto-Communists. My white reflection revealed a realization of something being very, very wrong with my current situation; from a light head a feeling of blood sinking to my feet became apparent, once I had realised a displacement.


Returning from India to London in 2008 was surreal, felt as though I didn't really exist in the world. I arrived at Heathrow airport, dressed in a golden punjabi suit, and wearing gold jewelery. I was paranoid about the press ambushing me so I previously arranged to meet a friend who would provide temporary accomadation to me. I stayed for about eleven months at a masionette located in a flatblock named Haymans Point, located in Vauxhall, a mere 500 yards away from the River Thames.

With no access to civic amenities such as public toilets, rubbish bins, water taps (in Westminster public drinking fountains were removed by the Queen to preserve water exclusively for Buckingham Place Gardens) those who found themselves trapped (including me) desensitized in traumatized captivity of poverty had a meagre sub-existence. One night, being so tired, weak and dissociate I failed to check one of my sleeping places (little did I know of dissidents historically hung drawn and quartered at this Rotunda near Smithfield Market) and thus was covered in excrement.

I woke surrounded by annoying flies, my hair, face, and the sleeping bag had rolled about in faeces which had the effect of making me dry wretch out of my tear dripping eyeballs. I moved away from the soiled location, as people glared as they passed by I sadly sat on a bench and waited from 3 am to 5 am to wash this excrement off my face and out of my hair. I have never felt so removed from my sense of self, not even during the terrible beatings I suffered from my sick mother, or my brother and his flesh tearing, knife-wielding friends.

In London during this time I did not have a bank account and no address to acquire one, with my mind to altercate into confusion leaving no method to process a plan apart from A to B and maybe temporarily to C. This left me without any access to social security benefits for two years whilst suffering appalling inflictions on these depraved streets. I kept my vegetarian diet intact despite the public attempting to taint my food with meat.

I visited soup kitchens and food handouts, at all these places as with every other place, I was abused; most prolifically and drawing in closer when I was desensitized, exhausted and collapsed. Oddly there was one Gandalf appearing Jewish man who relentlessly moved through it all, riding his bicycle, collecting waste food from Pret-a-Manger, EAT and other fast-food chains to hand out to everybody displaced upon the Streets of Westminster. In his spare time, he'd always been found by Cleopatra's Needle, in the riverside London embankment area of Temple.

Suffering for ailing mental health (diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder during early 2013) profusely triggered (more often deliberately) by none stop anxieties to step and walk painfully tired feet. The resulting (trauma initiated bubble of dissociation blown up by generalized anxieties) provoked fourteen-hour day walking marathons around every dismal and depraved London district for an entire year.

Hyper-arousal revealed numerical esoteric manipulations deep within the gauntlet maze of city life. I searched endlessly for vocalized confirmation of ancestral connection similar to that I had experienced in India. I was threatened, distracted, humiliated, scorned, gang stalked and ritually abused thousands of times. As I drew closer, homing in, I was physically threatened with pretend punches; street dustbins were also thrown at me.

In contrast, as I was leaving a town or city I often, to the contrary, found myself “rung in” and reported to the emergency services with false accusations, wrongfully stating me as wandering down the wrong side of a motorway, other false witnesses wrongly also reported me “hanging off” roadside bridges. Although they were times when my life might have been in danger, grief-stricken with anxiety and panic attacks; most reports made by the “public” were either overstated or astonishingly false.

In truth, few citizens possessed enough humanity to be empathic and care about welfare. I was rung in and reported numerous times merely because of an uncouth and exhausted presence that was at odds of “lowing the tone” of a gentrified village/suburban neighbourhood. More than three times I found myself restrained, placed into a car and driven over a country borderline, into another jurisdiction by an over rung fed-up police force.

Despite being never diagnosed with a major mental illness, almost six months of my life was subsequently taken away and laid to waste, locked inside abusive mental health unit acute wards. Several doctors forcefully injected me with an ageing anti-psychotic named Chlorpromazine (considering my age and history of substance misuse, the medication would have most certainly put me at grave risk of irreversible tardive dyskinesia).

I successfully launched and won a mental health tribunal, leading to my immediate discharge from the nightmare hospital. To my dismay, I learned that two doctors (one South African, the other Ugandan/Gujarati) had collaborated to administer a massive dose (just minutes before the tribunal). Before my detainment in Saint Anne's hospital, I was diagnosed with borderline emotional personality disorder, being due to not developing coordinated emotional responses with my confused and delusional mother.

On another ward in Basingstoke (after being picked up walking the A303 by police, section 136 and admitted under section 12 of the mental health act) I was approached by two female patients who stood at my door to attempt to provoke me into an angry response, failing to get a reaction one of them faked being hit whilst her cohort backed her up. I was dragged from my bedroom, taken downstairs, put into seclusion and forcefully injected with Haloperidol, some hours later I was transferred into a PICU (Psychiatric intensive-care unit) in Southampton.

I remained here overnight locked inside a room, in the morning I was allowed to walk around, where I observed other patients being followed everywhere they went by nurses. After a few hours, I was interviewed by a psychiatric doctor (a professor, he said I should not have been placed on the PICU ward and thus near immediately transferred me to an acute ward and not returned to Basingstoke. Three days later I was discharged onto the streets of Southampton, where I roamed the windy winter streets, unhinged by the unjustified episode.

I created abstract composition art with mixed media whilst on an acute ward at Basingstoke. The first piece of art was a fish jumping through a solar / Luna eclipse, the second piece a rabbit hole and the third piece I named “air guitar” created after sixteen hours of listening to heavy metal music through my headphones.


Police detainment inside police stations were also brutal. In Aylesbury, tired, cold, hungry and not quite “with it” I was again detained, taken to a police cell. During a panic attack, I was wrestled to the police cell floor, stripped naked by five male police offices whilst being put into a stress position. This involved me laid face down on the cell floor, both my wrists cuffed behind my back, my arms stretch out and pivoted into a lever where pressure was applied to my chest.

Two officers knelt on either side of my shoulders, whilst another of the officers knelt on my thighs. The fifth officer stood upright, his feet near my face, I could hear him stating that I stunk of piss among other derogative remarks. This lasted until I came around to hear a police officer shouting she's stopped breathing, she's stopped breathing. An hour later I was police escorted to a 136 unit at Stoke Mandeville hospital, I waited here nearly sixty-two hours to be assessed before being discharged homeless onto the streets.

On a sharp cold night walking the A4, ascending Box Hill near Corsham in Wiltshire, whilst resting by traffic ballads I was detained with Section 136 under the Mental Health Act 1983 (allows the police to take you to / or keep you at a place of safety) by police, detained and transported to Melksham police station. After refusing to give personal details such as name, date of birth, I was taken to the cells. Here as I struggled to stop them from removing all my clothes I was punched in the face by a male police officer, thrown on the police cell floor, stripped and my naked body exposed to the police cell observation camera.

During the struggle, my wrist had swollen so badly that I was taken into Bath Accident and Emergency to have them X-rayed. Leaving with no apparent breakage I was transferred to Green Lane Hospital on a mental health unit for a two-week admittance, whilst here I learn some anxiety coping techniques but thereafter discharged again homeless onto the streets. Next I was detained by police at a busy Swindon Road Junction and taken to a mental health unit near Swindon Great Western hospital, the ensuing mental health assessment placed me under section 12 of the mental health act and thus transferred me some eighty miles to Western Ward located at Southmead Hospital in Bristol, Avon. Here I witnessed a merry-go-round of tomfoolery antics, partly involving a deranged woman of broken dreams who deceived her true self to be the elusive and Champagne socialist artist named “Banksy”.

I was never medicated on this ward yet kept on this locked downward to suffer mind-bending cranks an entire month to the point where I saw light impressions on a door code lock. I punched in the numbers in sequence and the door opened leading into a nurse's cloakroom but onto yet another locked door, so my divine escape met a dead end. Eventually, I was discharged back onto the streets, I walked out of the hospital grounds and walked the ring road until I became dazed and dissociate at the end of Bristol Road.

If I were to look back at myself, I would have looked not dissimilar to a battery hen, just released from the captivity of her cage, not knowing where to go or what to do. A woman familiar with this stopped her VW camper van, ran over across a busy ring road to give me a warm embrace. She then offered me respite, inviting me to her house located in Eastville, Bristol. Bizarrely we had the same surname and were almost the same age, given this uncanny coincidence I chose to stay for a while at her house and slow found clarity among a still mystified, diabolical, external predicament.

She helped me steady myself for the month I stayed at her house, but she was not without problems as well. Her sociopathic ex-husband had used her state of mental health against her and had thus taken her children away from her, leaving her to fight a fraught custody battle to have her children returned to her. Fearing my poor state of mental health would affect or delay the return of her children I agreed with her to vacate, thanked her for my stay and with a hug squeezed her a warm goodbye.

Returning to London I slept among the chill blown winds in darker more hidden places of Hampstead Heath primarily to escape ritualized abuses enabling me to project through the darkness from my inner light to enlighten imprinted insight. Due to the extreme weather conditions, I was again detained under the mental health act by concerned police, dug out of the snow and transported to the Highgate Mental Health Unit. I was kept on an acute unit until spring thaw, whereafter I reluctantly sought the safety of sanctuary at my mother's home in North West Leicestershire.

Whilst here a systematic campaign of slander, libellous, fear-incited hatred manifested against me. It started by being followed by slow drive-by cars, with windows half wound down, provocative occupants shouting “pink lady” at me. The first few times I thought nothing of it, but then the escalation began. The drive-bys became more aggressive, with mobile phone cameras in their hand's passengers would shout insults to provoke expressions of aggression.


I met Karen Blake on a cloudy breezy afternoon, she had arrived by bus from Leicester, a locality where she had been working as a nurse in residence (usually a stop-gap for intelligence operatives) at Glenfield Hospital. We seated together outside and enjoyed Persian food. Observing her demeanour I noticed the two and throwing of her conversation changing the movement of her eyes revealing Trauma inflicted injury. I guess through our knowledge of this contained in my blog writings (which she initially came to speak about) we struck an informative friendship.

During the later part of the afternoon, after witnessing a rude man exposing his backside to us, she spoke of witnessing many members of the public randomly abusing me. Elaborating, she said she had counted over thirty instances within the duration of a mere four hours that I had got to know her. Before stepping on a bus back to Glenfield, she softly spoke of finding a place in Nottingham and for me to join her as a house share. Over the next two to four weeks, I learned by telephone correspondence that she found a small terrace house cheap enough to rent in the Forest Fields area of Nottingham.

Out of all the horrific places I'd barely lived through, Loughborough had treated me with the worst intrinsic targeted contempt. The hospital that I was told I was delivered (Loughborough General Hospital) had laid in utter ruin for decades until it was finally demolished into a mist of rubble. I never made any other friends during the five months I lived in my ground floor flat at Freehold Street in Loughborough. Visiting social workers were supportive but limited in their capacity, and again local police were sympathetic.

A few weeks back I had taken to a countryside wonder, places I'd walked as a child, but arriving back I was informed by a neighbour they had seen five to six people go in and out during the time I was away. Strangely, the incident had not been reported nor items such as my ageing laptop had been stolen from the intrusion. As I reached for a towel in my airing cupboard, I realised that my dreadlocks had been stolen; the only item in the entire flat to have been taken. Martinists also encroached upon the rear of the flat and ritually broke circular bread outside my kitchen window every mid-Sunday morning.

The damp terrace house in Forest fields had a large immigrant Muslim community who, although seemed extremely busy all the time, kept themselves to themselves. My anxious friend (and now co Tennant) had acquired a receptionist job with Blue Arrow recruitment agency near Nottingham Castle and by the time I arrived at the doorstep had already signed her line of our twin occupational shorthold tenancy. To the left, the Islamic neighbours never spoke to us, to the right, we never really knew our neighbours other than through months of repeated abuses shouted through the terrace house's paper-thin walls.

At this house on the hill I would sleep for fourteen to sixteen hours at a time with a few intermittent five-minute breaks until I collapsed into deep sleep yet again. We both endured terrible nightmares which didn't seem to conflict, such as the state of compartmentalisation we were both in. She confirmed the stories of the film Shebab Daiya and elaborated that she used to regularly walk Palestinian children to school to shield them from being shot.

The paranoid activist community centred around a social club known as the Sumac centre shunned me as an undercover infiltrator (until I very well known, and trusted activist arrived and stated otherwise). We also received a visit from a well-mannered and positive guy from SchNEWS (again named “Martin”) whom my friend got to have some intimacy with.

Due to the severity of PTSD, my friend tried to establish a link with mental health services. It took two months of persistent phone calls, repeated clerical errors and the such to get a referral. My friend claimed that she thought I was being religiously discriminated against. From the narrow terrace streets of Forest Fields, I would wonder uphill and into Sherwood, to wider less claustrophobic streets, where the wind was fresh through a well-maintained park.

The main road through Sherwood became busy and somewhat jilted during afternoon traffic rush hour. One early winter evening, my mind clouded with dissociation (which I describe as a white/greyish cognitive mist) I stepped into the road and was thrown backwards six or so feet. Passers-by rushed towards me and in concern instructed me not to move as I tried to lift my legs to get back onto my feet. A kind lady police officer arrived and remained with me during minus temperatures for six hours until an ambulance arrived, luckily I was OK but the car I had collided with was smashed, window screen broke and bonnet dented, at least the driver was OK.

One afternoon I had a severe panic attack, I disappeared for an entire fortnight. When I finally got back to Nottingham I'd learned the house was now closed off, that the guy whom I was working with to find alternative accommodation (due to the Muslim landlord defiant about me not working as a professional occupant) had died of a heart attack whilst out jogging. His correspondence had not been written down, so nothing was known about me. The council denied me a local connected despite seven months of residence before hearing the most tragic news.

Whilst on the walkabout, my dear friend Karen Blake had learned that she had been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumour, she kept this problem a secret from me, her family, everybody. She had gone down to Brighton, booked herself into a hotel and overdosed. Her family empathised stating it was a shock to us all and asked if they could use the photograph I took of Karen at her rememberance service. Not only did I loose my caring friend but changing circumstances, of not being able to keep our tennancy had abruptly ended my stay in Nottingham; I again became a destitute and transient vagrant. Stricken ajar with loss I wandered from Forest Fields bewildered.

I was detained by police under the mental health act after being found stumbling over frozen clumps of soil within a ploughed field after sensing they were coming for me. I was making my way towards some street lights I presumed was a village. This vagueness ensured a two-week stay in Bulwell mental health unit. After discharge to nowhere, harassed and left without accommodation recourse I departed with a sense of vagueness from the county.

I then moved to Derby and slept on the streets, here I had acrid liquid poured over me whilst asleep in a doorway, hours after the location was chemical washed, froth from detergent foam was everywhere. Bruises on my arms appeared as if I had been grabbed, of which I have no recollection of, and I was persistently harassed by wide eye Negroes whom I believed thought I was Lucifer or something.

This dismay happened for over a fortnight until I came into the trust of a squatting collective in legal occupation of Derby's historic Smiths Clock Works. Here I stayed with a White couple, mysterious dreams prevailed. The chunky red-brick building (resembling a building from the TV series Camber wick Green) had a history with the infamous “Hellfire club”, we also found a Free-masonic book left in the cellar and what appeared to be a hidden concealed but cemented entrance into some sort of tunnel.

After appearing troubled the collective mysteriously disappeared (as the dreams I had dreamt) and the dishevelled squat was again empty and locked shut, whilst again on the streets I made friends with a kind lady from a bakery who spoiled me with food and coffee. In other places, I believe I was intentionally contaminated with meat products despite clearly stating I was vegetarian.

One example was by a café owned by Derby cathedral, a young Negro lady had offered then came back with curried food, as soon as my lips came into contact with the rim of the polystyrene cup my vibrancy dissipated. Henceforth, I tipped the insidious gesture of decimation away and disappeared from Derby, knowing with a surety that the Church of England was very much an enemy and probably always had been.

I was also detained under section 136 in Derby three times, twice detained within the local hospital and once at a police station as a “chosen” place of safety. Although I protested strongly at being detained initially the police although coherent and well manner ignored my petition. I was taken into the custody suite, searched and locked inside a cell. After six hours, I was visited by an officer with a single pip insignia, who was courteous and empathic to how stressed I was getting at being locked away inside a cell for hours.

Then silence for fourteen hours I was completely ignored, at first politely knocking on the cell door, then calling out after some hours became shouting. In the surrounding cells, I could hear a male voice pleading for water, after another hour, parched with thirst from the dryness of the air conditioning I began to bash my head against the wall, smearing the walls with blood. Two hours later the shutter flap lowered, an Indian doctor peer through. I was given a sedative to calm me down, after being cleaned up the psychiatric doctor demanded me to be released immediately, no official 136 assessment had taken place.

The wind and rainswept paving slabs of Manchester were gruellingly harsh with a rising stern, blown coldness swept indiscriminately sidewards by a wind of moor. Unbalanced and often broken, these slabs would constantly tipple, soaking my feet in filthy grime. Within every dark place, the quiet places where bodies slumbered, mainly partially exposed to freezing temperatures that clung hard to my hands, face and neck, the same ever-present chill that caped my body following me as a shadow, not noisy or silent but there.

Every twenty yards, hidden between protruding doorways weathered and run down, people were pleading for money and stretching a limp arm for food and drink. At night, these streets turned malevolent, defining an edge of anxiety around every turn or corner. Through my pupils blue flashing blue lights painfully penetrated wiping away justifiable concern; partially away from my focus on danger but only for the sleepless, alienated night to reappear anew and unidentifiable.

Some people wandered (focussed on the unfocused) whilst others, dressed in trailing rags, often appeared on an imperative mission or shouting eagerly or with effort, provoking from others. Seated painfully, men would approach and asked if I was OK whilst others would place a hand on my shoulder, close one eye and ask me the seemingly same question but with a sense of ulterior motivations. Both women and more than often men, mostly of white English origin would be found to collapse, clothes ajar, above trickle sobbing and below leaking streams of urine dammed by torn open packets of spice (synthetic cannabinoid).

Smartly dressed people from other ethnicities would look down on them with disdain, whilst other white people would turn their heads away shamefully or walk on by not showing any empathic emotion at all. To raise my spirit, I purchased a Tarot deck and sat down in the street to give free or donation Tarot card readings to the public. The most grateful member of the public was not some purple velvet-clad Wiccan, but a lone Black African Guy.

His head and shoulders were slumbered, I said “free reading”, he replied “I have no money”, I stated “no it's free, to you”, he said no “I am a bad man”, I said “just split the pack and take out one card”, doing this he pulled out the ace of pentacles. I told him I'd been wanting this card for a long time, but always reluctantly received the hermit card. With a sense of optimism he reinvigorated, became lighter, smiled and said thank you but deep inside me, I knew honesty and that he had been a very bad man.

Strenuous, dissociate weeks passed by with regular visits to the Manchester council. After three weeks they placed me in a B&B then another B&B (both in the Rusholme area of Manchester) visitors to the B&B's and the entire area was so edgy dangerous for me that I departed back to sleeping on the streets yet again. Manchester city council took a negative view on this and paid me nothing but false hope until I defused and stopped attending these appointments for civic help. Rationalised common sense upon these streets was hard to find, I was harassed here and there, none stop. I often slept in warm stairwells within huge flat blocks near Piccadilly station.

I would often spend ridiculous money in restaurants (when my hygiene predicament permitted) to balance my serotonin level through consumption of nice food. One stormy night the temperature had plummeted to minus three Celsius, I roamed the streets anxious marching up and down, soaked through to the bone chill of wind blew through layers of stretched cloth to my bone, a numbing pain resonated inward having the effect of blinding my cognitive reaction to sight outward.

As I walked through streets that appeared to me as gloomy tunnels of darkness, a light shone from a department store window. The light was coming from a white “rag doll” with blonde hair bright blue button eyes, I decided I needed a friend so purchased her. With the doll placed in my waterproof bag (lined with plastic shopping bags) I walked and roamed through pouring rain until I collapse into a deep doorway of old Granada TV studios.

Soaked through, my outer clothes had become ice hard as I shook frantically within to maintain my plummeting body temperature. Facing death, I pulled out my doll from my bag, put her into my icy coat, next to my heart and wept uncontrollably. A warm spread, enveloped and relaxed my tense body, I opened my eyes, and it was morning; for the sake of preserving my life, I decided to leave Manchester. I headed westwards and hitchhiked southward down the M5, I passed through as many towns to recall but eventually arrived upon the doorstep of my Easton friend's house.

I felt a sense behind the door come, blocking the electric light inside. The door opened, and my friend embraced me with a hug as tears poured down from her eyes. I was invited inside to discover she had got her children back, she seated me in the kitchen and made a hot drink. She wept as she told me that she was on a huge bipolar mania from a gigantic December supermoon and that social services were threatening to take her children away over Christmas.

She said she called out for me to come and help her through the massive high she was going through, so she could keep her children over Christmas. I gave her my details to give to social services and agreed to stay until the moon lowered considerably into a waning crescent. She called herself a Bi-polar bear, and the highs and lows that came were significant enough to place me as something to stabilise onto the desperation of her yo-yo mood swings.

Aside from mood swings life was OK in the house, the children were looked after and loved, I never once witnessed them mistreated in any way; she still only had part custody so in between social services visits the kids were to and throw with their sociopathic father anyhow. I found her concept of giveaway free money difficult to comprehend, a concept that dragged her hours later into profound despair. She confided in me that she had been abused badly as a child by her father and uncle and needed somebody to go with her to the south coast to help her attain clearance to end the suffering of the bipolar she was battling through.

We travelled just over a hundred miles south to a cemetery where her father “rested”. I know consecrated ground to be demonic, so waiting on the fringes of the cemetery whilst she attempted to locate her father's graveside. Half an hour had passed, my friend was fraught at not being able to find him, so I entered and found her father's grave within minutes. As I called out to my friend I felt her father's spirit squirming unrest fully in his grave; she wept and shouted by his graveside then gave me a hug thanking me for the support that enabled her to come.

I walked out of Bristol eastwards, finding myself upon the M4/A46 junction at midnight. From here I headed north until a man pulled over in a Volvo estate and asked what the hell I was doing by the side of the road at this unearthly hour. I stated I was walking to a Cotswold town, any town where in the morning I would make a direction to go. As I stepped into the car and travelled up the A46, the driver revealed he had only three months to live from a fateful appointment with death via incurable cancer he'd been suffering from.

He told of being an organ player in almost every Cathedral within the UK, amplifying that he'd felt constrained by Christianity for most of his life and now with the time he possessed was living in the way of his direction. He offered to take me to Cirencester before dropping me off inside Stroud centre; his boyfriend closely following us in a car behind. I made four hours rest laid outside the doorway to the Retreat bar before being roused by an apologetic manager eager to gain entrance into his business. After enjoying the soup with a compassionate shopkeeper, I set out to return to Manchester.

Initially I planned to go to Liverpool first, but the selection of somewhat crank lifts took me straight into central Manchester. I felt immediate alarm at being returned here so swiftly from the hundred miles it took to travel from Stroud. I walked reserved through the city towards the city hall and into the police station, there I spoke to an emergency council officer who stated that because I had left the area I would now have to completely restart my housing application; the whole process over again. Going through another three months of hell did not appeal, so I set direction and took to walking twenty miles out of Manchester, pledging never to return.

I managed to hitch from the outskirts of Tintwistle, a peak district journey that took me eastwards to the town of Goole within the country of East Riding. In a small satellite village, I was helped out of the cold by a concerned local councillor, who referred me to the council for help. I was given a small room on Pasture Road to stay in whilst the council looking into my housing claim. After a mere few days, I was harassed and threatened by a street gang of youths from a boxing club, that once attempted to throw me onto railway tracks in front of an oncoming train.

I endured prolific and constant and malicious harassment for months, which was also being investigated by the local police. I was also frequented by a woman from a local baptist church. Furthermore, I bought up the convent harassment with her in offhand street conversation, and she stated that she knew of three librarians that had been strangled with their Red Scarves, which startled me to learn took me aback for a moment. Driven by acute anxiety, I walked the surrounded countryside of Goole and beyond intensely, mostly by a swollen river that was used to bring ships into Britain's only inland shipping port.

There was a large Polish community here, a local man, resident fifty-two years, could not recall one Polish settler ever starting a conversation with him. Entering bars the music would automatically change to “Motown” music, men of the locality would appear sullen. I attempted to make friends with a proprietor at a local crystal shop who organised some large northern even yearly. She witnessed me being harassed, but with a police investigation happening, there was little else to do. The result of the police inquiry was disconcerting, a witness was coerced into not giving a statement and poor CCTV footage of the gang of “dark blue hoodies” ensued a lack of evidence.

Disillusioned I departed from Goole, guilt-ridden at abandoning the help that had been given I hitched hiked south West and via Wakefield to arrive into the Southern Yorkshire city of Sheffield. Here a housing association gave me a tiny studio flat in a huge block, I was told that people had stayed in what I can only describe as shoeboxes for years, so I accepted a shorthold tenancy. Here, although the lounge had double-glazed windows, the sounds of women screaming entering in and out of nightclubs played havoc with my PTSD. Tens of drunken abusive men exposed themselves and urinated outside the wall of my flat almost every night.

The flat had a tiny front room which tripled as a bedroom, kitchen and lounge, from next door I would hear weird chants and scratching sounds through my lounge wall from a rather strange, maybe a little indifferent immigrant African neighbour. I differed the flat to be used as an emergency shelter and set out to walk the Pennine dressed only in a white strappy linen dress. So ill with trauma was I that I did not notice the cold or passing hill walkers' concern for my safety as a gust of wind blew flakes of white sleet dancing over my bright pink upper arms.

High up in the broody white/grey swollen sky I noticed a yellow and black police helicopter heading towards the direction of Hope / Castleton which then turned, descended, circled bull horning to stay away from the cliff edge; landed a mere two-hundred yards away from me. A police pilot, dressed in a jumpsuit exited and trudged his way over to me explaining he had taken off Wakefield to come and assess my safety. He shared a flask of tea and offered Kendal mint cake before getting into his ride and leaving. I continued my journey south, arriving two hours later in Castleton.

From Castleton, I attempted to climb upon another hill towards Winnats pass trying to find my way to Mam tor, at which point I collapsed and awoken inside a heat blanket riding to another town in an ambulance. Medics claimed I was suffering from hypothermia and had to be taken to A&E to be checked out. Arriving in the town I abruptly left, headed to a bus station and from then on my journey is somewhat unknown, unremembered by myself. Leeds was grim, the housing cooperative (Cornerstone) was full, so I again approached housing and was given a room in a woman only hostel.

The hostel (located in the Woodhouse area of Leeds) was surrounded by a huge twelve-foot iron fence and had security surveillance cameras attached and operational on every wall. Some windows only partially opened and there was a 24/7 reception. Just outside, on the rough ground a hundred or so yards from the road was used as a prostitutes' miscegenation knocking-shop, after some research I discovered the entire homeless charity network in Leeds was owned and once removed operated from behind the scenes by Catholic Nuns in Chapel Town.

This was substantiated when I was offered a room in a house attached to the nunnery, the room was coffin-sized and was a wall away from the pavement of the road. Refusing this, I was offered a Victorian conversion flat next door to Leeds Mosque. Given the two choices I accepted the flat, the neighbour downstairs although indifferent in her way was no bother but upstairs an Asian lad would smoke Crack Cocaine all night with his friends which kept me awake night after night. Some men from the neighbouring Mosque also accused me of being a Secret Service spy, and one time violently demanded to be shown the photographs on my mobile phone.

In 2014, I lost both my parents, my father to a lengthy cancerous brain tumour and my mother quickly to a heart attack, both had died aged 66. He never requested to see me whilst he was dying in his hospice, but I saw my mother two days before she died at home. I always argued with my mother and often left on a grudge or altercation, but this last time I shook off the historical grief and with a huge hug I said "I love you"; that was the last time I saw her.

I intended to go to my father's planned cremation, staggering continuously through sub-zero temperatures a considerable length of the A4 to get to Brixham, Dernwens. None stop harassed along the way I collapsed and was henceforth found by the roadside and picked up suffering from hypothermia and taken by paramedic and ambulance to a local hospital in Marlborough for my declining temperature to be helped back up.

I missed my mother's funeral, she was cremated, her ashes scattered in the North Sea at Marsdon Rock, South Shields. I never received my father's ashes, half were taken by a woman, his mystery lover, the other half kept by my estranged sibling.

I broke this horrific cycle of cult orchestrated, trauma triggered, anxiety-induced "Jesus in the Slum" internment, voided from prosperity of my life (the covenant of saint martin views having a home as sinful, whilst inserting migrants into our family house), after receiving a forty thousand pounds inheritance from the legal finalisation of my deceased mother's estate. This came through whilst I was sleeping rough in Cambridge, nearing the time of the deposit I checked the bank to see if the money had been deposited.

The Third time I checked if the transaction had cleared the cashier looked down and written on a piece of paper the amount of 45,000 [something] pounds, he looked up, smiled then enquired, "how much would you like to withdraw today?". I withdrew some small pocket money and proceeded to go shopping, first purchasing a warm wax barber coat, then a pair of leggings and finally a Dell XPS laptop. It felt bizarre to purchase things I could see, I never of knew this feeling throughout the previous forty years of my life.

I booked myself into Cambridge Hilton Hotel for two nights whilst I would decide where to go now that I wasn't financially broken any more. I took comfort, perhaps too much comfort, in being able to distance myself from the cranks on the streets and stricken with Anxiety and PTSD could not work out a process towards a sustainable solution from the inheritance. I stayed at some fabulous five-star hotels including the Belmond Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons in Oxfordshire, home to Raymond Blanc's cookery school.

Rooms were from £400 to £700 a night, others were higher in price. The food had consistancy, meaning you could eat the same thing, over and over again and it would still taste great, but was considerably expensive at £180 for a 10-course meal. As usual, I sat alone and dinned, dining alone can be the most lonely place in the world, but I managed to avoid cross table talk.

I booked a few days at a huge suite during New Year at the Waldorf Astoria Edinburgh - The Caledonian which was as lonely as being on the moon, I could never understand how mindless hammerhead Arnold Schwarzenegger got in and out of that small bathtub. I had planned to stay over the New year but instead acquired an £80 bottle of Dalmore and sped back to the Welsh black mountains via intercity train to be with two friends, arriving an hour and a half before midnight with a smile on my face.

Furthermore, I spent a considerable amount of money on chauffeur driven cars and when in London used a specialist firm to mentain distance from Martinist cranks. My advanced trained driver who also worked for the Beckhams had the numbers 666 on his licence plate, I thought to myself, that's all I need. I used him three times until he failed me at Kings Cross station, arriving an hour late, he stated he didn't want to do the job! But I managed to get a full refund for that day from the company.

I made a point out of sleeping a few nights in one hotel in London that I used to sleep behind, warming myself on the filthy air that came out of the hotel's vents. I used to look up at the windows of the hotel and think, who sleeps there. Not only that, but I booked a room overlooking where I used to sleep rough, I looked down through the window and replied to past self saying “I do”. Furthermore, I travelled the length of the country very illusively for two months before the money ran out. The last of the money was spent on camping and hiking gear as I set out to walk the more scenic routes of Albion.

Admittedly, I frivolously squandered most of the money on luxury whilst absent from previously inflicted depravities. However, I did manage to gain enough momentum to refocus my life upon outdoor adventures to avert slipping back into ill-fated urban stagnation. There was also enough time to put back together what I felt was my torn apart soul. To start, not looking back, I walked twenty-five miles out from Central London and into East Sussex where I commenced onto these so much needed ancestral spirit awakening adventures.

For here I walked both the South and North Downs, length of the Ridgeway, Devon and Cornish Coastline, Welsh Coastline, Snowdonia, Black Mountains (Offas Dyke), Kilder Forest, the Cheviots, Peak District (Pennine Way), Scottish Borders (Southern Upland Way), Galloway Forest, Cairn Gormmes and the far North Western Highlands (including the Isles of Lewis). I have also stayed in twenty or so bothies.

I am no stranger to travelling, having visited every town and city within the UK since the early nineties. For here there were times of rest, I utilised and acquired accommodation in Llanstadwell, Pembrokeshire for two months and then unfortunately moved to Tredegar where I resided with a Reiki healer, unknown to myself she was connected to Mooji (aka Cassette Lord Tony) and her visiting family members of the crypto-Communist Simon Community, co-founded by Jesuit influenced Marxist Eddie Linden.

My stay in Pembrokeshire was infected with overnight cranks booking the room opposite me as a B&B, but the owner felt genuine, even sincere but still involved with “them”. The terrace house in Tredegar was most definitely a Martinist mousetrap, plotted and deviated I believe to drive my stressed mind over the sanities edge towards suicide. Two other places acquired through the same company were also baited entrapments, consisting of one-two weeks stay in Halifax with a Sikh Asian lady who professed being known to the Alpha Course and one three month stay in Foyers, Inverness with a single elderly lady whose pig mask-wearing son taunted me with nasty messages unto my Facebook account. After the stay in the Highlands my account was deleted from the Spare room website, I did not bother to create another account.

In between these times, totalling nearly eighteen months, I found the company of a close friend who wishes to keep her identity and life private. So I will only say I healed my mind a lot within a sanctuary of kindness and compassion she provided. During the later months of 2017, I took a DNA test to learn a little more about my White ancestry. Results declared me 100% North and West Europe, further defined as 56.2% North and West European, 26.9% Irish, Scottish and Welsh, Scandinavian 16.9%.

With half of my family, on my mother's side, located near Newcastle, I was relieved to find that my DNA contained no trace of either Jewish or Negro markers. I was stunned to discover I had no English DNA, being not Saxon or Breton. In 2018 with the help of this great friend and after much bureaucracy (which included a visit to the passport office in London) I acquired myself another passport and this time an Indian e-visa to last three months.

I returned to India for the third and probably last time, flying again from Heathrow to Mumbai International to arrive on the 19th February, I then changed over to domestic flight (travelling with a transfer ticket) to Amdavad (this is the old name for Ahmedabad after King Raj changed the name to get the Islamic population out of Patan, once Gujarat's capital), Gujarat on the 20th. Arriving at the SVPI airport I reluctantly submitted to be scanned with biometrics such as the excitement of anticipation of viewing Gujarat before me, after seven years of sheer and utter misery alas only a window view away.