My story

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 an assembly line worker. My parents became deceased in 2013, my mother and father died within the same year, both were aged 66. Unlike my sibling (brother) who was born in Crewe, I was not confirmed nor baptized by the Church of England.

Léonie wearing a wolly red and blue hat, a red floral dress with a silver Vegvisir pendant seated leaning foward, behind a modern flat screen desktop computer 2020
Do you feel unease (racial hatred) or fear and loathing towards my whiteness?

My self-obsessive father often kept his own company, he was a self-indulgent man appreciating his moments to himself; undisturbed but 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, his somewhat meagre claim to fame was authoring a small children's “Ladybird” book entitled “Flying Models” (ISBN: 978-0721405346). What enabled this was his man cave, a room, not a shed, dedicated solely to himself, no other effects besides his own were tolerated (not even toys) to exist in this boxed off, sterilized father world. His family (including me) would entertain his demented spinning obsession with rotational tethered aeroplanes at regional held British Model Flying Association club events, often held inside damp, frosted aeroplane hangers. Bored by these going nowhere contraptions, believed to be aeroplanes, my focus and attention would go astray. Distressed by the high-pitched screaming of these model's micro engines and the tense, often angered look of idiots spinning themselves senseless. I would often distance from my mother's grasp towards fresh air and light of the open hanger door, avoiding shadows of elderly men that would linger with ulterior motivations nearby.

“Me in you as there is you in me.”

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 them to 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 was a moralistic and devoted mother. Whilst in good health, she baked cakes, cooked nutritious meals, timely placing food at our family dinner table. After my father became redundant from Ladybird, he found work as a book rep for publisher Mills & Boon. The nature of the job meant spending long hours driving, frequently arriving home late his dining room chair was often empty, each time this happened a pre-emptive stillness instilled in my family household. He had many sleep-induced car crashes, his last crash hitting the fast lane barrier of the motorway. Arriving late eventually turned into nights of absence, before lights out I would often overhear my stressed and lonely mother cursing her frustrations underneath her voice. Eventually, her suspicions proved correct, my flighty father had absconded and disregarded every care for us to share his life with a wayward woman located in the Malvern Hills, a place completely unknown to any of us.

“During my childhood I suffered abuse, neglect, and abandonment.”

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, unearthed by the situation, I never managed to mix with other children. I was often obnoxiously abused whilst on the seafront, my father pulling and yanking at my hand, wrist, arm and shoulder, behind my little buckling knees and twisted ankles as they knocked a painful vibration between crab infested rock pools; my father's incoherent excitement to make one last fossil discovery before the tide came in. Eventually, my limp, stretched arm draped down towards bashed salty wet ankles. As tears rolled from my eyes, over my cheeks and off my chin, I released I did not, would never share enthusiasm or want to partake in his inconsiderate fossil hunter activities. My father very much looked upon me as a burden, not mirroring his projections of how he thought his child should or could be.

“When I fell as a child, my mother never picked me up, cuts and bruises were left to fix themselves.”

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. After my father left, 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 detained by the police then released with her feet cut and covered in dried blood. She stormed our bedroom most nights raging with mania fuelled accusations, substantial enough in her deluded mind to beat the living hell out of us; terrorized that she had been raped and poisoned by an ex-boyfriend; alleging myself and, more frequently my sibling, were in some kind of co-hoots with an intruder, alleging deluded assertions both of us were giving him nightime access into the safety of our home.

“Six-hundred-one years before my birth in the year of 1373 Julian of Norwich has visions of Jesus while suffering from a life-threatening illness, visions which are later described and interpreted in her book Revelations of Divine Love. (English anchoress Dame Julian of Norwich receives the sixteen Revelations of Divine Love)”

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) who would live in Thringstone. Kenny was a retired Scab miner, during the eighties miners strike he broke every picket line, enduring community resentment which eventually deteriorated his mental health. He used to scratch his stretched out palms rub 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. His childless wife “Edith” (((an indirect relation))) was deaf as a post; I could never understand what she was saying through sloshing and spitting sounds, no attempt was made to teach us sign language. My mother claimed Edith was shunned by our family in South Shields.

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; I never managed to familiarize myself with this “second home”. He eventually sought the assistance of a hypnotic, invasive preacher that made every effort to save me, unsuccessfully from my music taste and love of the great outdoors, my sanctuary. These religious nuts also attempted to exploit my mother into their fellowship, providing her with an old torn up bible and instructed her to begin praying and preaching at us. 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.

West Leicestershire was a corrupted, guilt-ridden, run down and deindustrialized, landlocked county of middle England, Shepshed was a village come town famous for a once-thriving then infamous and now closed public drinking houses but only after after redundancy cheques had dried up). The town also sported boarded shops covered with graffiti; derelict houses standing delapidated for years on end, dismantled park swings located within a vandalized town park. Minority hand to pocket privilege shaked coins as a bady to a rattle, gentrified areas were inhabited by either pale-faced pie chart people or those who had administered the gloom of civic administration via sweeteners or secretive handshakes. Centralized in the town of Shepshed was a fancy building mistakenly constructed entirely in the wrong location (how does this happen?); appearing as if fallen from outer space. After Nat West pulled out the building was eventually utilized as “Shepshed Building Society” but closed down business after only a year.

With the redundant town having no money to deposit, the building became a dentist for a while until people became less bothered about the quality of their fake smiles. In later years, a massage parlour (knocking-shop) emerged over the road and proved very difficult to remove. Despite Castle Donnington (World Superbike Championship racetrack and also home to Monsters of Rock Festival) locality being mere few miles away, Shepshed was irrespectively minutely alternative. The dismal profane gossip of isolated and going-nowhere viewpoint, regurgitated by a town's depraved people who dressed ultra-trendy. Men struggled to find money to wear the latest sweatshop branded sports clothes whilst women would endlessly cheap talk down their replica super salon hairstyles; alienation at least had one positive effect, of not being involved with this grim facade.

So, lifelessly traumatized was my inherent projection that my other uncle (married to my mothers sister) named Colin (a warm, kind-hearted man who had broken his back labouring on building sites) thought the Royal Anglican Army Cadet force might be able to restore some movement into my vacant, catatonic demeanour. The effort proved a miss, already traumatized the shouting failed to compartmentalize me, after being drilled a few times any mutual interest dissipated. Whilst I was in attendance, I was complimented for being a crack shot when shooting a rifle at the cadet forces target range. Whilst in the Army Cadet force, I was taking part in two forty-eight-hour exercises held at Yardley Chase and Catterick garrisons.

This involved dragging around a heavy Lee-Enfield DP 303 (barrel filled with lead), a historical World War Two 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 useless 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, in hindsight, maybe I searched in him for traits of a missing father I had never experienced. As I watched my fellow cadet's attitudes depersonalize with every regimental promotion, I realized any potential future life within the army was not to be for me; dialogue from friendship was the only stimulating attribute that seemed to connect me with a world that always seemed to somehow move beyond me.

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 from my dislodged stand-off of previous disturbed and distraught existence, 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 and miraculously survived shaken but otherwise remained completely unscathed.

Along with my two cousins, we went on a two-star working-class holiday to Benidorm, Costa-del-sol. 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. We were befriended at a swimming pool by another family who happened to be from the same town and staying in the same hotel as us; my uncle talked about them for years after as if I had experienced a connection with them. 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, a product that promised a ten pence bottle top glass return but was to myself chemically nauseating to drink.

As “latch key kid” I would nearly always arrive into a cold, silent stillness that I somehow defined as my home but only until my elder sibling found our mother self slain, limp and semi-conscious, her leaking life contained inside a white and now red bloody bathtub with her wrists deeply cut open, she sprawled limply dripping her congealed blood; I was pulled back from this, but the picture from the momentary glance remains with me to this day. Mother's later, after she emerged from being withdrawn (confining herself to darkness and bed rest) she was observed and reported to the police for pulling out a kitchen knife and chasing a canvassing politician down our driveway. Upon arrest, my distraught mother finally got much needed psychiatric help to alleviate the years of suffering she had endured with paranoid schizophrenia. As I walked away, my attention fixated on the reflective glass of windows and doors being bored up with sullen, lifeless wood; until an allocated social worker turned my emaciated and trembling body away from the hectic single-parent family life that my disturbed rationality had clung desperately to exist. 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. Food was frequently forced down my throat I did not care for (slime yellow and black bananas) and many times I was sent into seclusion upstairs in a bedroom or down inside the living room. I found this house to be an unnerving dwelling, pushed back with anti-social pressure from my narcissistic stepmother's possessiveness that refused to show any warmth towards our cold, dislodged nature. 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, stigmatized 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”. The majority of my distant relatives (most of my family resided in Country Durham or Yorkshire) experienced immense financial/mental struggle of large-scale redundancy during the eighty's miner's strike and outsourcing of the hosiery/manufacturing industry. 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. In lengthy retrospective, I have come to know these privileged kids had been Jewish. Terrible things have been told to have happened to Jewish peoples, but historically, they are not what they appear to be, as they have been told to the outside world and in hindsight, problems (for them) that manifested for them have mostly resulted from them not sorting out their own unruly house.

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. I remember the clear sunlight dazzling between thin leaves of blossoming Hawthorn trees, rippling reflection upon slow-flowing water, submerging my ankles where I carefully placed my feet between smooth round pebbles. Here, was a magical place, a source of cleansing for me, distant from a reflective perspective of long-drawn discordant arguments manifested by my parents' often disruptive relationship, held together by instilled commitment. Hereby the water there was a transience passage of equilibrium, a sanctum where commodity did not seem to exist, where everything was substantial with the moment and seemingly enough between the many facets of nature; even for the stickleback fish that swam away as my little hands lifted the brook's rounded pebbles beneath the water. A length of rusted barbed wire that cut deep across my back dissociated, compartmentalized and on presentation forbade my return entrance into this special place; now merely lost and detached moments which at length, under the rule of uniqueness, can never again be revived, replenished by nurture or momentarily revisited. There were many other special places I found during my childhood, localities I care not to disclose because of pervasive threats of ethnic instigated decimation.

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; I think now how uncanny this maybe for those lefties that would attempt to deride me as a “Nazi” now! I did not enjoy school, the maroon jumper and grey coloured uniform seemed to me inappropriate and maybe even absurd. I found physical education both daunting and gruelling. Lessons would be taken, in the worst of weather, outside, pointlessly running around fields suffering often to cough up thick lingering grey mist. 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. After a brief stint of attendance I was allowed on a school trip to France for one week, as a group we stayed in Étretat, visited Rouen and Paris before returning to England. I remember picking slowly at estranged culinary experiences such as frogs legs and snails, an overcautious teacher terrified us with a supposed imminent threat of rabies from stray animals and Rouen locals glared at us all scrambling for chestnuts which we could not take back to the UK due to border control restrictions.

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). I felt harbouring sanctuary from nature, even upon the dark hillside of Iveshead point which, as I was told by a local farmer who had briefly paused to coordinate attention from ploughing the stooped hillside field, explained this used to be utilized as a centralized location for hanging criminals. Interested, I asked him why here? He replied, “because everybody can see them”. 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 blood 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 French / Scottish father originated from Batley, Yorkshire, and my Scandinavian mother was born in Country Durham. Thus, they were both frowned upon as intruding outsiders by the mutant 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 downward, 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. My troubled father did not find parenting natural, found responsibility laborious, maybe even daunting. Our clothes left soiled in piles on the floor and would go unwashed for days, at the table our food was often served cold, sometimes uncooked more often barely cooked at all. His expressed sense of optimism quickly diminished, and after a mere few weeks of being a single parent. Maybe it was a struggle that proved too much for limited mental capacity to nurture. My sibling and I were eventually taken to relatives within the same town; our father had given up, incapable, through the stress of things, of looking after us.

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 “places of safety” 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) 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 120+. Located near the school was a council estate named Agar Nook (after a morning drink of special brew, railway track breakfast with my foster brother Stuart) here at the age of fourteen I was introduced to Cannabis by a flat block gang of petty criminals (in their late twenties early thirties) named Flamo and Chuckapenny. Whilst spaced out to “Dark Side of the moon” they never, ever did any bad things to me, although now I realise here, I was both safe and also unsafe.

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. Although I often empathised with my foster parent's words, they never expressed any nurturing love towards me as they did to their maternal children as I searched for rationality from reminiscence, observing the bizarreness of a functional nuclear family life that I never had. 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 company with an infamous Hells Angel (ex Rat eye) family. 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.

In Coalville, two families relished and often enjoyed getting drunk and fighting each other. Although I regularly kept the company of one of these families, I never found myself involved in any of their brawls. 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 I was transferred to a hostel located on Gopsal street, in a run-down, grubby 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. Today I have come to know of Hells Angels as ignorant and self-serving, dropping victims off into a worse unknown hell more often than they do to genuinely liberate them.

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. I was allocated many residential social workers whilst my duration in local authority care spanned three very different (in professional approach) field, social workers. 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. Few if any pictures are to be found of these buildings, and very little written evidence of them ever existing is present on the internet today.

Eventually, I became agile to dangerous situations, clinging onto the morales fringes of a nineties throw-away society. 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 riding along the dragon track, I lived in converted coaches, ramshackle caravans and shuffled inside makeshift shelters called benders; gratefully sharing my humble homes with foxes, badgers, adders, and other terrorized inhabitants of the wildwood. 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. Living deep inside pitch-black copse woodland, I dabbled with life energy and forces known to many as Shamanism. 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 tweets (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. I followed the Eight-Year Cycle of instruction until I wore white-robes, held hand fasting, naming, and remembrance ceremonies; exclusively for white racially aware pagans. 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 himself chaired as representative from Welsh Iolo Morganwg Liaison of Wales (Bardas). 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 and rather oddly dress Shamans depending on which hair-raising circumstance they had just arrived from.

In central Cambridge, my puppy was kidnapped whilst tied up as I was going into the supermarket to purchase food for him, bizarrely by a female College Professor. With the legal assistance of the police force, the thief was tracked and traced by CCTV and after a few long hours, my dog was safely returned to me. I demanded that the thief that the police stated was from Trinity College, Cambridge is charged and prosecuted as a criminal but the large policeman dealing with the case glared, with fear in his eyes he stated firmly “you don't want to be messing with her”. In hindsight of what I know now, I suspect her to have been a member of Cambridge Apostle's secret society. One of the reasons I became so quickly freaked by the incident was because of University colleges studying cruel experiments via the vivisection of innocent animals; although police assured me this was not the case. An hour later, the woman who had stolen my dog attempted to take him yet again, resulting in me screaming her pestilence presence away. Noticing her intensity, I don't believe she got the professional help she desperately needed, and so never let go of that unfounded grudge against me. Huntingdon's life sciences were also as within twenty or so miles away from where my dog had gone missing.

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. I watched bands such as RDF moaning and groaning disconcerts through the base bin hall of the Axiom Arts Centre before I was banned for drinking too much alcohol. Whilst resident in this city I got to see Kate Rusby play live at Cheltenham Folk Festival, although I admit I knew nothing about the Fabianism or the EFDSS, it's dishevelled manipulation network, gatekeeping via a stranglehold upon the expressional freedom of the UK's monopolised nationwide folk movement; so fearful are these Christian Socialists of a reinvigorating upsurge of Germanic pro-White Völkisch movement. Cheltenham had been to be a cruel place for some people I'd briefly known, so I guess I was lucky to live within the upbeat area of Montpellier and to also have the Beehive pub as my local bar, where I knew and had some rapport with an empathic Irish publican named Kelly.

I also during 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 and enjoyed drinks (coke and a pack of crisps) at a music gig pub known as the Hat and Feather. Our friendship together sobered me up and as I received counselling on several occasions for alcoholism I slowly began to find my ancestral path again, from where I had misplaced myself for years. During points of the Eightfold year, from close vicinity Spring of Sulis I would walk up to the circus and hold or attend Gorsedd with the Secular Order of Druids amongst others invited such as historian Ronald Hutton et al. Whilst at this flat I had nightmares every night for an entire year, vivid dreams involving me being dragged or crushed by moving objects. Both of us reported being supernaturally intruded by what I can only describe as the “Slim Man” or more infamously known as “Slender Man” apparition.

At open Gorsedds, I began to become recognised as an Arch-Druidess signalling ancestral atonement through the sacred landscape. I found that same sentience upon the same ancestral light Douglas keyed into my essence during that faithful afternoon in a small room above the Atlantis bookshop (a stone throw away from the British Museum, Holborn, London where Marx had penned his death mechanism that trawled mass genocide across the Eastern world to return and wager covert war on the West from pitting war against the First and Third World). From this association, my ancestral essence became eroded, diverted, deluded, deceived, harassed, abused, by what I know was a silent campaign launched against me; at first not aimed personally but lucidly, projected from virulent and sheer utter hatred of our ancient white ancestral spirit. To later knowledge, the basement of the Atlantis bookshop had been used by both Aleister Crowley and Gerald Gardener. The area by the bookshop had been also frequented historically by William Blake; something also presents there, maybe in grievous and envious observance, I surmised had placed a discordant curse upon all of us, but now I know the curse was solely inflicted upon me.

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” vagrant 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 lifelong vegetarian and an increasingly compassionate animal rights activist. During the anti-Boots “Nurofen” campaign, I handed out leaflets about mice being injected and then placed them on the hotplates to test the strength of pain relief. I was disgusted by the way the world had and was treating animals.

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 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. After I gave 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 friendly and informative journalist that Wiltshire Wildlife Trust had been bidding for the purchase of the woodland. After a month of occupation the sale of this woodland, an invaluable corridor for nature, was secured for wild animals to use and nature-loving people to enjoy to the foreseeable future. One evening, we packed all our belongs up, 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; alas a victory!

As the future of the secured woodland began to form into a nature reserve, 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. Whilst in Syston common I learned of an Anarchist autonomous collective epicentre around a dilapidated building named Kebele (Ethiopian named for Community although in the two years I was known to them, I have never seen or heard of a Rastafarian enter the place). Along with Bristol's busy cycle path (converted from an old disused dram way) it was here I discovered nowhere but everywhere manifested upon a tight street corner off Robertson road. In retrospective here to the curse was present, hidden and displayed in plain sight, of which at the time I and others thought and knew nothing of. The building was originally squatted and then purchased by Anarchists with the help of a loan from Tridos bank, rumoured to have been secured by an activist named Jamie from the Ethical Property Company. A disused and derelict shop had been turned into a vibrant vegan café and Anarchist library, three rooms upstairs excluding an office were allocated residential, thus was the nature of the building as a housing co-operative. Here I was introduced to Veganism and cooked for busy café nights held on a Thursday and Sunday.

Although this was an autonomous collective, there were overwhelming charismatic characters present that would both lead toward and take attention away from the Anarchist project. One such man was named Basque Martin, he was kind, compassionate and gentle but had a glare, an alert pretence about him as though he had faced off life-threatening danger somewhere else in his mysterious life. Later on, I met some of his visitors that explained this presence, arriving from the Basque Country to Bristol, I believe as migrant refugees, from maybe being associated in some way to Basque separatist movement ETA (Euskadi Ta Askatasuna) they to also had the same alert presence about them as Martin. The graffiti-covered café remained open till late and often organised benefit parties and held outside catering for other protest events on a nationwide scale. One of the residents named NAD (backwards for Daniel) had occupied one of the rooms for many years, little did anybody knows his mother worked from the Deputy Office of the Prime minister at that time; a secret that was revealed to me almost fifteen years later. He told of being sent an invitation to join the intelligence services after leaving school.

Whilst at the café, I also met and befriended ex-BBC radio presenter and investigative journalist Tony Gosling (who later came to be employed by Russia Today before being reported to regulatory broadcast controller Ofcom as anti-Semitic). We talked in-depth about the secret rulers of the world, Bilderberger and the Freemasons, which then fascinated me to learn of having arrived from a fringe subculture known as the New Age Travellers. I was endeared to a fellow Anarchist at this positive café and spent two years dwelling here, eventually moving into Martin's room and becoming an addressed resident at the property. Tony approached me on Bristol's Open House Day with an invitation (not wanting to go alone) to curious visit Free-masonic Park Street Lodge. Within a public group, we were guided around the tour by Provincial Grand Master Dr Dennis Henry Fox MBE who was uncomfortable with our presence. In the lodge's main hall Dr Fox put himself up for questions, my question was “Why do Freemasons exist”, he hesitantly replied “to teach men how to behave”; the aftermath of silence then filled the room, stunting any further significant dialogue.

A month after Tony had run an article on the visit, the Kebele café encountered administration problems with the local council, albeit an investigation into the legality of Kebele being a legit Housing Cooperative. Housing benefit cheques were withheld, and mortgage arrears piled up at the property as I liaised backwards and forwards with the local council. Eventually, suspicion proved nullified and the investigation terminated resulting in a back length of arrears being paid, essentially saving the Cooperative from bankruptcy. It was later known through our investigation that Dr Fox had held a leadership position within that council as Thornbury and North Avon Council chairman. I eventually drifted away from the Kebele campaign to help out with a community campaign in the Bishopston area of Bristol. This occupation was raided by heavily armoured riot police with only me and Dan present to defend it; most activists being absent, away in London for the largest held “Reclaim the Streets” party. At the time there was also another protest at Aston Court against the expansion of a quarry, I had no contact with this other than knowing the activists who campaigned to close the hungry earth eater down.

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.

With the memory of my long late-night conversations with Gosling (who was later despised and denounced as a “traveller of the far-right” by the emergence of ANTIFA organizers holding editorial positions within Indymedia UK) 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. Many luminary functions of Oxford university felt familiar with me, seemingly around the Ratcliffe Camera and around a college quad idol of Mercury and more naturally to that college's verdant Meadow, here along the river Isis I found a truly deep connection. Friendless and marginalised I was approached by an Earth First “handler” who safeguarded my guided introduction into the East Oxford's binge-drinking, substance misuse, Bohemian social activist/environmentalist scene.

Much activity centred around the East Oxford community centre, which at the time hosted every kind of event you could imagine. The one night that seemed to draw every activist at least attending once was named Cat Weasel, other nights included a popular reggae night hosted by a pro-African advocate named Natty Mark Samuels and his Arawak (Arawaks came from the Jamaican island of Saint Martins) micro sound system. This friendly guy had an enthusiastic and positive personality so years later I was horrified to find him converted towards hatred, acting as a deluded Muslim through the black supremacist group Nation of Islam; every activist in East Oxford said Natty Mark had lost his mind after becoming indoctrinated into undercurrents of anti-White “Yacub” skin grafting narrative secretively taught by both the N.O.I and crypto-Communist Rastafarians. The Rastafarians who built their “religion” upon Karl Marx's Concept of Alienation; another secretive agenda revolving around miscegenation of the White woman from grafting out the suppressed and impoverished homogenous souls of demonised and alienated, ethnocentric White Male “Devils”.

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. The Oxford activist scene then was 96% White with 70% of those White activists were Oxford University graduates; including George Monbiot (before he turned pro-nuclear to solve climate change) previous linked to Tony Gosling through co-founding both Land is Ours and Diggers campaigns. 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; I shunned the malignant evil of this walling siren as insanity and have since not seen nor heard from her.

Through those friendly smiles during those hesitant introductory handshakes (made possible by a reference into the college by Professor Margaret Jones) 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 privilege of future aristocracy without the slightest resentment from my dishevelled background. 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 shoahed by a roasted red painted living room. Suffering the indignity of a broken nose delivered by a misguided drug-induced assumption from a deadlocked crypto-Communist. I then scorned, abruptly left this windswept, run-down, near future less city of West Yorkshire, never frequenting the (P.A.I.N) party Punk house situated a mere quarter of a mile away from Gelder Terrace. 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 Platonic company; although during later months of absence, after arriving in South West London, our friendship stretched and 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. In Herne hill between Norwood and Brixton, I entered, called to curiosity and strummed to a harmonic lull vibrating from a young woman singing and playing an acoustic guitar in a bar. She sang and had the appearance of a wild-eyed siren, and her seesaw lyrics fill the dead air with magnetizing unease; something told me the Jews had an incy-wincy plan for her, so I wiped the face and cut to the chase with my goings-on. Herne hill had a grassy park lined with chestnut trees and rising to the top of an east to west northern panoramic of central London, Herne hill ran a burred River Efra that seasonally flooded Dulwich road, an annual unresolved occurrence that flooded basements of houses along Dulwich road.

Overwhelmed by the sheer scale of televised media interest of being televised twenty-four-seven on every Indian news channel, I decided to take a step back and return to a semi-occupied dwelling in the London district of Lambeth. Whilst returned to London, I collaborated with social change activists, campaigning Indonesia's regime of killing off West Papuans over securing Freeport McMorran gold mining operation. Friends of Peoples Close to Nature (FPCN) (Malaria Mike and Richard Rainsford) had smuggled the Communist insurgent combatant leader of the armed OPM (Organisasi Papua Merdeka) to the civilised spires of Oxford city (with his seven children, firstborn named Koteka translated as condom) via boat and flight from the rickety neutrality of New Guinea. In between speeches and fundraisers, Wenda to the shame of organizers became infamous for groping the voluptuous breasts of young and impressionable female activists keen to help his indigenous people's cause in West Papua.

Pirate TV (dare I say Pirate Talmudic Vision) then bizarrely became involved with the Israeli genocide of Palestine. Late one evening we were approached by an exhausted and rejected International Solidarity Movement (ISM involvement within the city of Nablus) armed with collected footage documenting summary executions of civilians, sniper shooting of children and armour plate JCB diggers rolling over crumbling bullet holed houses. Having been refused a screening platform by every news outlet in London, ISM approached Pirate TV and together over a mere week produced a short film titled “Shebab Daiya - Life in the Promised Land — Palestine”. On the morning of the first screening, myself and "Bongo" was pictured and partially followed down Dulwich road by the earpiece, suited and shaded Israelis. No effort of contact was made. Bongo (Alison Tre-Lawney Hardy) had a long history with the new-age travellers, a movement honeycombed with crypto-communists from the Cold War era of CND. Oddly, her husband (Christopher Hurley aka Offshore) had been sited on an abandoned railway encampment a mere mile away from my childhood home in 1983 and owned a bus with “CIRCUS” painted on the side.

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, argument ensured, and I was never paid three hundred pounds for my illustrations until ten years later, a distant memory, long gone and only upon invoiced request. 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.

I was also involved with a more authentic and traditional, small, weekly Tibetan Buddhist meditation group in central London, instructed by a South African named Dirk De clerk, a group overseen by a Tibetan Kaygu Lama named Ringu Tulku Rinpoche. I attend this working meditative outreach group at least fifteen or sixteen times until the Lama visited central London. 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. This happened before I made my first journey towards India and to my knowledge had neither a positive nor negative effect on my stay in India. Over the years, I have come to a different view of Tibetan Buddhism through my research into Mao Zedong and Communist China. Because of this connection, I believe they were complaisant in devaluing my life as being nothing more than “overlooked” pretence, sacrificed to Egalitarianism.

Bongo had many visitors over the years, one was a gay man named David Renwick (signed to London Records), who played bass for the Communards; most notably on their LP / Album “Red”. He used to often moan and groan about his clinical depression, but never I heard him talk about his ex-band member Richard Coles who worked as an Anglican priest arranging music for Alpha Course creators and publishers at Holy Trinity Brompton. Another visit was a geek whose personal hygiene was abysmal, he used to have a server on a fixed IP at the property until I unplugged and binned it because of strangling the house broadband network. Melman, a Jew from London's East end initially from good1.com (a domain held by Matthew Cohn) went from awellconnected to Redraw internet (mysteriously based on a farm in Devon) after the fallout. All I can say about this lot is that they hated me, apart from one half-caste Negro / Chinese male known to me as “T” who made infrequent visits to the house; he always had a warming smile for me. Another regular was Matt Cohn's mulatto son, incidentally named “Key” whom Bongo babysat for regularly.

After some years (2003 – 2010) it eventually dawned on fickle me that these “Anarchist” were all virulent, anti-White, Jewish crypto-Communists. My white reflection revealed a realization of something being very, very wrong with my current situation; a feeling of blood sinking to my feet. I spent two years living in a terrace house at 65 Dulwich road. To the right of the house was an obnoxious black rap recording studio, and one door over was a gentrified gastro public house known as the Prince Regent. Occupants of number sixty-five were a travelling family from the 80s peace convoy who had travelled in a bus embossed with the letters “Circus”; they were a common-law husband and wife but lived distant due to the other halves debt-fuelled drug binges. They used pearl shells as ashtrays (which repulsed me) and an ornamental real human skull shelved in a damp basement lounge. It's so easy I guess to say “what the hell were you doing with them?” but on the face of it they were heartfelt people doing and enabling others to do positive things for people being subjected and exploited into the most inhumane and appalling atrocities.

“Slowly with uncanny observation of freakish occurrence I realised I was not just being followed but encountered by timed interludes by a Communist group of religious fanatics who I surmised as belonging to the World Council of Churches”

As I began to release this "Truman Show" type encapsulation, being used as "token white person” among a pleater of neo-Frankist Jews, I became a “Rough Trade” displaced vagrant contained within a “Ground hog Day” purgatory type scenario. Here I was inflicted with horrific, targeted acts of depraved malcontent, vulnerable and at the complete mercy of fate on the merciless streets of a bewildering Central London. I felt as though I had become the lead role in the seventy's television series “The Prisoner”. No conformation, no declaration, confused I was left to my rational to attempt to discover and rationalize what was happening to me and why? I disable rational about what was going on. I was held in this bizarre contempt of silence whilst I was bumped around (to create an illusion to make it appear that I had walked out or did not want to know my people) their trauma inducted anxiety triggered “mousetrap” (noticeable, played at Saint Martin's Theatre for fifty-eight years!) maze of Discordance, wagered to pull leverage that would always (no win for me) conclusion in a systematic trade-off involving grotesque race-mixing slice and dice of the Kalergi miscegenation plan. I cannot begin to describe the sheer horror.

“When I returned to the UK from India I found my estranged lineage besieged, then witnessed them body snatched and plundered into grievous, soul defacing disparities, indoctrinated into self loathing hatred, and thus they became completely alienated from our nurtured White ancestral spirit”.

For a mere three broken weeks I co-inhabited a tall red brick house (no 60) on London's oldest squatted street (Saint Agnes Place, Kennington), a stone throw away from the Oval cricket ground and through Kennington park the remnants of Rastafarian International. I resided at a three-storey terrace house with a male Sri Lankan Tamil named Ram (but maybe in plain sight written out as RAM); despite his ancient Hindu religion and him showing no interest in Rastafarianism was plugged by many of Saint Agnes Place black community as a “fake Rastafarian”, more often by ignorant frequenters of the “Temple”. Despite the craziness of the street inside the house, no 60 was relatively sane and stable until Jane in her capacity as a service worker working at Connections in Saint Martins (Jane had lived on the street since childhood) decided to bring and bed (sexual intercourse) her work home; a violent, tortured bright blue-eyed and blonde-haired white male service user who, after an anxiety fuelled morning altercation with Jane, in rage proceeded to smash up the entire house. I believe Jane at the time was trying to rescue him from being tortured as a “White Devil” and after our fall-out, nominated me to take his place. Ironically, a year after this incident, the entire street was evicted and demolished after Labour/Lib-Dem coalition councillor Keith Fitchett denounced die-hard occupations of Saint Agnes place as parasites.

“Every Anarchist squatting Saint Agnes Place thought the street as depressingly grim, although there was initial resistance to the demolishing of the street, few if any Anarchists actually grieved for the dilapidated street's long-awaited demise.”

Not popularized and probably unknown by many Anarchists on the dilapidated street the first house to be squatted was number 54, this house was first occupied (via squatting) by virulent flag baring Communists. Many anarchists came down for London's party scene, some had unwittingly followed me back to London from filming a short film about the Bilston Glen protest. In retrospective, Saint Agnes Place was a curse for many, if not all, Anarchists I knew. Freely available and pushed Ketamine caused much confusion, brewing dismay and divide among us. My friend Laura who escaped fleeing the street as a single parent travelling north in an empty van but with her newborn baby did not look back whilst fleeing and later described Saint Agnes Place as a grubby hell; the father of her child “Trumpet Greg”; was a close friend of mine during the previous environmental campaigns but had become estranged as he took to habitual misuse of Ketamine and had died shortly after living on the street from an aggressive brain tumour. I never entered or went near the temple, often avoiding even walking past it. I found the temples' perimeter to be a scary place, haunted by crack cocaine dealers and delusional frequenters of a surreal worship of blatant lie telling; I suspect was being echoed from the profanity musings of Comintern writer C.L.R James.