The world is full of spies. Will Self is one, for Norwegian Intelligence and so is Christian Figenschou of the Standard Bank, Johannesburg South Africa. And of Quest, before I revealed him and Zuma’s people found a list of names taped under his desk at work. Back in 2007 or so.
I’ll have to explain my relationship to the Crown sometime and let me say for the moment we have a form of religious attachment. I happen to believe that God is an alien who did not create the earth but arrived and so we are not in his form. I don’t believe in collective worship either, so you can see it can’t be a conventional relationship.
Wendy of the Bath Music Fringe Festival has been waiting in Bath for years for her Damehood, ostensibly for her work as music organiser but actually because she is MI5 and she falsified my signature on an MI5 application back in 2002.
Back to the story, there I was having returned from South Africa in May 2003 having been followed by Will Self and other networks of intelligence and had the shit scared out of me because of it. As usual people got to close and gave themselves away. As it was meant to do.
I worked seven pm to six am five or six days a week and kept my blog. And I was amazed to hear the response as I was picked up by the B.B.C. and other networks, in particular, music aficionados like John Peel and Chris Evans. They played a game of not seeing me but hearing and they read me, took some of my ideas and went for it. Those years blossoms with old eighties acts coming to life like Gang of Four who played the Bristol Academy and I went.
My policy suggestions put in Tony Blair for the second time, remembering my military adjunct. They put in Barack Obama. They put in Gordon Brown. And they won the World Cup for South Africa. And they had an influence on public opinion.
I was a trade union master and a student and I was half raving all the time because I knew my blog was being read locally. This was indicated to me by the threats I met in the street and my car was vandalised one night and the next night they returned and burnt it out. That was a threat worth paying attention to.
But that is not the worst I had to absorb.
Naturally these people above had their own enemies who have lurked in hiding here in Bath, people such as supporters of Dan Quayle, then a contestant in the democrat race with Barack Obama. Like Don Foster, then M.P. and now Lord of Bath through hereditary means. He used members of the public to mock me and lure me astray I suspected. Funny.
I took a lot of psychological punishment and ended up going to see a psychiatrist, a Dr Bill Bruce-Jones on campus who was known in the medical fraternity for his appearances on television representing the profession. He diagnosed me with depression, not post traumatic stress disorder, and this was reinforced by a second opinion at the Priory in Bristol.
One of the things was Carmen Plant who went into my bedsit when I was away in South Africa and emptied it and replaced everything again after photographing it – my books, my c.d. collection, my papers, my bank statements, every damn thing.
She then went through a process of harassment by letting me know through the actions of members of the public that I had been discovered and she was the master of Bath….that the City was built on rock and roll. Untraceable, so they thought, but I have the files through Black Hole.
adjective, having or showing no pity or compassion for others.
“a ruthless manipulator”
merciless, pitiless, cruel, heartless, hard-hearted, hard, stony-hearted, stony, with a heart of stone, cold-hearted, harsh, callous, severe, unmerciful, unrelenting, unsparing, unforgiving, unfeeling, uncaring, relentless, remorseless, unbending etc.
synonyms: brutal, inhuman, inhumane, barbarous, barbaric, savage, bloodthirsty, sadistic, vicious, fierce etc.
I am ruthless, so I have learned and so will you.
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I am also a sexual animal Tipper. You are like golden syrup on a waffle.
If you think that isn’t enough, people used my reputation as an animal against me seeking circum for their loins which pissed me off. But that isn’t what I was going to write, no.
As if that wasn’t enough on my plate, I had the Labour Party using me as a population sampling for the Education White Paper under Ruth Kelly of Tony Blair’s Labour Cabinet so they were tuned in to my activities and Harriet Harmon tried to claim credit for what she was pulling off the e-mail from me at the Ministry of Defence.
And they say I swear too much….
Like a trivial numskull I kept my blog in New Labour colours, black, white and red and I put four ikons in the corners, the A.N.C., Amnesty, the Fabians and one other, I cannot remember now.
The only time I deviated was when it came to the “Make Poverty History” demo. This is where Hilary Clinton came in. You see, I picked up a free c.d. with a copy of the Guardian in 2003 which featured Bishop Tutu asking “Make Trade Fair”. The c.d. was entitled “Make Poverty History” which attracted my attention. This I put on my blog and Mrs Clinton picked it up and ran with it and the next thing you knew we had the largest demonstration in the history of mankind.
I have the t-shirt: “Nevermind the G-8 Here Comes the Weight” – with 8 woman who changed the face of Africa on the back. I had two but one was stolen from my flat. One was for Winnie. Mine is black, with red and white print which is faded with washing.
There is a story attached to this which I will save for later.
Eventually the pressure was super intense on campus. I had to present an oral examination to transfer my assessment from Master of Philosophy (M.Phil.) to Ph.D. which I understood as being an opportunity of presenting new research. Sally Clift, my examiner, part of Miles’ Biomechanics Group, didn’t seem to recognise this and I subsequently learned it was on the Queen’s orders because the Duke of Edinburgh couldn’t stand a long-hair winning his Duke of Edinburgh award at the University.
I weighed things up: money, happiness, pressure, ambitions and I made a decision. I insisted on payment of the last year’s grant which I had been promised, packed up my bags and data and went down the hill into the city and my bedsit. I had not been offered any respite although the campus knew of my psychiatric examinations so I rest my case and say “Tough Shit!”
My ambitions? Ah yes, my ambitions…well let me say they were not clean. They were to fuck things up as much as possible for my antagonists and bring them to task. Like Shylock, I want my pound of flesh.
Then we had Mo Mowlam visiting the campus in 1999 and asking to speak to the Executive Officer which was Kevin Edge the Vice-Chancellor in charge of Research and you know when it was set-up, for Mo and the movie industry via Robert di Nero to use his stage name again, for you. I was treated like a terrorist by the authorities in the City and I responded like one. They allowed them in, enlisting the help of actors to wander the campus as unregistered students and harass me with eye-catching similarities for my attention and mystery.
Mowlam was very anti-Blair and these morons are going to be the death of me. She also appointed Jan Viroslav aka Sherman Berman as Head of MI5.
During my two and a bit years on campus, I went to five demonstrations, in London and finally in Edinburgh, and attended 22 political meetings from the Fabian Society to the Progressives where I saw Thabo mBeki and he addressed me briefly. “The Baccalaureate” he said to me, a reference to the White Paper and the expected changes to the education system of Britain if I was successful, which Ruth Kelly was not even sure they could afford.
The point I was trying to make was this. I knew I was being observed by the security and persons unknown which turned out to be the movie industry and others, like Don Foster. They were desperate to lure me in and would not stop implying I was there as their man inside. But see, it was so easy to get in there and see and experience things first hand, to participate, but I didn’t see any Stop-the-War protestors, not a jot. Heal yourself, Stop-the-War.
I am going to take a break now and do what I always do – it is seen as my Achilles heel. Smoking, for I love it like food too. I boughyt hash regularly from a good friend with the connections and I smoked. I have smoked since I was nineteen and I haven’t stopped. But it had its uses as you will come to hear. Infiltration and mistrust are the name of the game.
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When I first went online on my university homepage I put out a distress call. I said I knew this was serious and I did not know if I was going to survive, please look after my family. The distress was picked up by N.O.R.A.D. and they did. Obama expected me to spray some more graffitti or something, he didn’t know I would be suicidal in my intent. Death or Glory.
My opinions were receiving Mandela’s endorsement and news spread of my influence and reasoning – Brazil and their Make Poverty History bash and New Zealand and their change to proportional representation. I saw my influence everywhere without knowing how or why. I just kept dancing. And writing.
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” – Freiderich Nietzsche
The Mechanical Engineering Department was a hotbed of MI and masonic recruitment. In particular one prick named Keith Paskins gave me a head ache and in return he published but not on his project. He earned a place as class captain for his work on me.
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I have the files.
When I was living in Catherine Place, I was registered at the G.P. surgery of Dr Leach and Dr Julian Head. Leach was an agent of Billy Bragg and Winnie Mandela but Bragg betrayed Winnie bv getting too close in his urge for a Lordship, with his use of musicians and things like the inner sleeve of U2’s “8” featuring a wire-framed head like the final product of my final year project but better, to mock my work. My poster was on the corridor wall with all the others and is still in the university’s possession. Bragg has an S.A.P. number for he is South African born and he returned to South Africa to do his national service in the police, a fact that was unknown to Winnie nor I at first.
Julian Head is MI5 and he had a plan to strip me of my manly wares, me sperm in other words and then kill me in a hospital producing fingernail samples to prove it was me and that I died of cancer from smoking. He obtained sperm from tissues taken from my room, took them up to the university biology department and did his gene splitting thing and impregnated seven women including Princess Kate twice which flabbergasts me with delight now I know.
These mother fucking students had done research of their own and facebook provided the clues that I was supposed to die in agony about. There was a relationship between Hazel Turner and Loren Borale of Cape Town, and Gary Rathbone and Simon Roberts of Bath, and Andre Frassek, and Kim Kydd-Coutts/da Silva and Karen Vermeulen of Johannesburg and that is war.
All this and we have not made December 2005.
After I had escaped Alcatraz I continued to drink a lot of coffee and smoke a lot of cigarettes, both on campus out of habit, and in the City, so much so that I became a local landmark. I dressed in Oxfam second hand clothing and went unshaved. I laughed my head off too, about what I had planned, though how I did not know. But my pupils dilated and my eyes were black.
My face changed. I grew a stiff upper lip that I can throw around now at will. That is from fear.
I also started a campaign of stirring the pot, of e-mailing the university using bulk and individual e-mail addresses, filling there intrays with allegations, fiction and non- as well as poetry, composed by myself. I also mailed progress reports of my Ph.D. as I did something different which they could not have predicted. Blogging software had come into being and the university and Vincent did not anticipate it. I joined WordPress in 2013 and got going, uploading all my intellectual property and research results knowing full well that copies had been made while I was at university and I suspected ill from it. But that is getting ahead of myself.
I was still being miked up by orders of the Queen. Everywhere I went I was observed with the latest technology and that is how a lot of agents work, with nothing more than a lack of security to allow their respective services access. They don’t report, they are observed.
I had a history of consulting a psychiatrist so after six months futile e-mailing I was suddenly collected by the police and put in a cell. The police psychiatrist said I was unwell and I was sent to the psychiatric unit called Hillview Lodge at the Royal United Hospital, Bath. Under Dr Danyte who is now Dr Calverley though unmarried and back at the R.U.H. although she is currently on extended sick.
I was placed on Sycamore Ward, an open ward then, one of three in the unit. The others were Cedar. A closed ward and Cherries, a secure unit. I was very annoyed at finding myself in that strange situation and determined to continue my e-mailing crusade so I leapt the fence the first night and the second, to go into town to the internet cafe and voice my demands, everything from readmittance to a wildcat strike. Remember, I was a panther, now and ever.
So Danyte said I lacked insight and had me transferred to the Cherries ward (a secure unit) for two months until I got free by winning my tribunal. In the meantime I escaped from the ward eleven or so times, up the cherry tree in the backgarden, onto the roof and down onto the gravel in front and away into town about a mile away on foot. And I smuggled in a bottle of vodka so one afternoon three of sat outside in the back and got pissed in the sun. But that is not all for a frisbee player known to me smuggled himself illegally into the ward and left distinctive blue sunglasses where he knew I would see them. John Fraser of Bath who is known to Breadboard as a one and not a no, i.e. egg with the big ideas for which he paid with the use of prison for his working against me by the Queen, may she gleefully wonder who I am now I salute with stiff fingers.
I got Marion to bring my laptop into the ward and I sat down and wrote all three papers, the seventh attempt to translate my data. I saved them and that was that – I had brain-dumped my thoughts and results so I felt relief.
When I was released I printed out these papers and took them up in a brown envelope and gave them to Vincent. Naively. That was in February/March 2006.
You have to understand – my gift had yet to mature and I was wandering trusting the wrong people and talking to them. Vincent is one of them. I texted him a lot with my woes, in his position as my supervisor and head of the group, with no response.
Later I became aware and that is part of the story I am trying to relay.
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One of the biggest errors my enemies achieved was personal. They took my tooth while I was living in Catherine Place in late 2003, leaving me with a scar to worry with my tongue and brother, I am bitter and twisted about it.
I had dental records left at Wits Dental School in the eighties and a father who had an enemy, namely Ken Ashurst who worked with my father at the N.I.M. at Wits (the National Institute of Metallurgy) which later became MINTEK on new premisis in Randburg, Johannesburg or Gauteng as it is known now.
Ashurst manufactured the tooth of enamel coating a gold insert with a diseased lining, namely Aids. The tooth, the new crown I had paid for, was inserted by Jane Timothy the campus dentist proudly, above the surface of surrounding teeth. It was hoped that I would bite down thereby pushing it down against the supposed bruising although it was an implant. This was to break the tooth and give my h.i.v., indicating I was gay in the face of the Nation and Madiba. It travelled via Mark Coutts M.D. and Vincent. Then like a mule I was to go home to South Africa ill, to be killed by Grant rae and Christian Figenschou for the microfilm it also contained, of the location of sensitive images of the Royal family that belonged to the masonic jeddah, Cliff Burrows of Bath University, where he had hidden them at Wits sports stadium.
But I pulled it out not three hours later, leaving me with three titanium prongs sticking out of my gum. I was still new to the game and when I got home I placed the tooth next to my bedside table. The next day I went to work at the University for I was not yet working nights and when I returned I found it had been broken into three pieces and left there. It looked like there had been a cavity within when I fit the pieces together in my fingers.
Again I left it there and the next day the evidence was gone. Someone had come in and taken it.
And I still stayed at University, in Bath. It has all the markings of Quest and the film industry of Robert di Nero and co. Someone wanted me to stay away from Bath campus and their was a reason for it.
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I have had an eventful time and amongst other things I blue-lined the C.I.A. of Newt Gingricht and four times in a month, that is, I exposed four consecutive lines of officers practising their wares in the U.K. collecting money for arms purchasing via illicit methods within Bath.
The King of Spain was active here too through Mileham and Burrows of the red jersey for Vincent. Everything was for F W de Klerk and P W Botha.
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I met a fox one day on campus when I was sitting alone have my sandwiches near the hockey field below the management block. It came out of the bushes with a rustle and I turned to see this ginger face peering out at me at no more than six feet distance. “Jesus Christ!” it said and turned and vanished from view.
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I got so peeved with the university and its lack of response that late one night I took out my smart phone and took a photo of my erect penis. I sent it in an e-mail to all the campus addresses I knew with a subject line: For the Princess Royal, Princess Anne. I hear the Queen made Anne make a badge out of it and wear it on her blouse for a week to show she (Anne) was a feminist. Oh yes, fact!
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