Truthspoon


Insider info and illuminati analysis...


...from the man they just can't recruit.

On the Edge of the Abyss.

A wholly true story.

Whenever I go out in London, something incredible, unlikely, improbable and unbelievable always happens, like I recently did a magickal ritual and forgot to close the circle. Not that I’ve done any of those things, well, perhaps I have. Perhaps my life is an ongoing uncompleted magickal ritual of some kind. I don’t mind it too much, it’s kind of cool and it gives me plenty to think about, and it also distracts me from not having a girlfriend, but sometimes it feels a little bit dangerous and edgy, especially at night and without the sun to protect me, when the demons emerge from the shadows like zombie vampires and I hear them calling after me as I quicken my pace and punch the metal poles of the street lights to hear the resounding metal dings of my own toughness.

This trip to London came about as a result of me hoping to see David Devant and his Spirit Wife as he was due to play the Water Rats in King’s Cross, but the gig was later cancelled due to a change in management leaving me with a cheap return to London and a night booked in a rather sordid and smelly Hostel where earplugs were essential if you didn’t want to be subjected to the wet slurpy noises of the couple in the bunk inches from you having sex.

I boarded the train at the end of the line seaside town I called home during the summer months. Some people prefer hot exotic foreign locations to spend their summer in but my whole life is spent in hot exotic  foreign locations and I like nothing more than to spend the summer time cooling off under clouds and the threat of rain and thwarted barbecues and festivals.

There was an uncommonly pretty girl who got on the train at my home station which surprised me and so as not to appear like a creep I deliberately avoiding following her into her carriage. I always do things like that. I don’t know why. It’s not shyness, I just hate creepy guys and I don’t want to be one. Sadly it means I never get to meet any nice girls because I don’t talk to them. Who cares. I avoid clichés. The best thing is a girl who talks to you. That shows strength of character and originality and I’m all for that. There are too many damn relationships out there, too many marriages and too many babies in any case. Gender politics are all so predictable, despite Feminism’s claims that it wants to change things. Women still don’t have the guts, even so called empowered Feminist ones, to ask a good looking man out. And that suits me to be honest because much as I love women and their childlike soft faces and ornate cleansing rituals, I still prefer my own company. 

But still, if a woman asked me out,  unless she was a troll, she’d straight away get 10 points for originality and actually putting her ego in the balance, which is usually what men are expected to do. My ego I suppose is too precious, delicate and too important for it to be trampled by a rejection, but I think the truth is that I fear acceptance more. More than rejection I fear being accepted, signing myself up for something I can’t back out of.  My ultimate nightmare, except of course for nuclear holocaust and a slow lingering radiation death, is to be on a date with someone to whom I immediately take a strong dislike, and realise that I will be trapped in a lie for the next hour or two as I try to think of  a way to extract myself from a very awkward social situation. The sad fact is that I think most ladies, most people, would likely bore me rigid after a few minutes. A date would be so much worse since one is constrained to observe social form and express interest and even desire in the person with whom one is spending the date. I can’t be bothered.

So I avoided any opportunity to talk to this beautiful and well dressed woman and spent the rest of the journey to Doncaster regretting it and instead sat near a disconsolate blonde Polish woman in tight jeans and scolding into her mobile and wondering if there might be an opportunity to correct what might have been an error by speaking to the pretty lady at Doncaster, if that is, she is even changing at the station and continuing on to King’s Cross as I was.

In the event she was indeed changing at Doncaster and she even looked in my direction as I shyly eyed her and likely displayed all the presence and power of a frightened rabbit. I told myself she wasn’t my type, besides, I had a seat with a number and a letter on it which meant girlfriend acquisition would have to wait to some other remote and unforeseeable point in the future.

When I took my seat I found an elderly lady next to me reading a slim volume from  Russian playwright Turgenev. She smiled at me with uncanny brightness and intensity which I didn’t quite expect, not at Doncaster anyway, and soon we began talking and her play was put down unread. She was a suspiciously interesting lady who after I had told her that I was a teacher in Morocco, told me all about her own travels as well as those of her son who was had also been in the Paras and apparently was now pursuing a career of ongoing higher education and, possibly working for MI5 (which of course she didn’t mention but which I surmised, I then told myself I was being paranoid and a fantasist). I wasn’t surprised that such an interesting lady was seated next to me and I almost expect such occurrences ever since my time in Japan when I became half emerged, or submerged in Freemasonry and the secret services, I have always been followed at a distance by Freemasons and spooks eager to recruit me and getting increasingly frustrated with my complete insularity and total lack of interest in them, except in so much as I can gather information to expose them and their methods, after all, they are the bad guys, there are no good guys left anymore, perhaps there never were. There is only me.

I think I’m the only good guy left in the game and I fully intend to act with the complete independence and full volition, and general self righteous heroism to be expected of the good guys scattering the dark criminals of secret Masonic paedophiles and secret service brainwashers to the dark corners of reality where they can’t get me. Every further attack or attempt to undermine me and recruit me is just another blog post or short story as far as I’m concerned. I can keep this up for the rest of my life. It’s quite funny really.

When I went out to Tokyo with the promise of joining a powerful network of something ‘better than friends’ and being offered the chance to become a ‘great writer’ in return for joining them and perhaps doing  a bit of spying I had nothing to write about, but since rejecting them I have had no shortage of material and the dreams they thought they could make come true for me, have come true despite them, perhaps solely because I specifically opposed them. It was the only way I could metabolise the damage they attempted to inflict on me during my 6 month long training adventure which involved all manner of impositions from being sexually propositioned by underaged Japanese  teenage girls  under the purview of the school director to actual psychic battles with Far-Eastern witches. All of these things are unpleasant experiences, but they fit within the system of the Freemasonic secret services recruitment. Lure you into a sexual experience with 15 year old girl then you’re blackmailable and under their thumb for the rest of your life. Keep our secrets and we’ll keep yours, even if your secrets are ones we’ve imposed on you.  

These things hurt and can make you feel bitter unless you find a way to neutralise them, and so I write about them, it’s not as if I signed the official secrets act or was even offered a financial sweetener to keep schtum. Not at all, in fact the whole time I had hardly any money and even extended my UK overdraft, so why do I owe the buggers any favours? I didn’t and I don’t, in fact whenever I run into these people I emerge considerably out of pocket, whether it was my Freemasonic flatmate stealing my 300 pounds returned deposit or my university PGCE tutor deciding not to let me pass the course in June because I wouldn’t sign up with the boys, then being obliged to take out more loans to finish the course in September. What a bunch of bastards. Well I’m making them pay now that’s for sure, and I’m loving every dirty little secret of theirs I can reveal. I have the code and I know all their secrets.  ‘LOL’ as they say in cyber-land.

So later on in the evening I would find myself meeting ‘them’ again and find the same evil theme of underage children being used as a bait and temptation, but with a few more details being thrown into the mix and a little more exposition being provided to allow me truly complete the picture of what we are all up against.

This charming and rather remarkable old lady told me some interesting tales; of how her son, while working, or holidaying, or doing God knows what in Tunisia had come upon what she told me was a terrorist training village, just outside Hammamet. I greedily absorbed the name and wrote in my little red notebook determined to write a story about it, and with a flash an idea came to me:
“How did he know it was a terrorist village? Maybe it was a film set? North Africa is full of outdoor movie sets and studios?” I told her she’d given me a great idea for a story, about a man who either discovers what he believes to be a terrorist training camp, he spends the day hiding and taking detailed notes, and in the end it turns out to be nothing more sinister than the set of Gladiators 2 or something. Or indeed, contrariwise, the chap sets out to tour the film sets of North Africa, Gladiator, Star Wars and all that, but comes upon an unusual set complete with lifelike firearms and even dead bodies which are uncannily lifelike...or not, uncannily deathlike, and it turns out he has indeed strayed into a real life movie where he is basically hiding, running and fighting for his life.

“No, that’s not it," she said. "he said there were black figures.”

“Black figures?” I asked, the tale growing apparently stranger.

“Black figures, those cut-outs, the type they use for target practice’

“Oh...wow” I said.

“As he was going around he was followed by a 4 wheel drive vehicle but he got down into the valley where they couldn’t follow him and he hid there.’

It was at this point that it occurred to me that her son was probably a British spy as I had first assumed. It seemed with me that whenever I was being a paranoid fantasist I usually ended up being right.  I think the universe has a sense of humour after all. I don’t think paranoid fantasists have anything to fear from the world. They’re ready for anything; it’s those who are locked into the mundane and familiar who are most taken by surprise and unbalanced when the world refuses to be mundane and familiar and this is precisely the kind of thing which the world seems to enjoy doing to people. Besides, this kind of thing didn’t really happen to tourists. Tourists just usually get blown up or killed in these situations. They rarely escape. Precisely because they are not paranoid fantasists like people in the secret services are trained to be. Putting in hours at the breakfast buffet and drinking beer by the pool tends not to prepare most people for escape from pursuit in a presumed terrorist training camp. It’s the last thing they expect which is precisely the reason these things are happening in the world, because some people take an evil pleasure in shattering people’s complacency and holiday plans in order to make a political point, like some kind of mad Gurdjieffs bombing and shooting people out of their waking dream and making them confront some kind of absolute reality for once.

So I immediately became suspicious, but also hugely flattered and excited, here I was, on the train from Doncaster and apparently finding myself rubbing shoulders with international spooks and secret operatives disguised as energetic old ladies with a fondness for Russian literature. Of course, that’s the trap. The heroic James Bond bullshit which bears very little semblance to realty. According to Ken Livingstone MI5’s major preoccupations throughout the 80’s was not saving the world from the Red menace but apparently honey-trapping IRA members with underage children to have sex with. Scum. All of ‘em.

“Have you ever been to Russia?” she asked.

“No... it’s not my thing. Too cold”

“My son worked in Russia, China. Dubai. They wanted Russian speakers in Dubai, but you have to be careful, they don’t let you get into debt. If you go into debt you go to prison”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that. Business men whose deals went sour sleeping rough in the streets. Funny really, surely someone should have told the Emir that debt is the foundation of world capitalism.”

“South America. Have you been to South America?”

I made a negative noise. “I wouldn’t get on too well,” I made a big mouth gesture with my hand, “I’d get myself into all sorts of trouble out there.”

“Well my son got attacked by three men in Venezuela.” She paused, “though he managed to deal with them.”

I raised an eyebrow, “Taking out three men huh? Pretty cool.” Which seemed like a childish and inappropriate  thing to say to an old lady but she didn’t seem to mind.

“You know, my son will be meeting me at the station gates. You can meet him if you want. He’s a writer too.”

“Really?”

“He has a book on Amazon. His name is Andrew Clark and It’s called ‘A Duty to Serve’” and she gave me a long significant look which I immediately understood the meaning of and realised my paranoid fantasies had just become concrete and inescapable facts.

I mumbled something about my own book but I couldn’t remember the name of it and I struggled and floundered for a few moments trying to remember what my book was called.

“I’ve recently changed the name but I can’t remember it now.” Eventually I remembered the book and told her about it. There was a moment of silence so I thought I’d tell her one of my stories. The one about me arriving at Siwa Oasis and fancying a drink but finding the town dry I hired a bicycle and peddled 10 km out of town to a resort by the side of a salt-lake. By the time I had had enough drinks to make up for the hot dusty bike ride it was dark so I decided to stay at the resort, sleeping by the lake-side and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. I told her of how when I returned the Egyptian army, apparently panicked that I had not returned to my hotel in Siwa that night, had sent out an expeditionary force to scour the desert looking for me. She seemed interested in the story in a non committal way and was following my narrative. Then I decided to throw something in to test her.

“I think they thought maybe I had been kidnapped by some Al-Qaeda....” I paused, “or that maybe I was a British spy.” I laughed. Instead of reacting to the end of the story and commenting on it she suddenly started looking for something in her bag and made a very minor non-committal noise, as if an old grandmother was listening to some gibberish from an infant grandchild, as if pretending not to have been listening to my story or taking it seriously somehow. I had just tested her and she had just confirmed my theories that she was indeed what I thought she was.

After finishing rummaging through her bag she found whatever it was she had been pretending to look for and we lapsed into silence for a few moments. I started to stare out of the window.

“My son’s taking me to Kew Gardens. Have you been there?”

I answered sweetly in the negative.

“You can come along but I suppose you’ve got somewhere fashionable and trendy to go to.”

I remembered the spy movies I’d seen agents meeting in parks far away from people overhearing and hidden microphones. I also considered that if these people wanted to do me harm of threaten me then I’d be a long way from help in the company of a man who had apparently escaped from Tunisian terrorists and defeated a three man ambush in South America. I’d have to be suicidal to accept such an offer. Although I’ve never been to Kew Gardens either and have always meant to make the visit.

“Oh, I’m going to make my way up to Kenwood house. Get up on Parliament Hill then maybe have a swim in the ponds if the weather is nice.”

“Oh that’s nice.”

The train rocked through Stevenage, I heard someone saying that it was the technology hub of Europe and I wondered if this was classified information too. I hardly knew who was a spook and who wasn’t anymore. I suppose that’s the point. You start to get paranoid and that makes for good security.

Coming into London she signalled Alexandra Palace as the train swung into London. I thrilled with genuinely delight as I had a great fondness for this part of London.

“I love London!”. At this I saw a genuine pleasure or approval in her face. Had I proved my loyalty to my country in such a simple sentence. I got the feeling that I had.

“Look at how the ridge runs all the way to Hampstead through Highgate.”

She smiled and nodded with genuine assent and a shared loved of our country and its glorious capital.

And I wondered again if that smile meant I had proved myself again after the indiscretion of my silly story about bike rides and looking for beer in Egyptian oasis towns.

We pulled into King’s Cross and I took the lady’s case with determination.

“Let me take this.” Although I think she could have carried it just as easily as I and there was something in the way she demurred which told me this. As we made our way down the station concourse I was astonished at how fast she could move. She must have been in her eighties and she easily strode ahead of me, and I am a hell of a fast walker. What a magnificent old woman I thought. She must be doing something right to be able to move at such speed at her age, though to be fair I was carrying her case which wasn’t particularly heavy. I was curious and a little nervous as to what her son Jack would be like.

As we got to the gate I saw her head move and make a quick happy sound of greeting and I quickly followed her gaze and saw what was obviously a spook. Head down, black baseball cap only looking up to meet his mother’s eyes, in fact he looked like he could easily have been an assassin, but one who perhaps had lost a few fights, he had a badly cut upper lip which looked like it had been injured a couple of months ago with a fist wearing a heavy ring, but which hadn’t healed properly. Possibly this wound was acquired in the field and it had not been possible to seek any medical treatment or stitches. As a result it seemed that the wound had become infected with what looked like staph and it must have been quite sore and uncomfortable.  He would not have been out of place chasing Matt Damon around New York in the Bourne films, and I thought of how he had taken down three men. But I wasn’t afraid, sure I expose the Illuminati and Freemasonic paedophiles but that’s what we’re supposed to do right? That’s what good guys do and we all know the good guys win in the end. At least one hopes they do....sometimes.

I went over to him and handed him his mother’s baggage. He greeted me in a Russian accent, and I’m not entirely sure why since he was supposed to be an English man called Andrew Clark. I wondered for a second if this man really was this woman’s son at all. She wasn’t Russian, neither presumably was her husband since he had inherited an English surname. Whatever the reason I didn’t like it and immediately my instant distrust of spooks draping themselves over rail station barriers with black baseball caps on was magnified a hundred fold and I just wanted to get out of there, but not before deploying my usual charming Englishman act and feigning delight and enthusiasm and then getting the fuck out of dodge before I got bundled into a dodgy white van.

“Thank you for looking after my mother.” He said with a Russian accent.

“It was a pleasure, she’s a remarkable woman. Your mother told me you’re a writer, I’ll have to check out your stuff.”

“Yes, if you’ve got a moment I’ll show you what I’m working on.” No I thought, I just want to get away from you spooky people and relegate any future contact with these people to the remote safety of email and the internet.

“You can contact me, I’ve given you mum my contact details.” I said, regretting that I’d given his mother my contact details.

“What’s your new book called?” I asked.

“There are two: Across the Abyss. And I’m also working on ‘The Dawn of the Apocalypse’.”

I bet you are I, I thought.

I wanted to show some human sympathy, so I touched him on the lower arm in a friendly gesture.

“Well, make sure you get in touch”.

As I touched him I felt something in his mind, I wouldn’t say I read his mind but I almost did, I sensed recoil, fear  as if I was dangerous to him, like I was made of antimatter and I could destroy him if I showed him too much human sympathy in a world in which he experienced none. I don’t know what it was but it seemed somehow that what I did as a friendly matey gesture was something alien to him. It was odd. What kind of world did this man live in? What was going on in his mind? Or perhaps it was something else, a man used to danger, violence and suspicion would immediately feel threatened by another man closing in on his own physical space, and certainly one reaching out to touch him. I expect a spook is always on high alert and has been trained to expect danger from any possible quarter, so my friendly gesture of one human being reaching out to another to bridge the perceptual void between two people with the bridge of physical contact, probably set off a red alert danger warning for our scared and nervous Mr Blake.

In fact I was quite as nervous as Mr Spook but I like to think I was slightly more difficult to read, as I hastily extracted myself from the Blake family mother and son recruiting double act and set off to an unclouded horizon free of strange dangerous people with strange and frightening looking scars talking of the abyss and apocalypses.  Just not my style. So for old time’s sake, before my trek up to Kenwood house I decided to make a detour to my old haunts of East London and see what is left of East London as it becomes an increasingly large sprawling suburb of Shoreditch yuppiedom.

I got out at Mile End and made my way past my old Alma Mater which had now grown and spilled over beyond all sense:  with high student tower blocks of glass and steel with a trendy blue sheen applied to the glass; they cast the Mile End road into an unsettling darkness and I  found the place largely unrecognizable, the old indigenous East-Ender pubs full of geezers gone, cheap beer and the occasion National Front meeting upstairs, turned, body-snatcher style into clone coffee shops and tapas bars. The old pubs, despite their dubious politics, were places where people who actually lived here went to drink. Now everyone is just passing through for the next three or four years. No doubt when tapas bars cease being fashionable or profitable business ventures the place will change its mask again to whatever is trendy and expensive ten years from now. I don’t know, if I want tapas I go to Spain, that’s supposed to be the point. Cheap food to go with your beer. In a typically English version they’ve somehow managed to make tapas expensive and a kind of ‘restaurant’ experience in themselves. Maniacs. The English would do well to ignore Europe until their plane lands at the airport because they always manage to muck it up when they try being European at home. We’re not European and we have no right trying it on. Europe is for going on holidays and watching  the police chasing Muslims.

I  saw a pub ahead of me and desperate for an early drink because I was on holiday after all, I saw an open door with a chair temporarily blocking the way. I looked in and saw a husband and husband couple behind the bar, a touch of coldness lingering as if they’d just had a domestic.

I addressed one of the husbands: “What time do you open?” he ignored me and deferred my question to his husband.

“11.”

“What time is it now?”

“Five to.”

Friendly. Must have been a bad bust up. I was fucked if I was going to stand there for five minutes in the street waiting for these two surly homosexuals to deign to allow me to give me their money for some overpriced fizzy German’s cellar piss, so I walked on. The next pub was a much better proposition. A man and his daughter just opening up and I walked in breezily.

“Not much of a welcome from the Mr & Mr place up the street.”

“Oh yeah, they’re always like that.”

“They don’t even have any real beer.” I looked around.

“God the place has changed....It’s crazy. I was here 20 years ago. ’94, was full of cockneys back then,  Pie and mash shops down the Roman Road and all that. This is the only place left that seems like a real pub. How long you been here?”

“ About five years now. It’s changed even since I’ve been here. Since we’ve been here it’s all posh cafes on Roman road now.”

I laughed “Cafes or cafés?”

“All cappuccinos and dry Italians biscuits. Cafés. Three quid for a coffee. The places are always full they must be raking it in.”

“Where have all the Londoners gone? I can’t understand it.  It’s like ethnic-cleansing or something. Did they send all the cockneys to work-camps or something? Someone should call the UN.”

He laughed, “They’re all out in Essex now.”

“Seems a shame to be forced to flee your own capital.”

“Way of the word. If you can’t pay, get out. Same with the pubs. They’re all closing, we’re the last one in the area. The rest are ‘bars’ you couldn’t call them pubs. ”

“What does it all mean?”

He shrugged.

“It’s weird, even the park’s changed. It used to be a park with trees, now the trees have gone and it’s all children’s activity centres and a crazy children’s swimming pool, it looked like the penguin enclosure at London Zoo. Why can’t it just be a park? It’s probably all part of the long devious road to turning it into a shopping centre anyway.”

He laughed with humour as if the cynicism of my comment was too real to be taken humorously.
I asked for a pint of Amber Ale and prepared myself for the ever more remarkable sum of money about to be asked for a pint of what after all is mostly water with about 5 percent alcohol by volume, I readied my price-of-a-pint- poker-face, I guess it would probably be somewhere in the 4 pounds range by now since it was about 6 months since my last British pub pint and that one was rapidly escaping the confines of the 3 quid mark.

“£4.35”.

I felt catatonic with  astonishment but for politeness’ sake I managed not to let it show and sat myself down at a table to muse on how many of these things I could actually afford before my money ran-out. How can people afford this? Then the answer came quickly, they can’t, that’s why all the pubs are closing and only the yuppies places run by homosexuals serving German cellar-piss full of people with more money than sense are staying open. Hardly seemed democratic or fair, but who said social engineering was fair.

It seemed odd to be the first in the pub, especially to arrive as the pub opened, it felt less like a pub but more like the front room of these two’s house, it didn’t feel puby enough, more like housey. It would need a few more drinks and, a bit more banter, some more faces, some rude words and edgy comments to set the place up as a pub for the day. They came along in due course.

A man walked in and immediately struck up a conversation with the landlord’s daughter which showed they had met several times and possibly he was a regular. It turns out he wasn’t a regular.
I stepped up to the bar to refresh my glass and was feeling liquid and limber enough to strike up a conversation with a random stranger stood next to me. This is England after all and this is a pub.
I noticed he had been talking to the landlady about one of the ales and it being the same one I had lately finished I felt no reluctance in vaunting the merits of this pleasing and refreshing beer.

“It’s pretty nice that stuff” I said, “I’m having another.”

“Yeah, go on and then, I’ll have one of those.”

I stood beside him in the impartial manner of someone who has just made a sound moral judgement as to what really is the best possibly beverage based on all possibly criteria of taste, quality and general refreshment.

“So you from round here?” I asked after we had both been handed out cherished brown glassfuls.

“Nah, just in town for the festival.”

“Oh, the Nutbox Benderthon?”

“Uhuh”

“Who are you here to see?”

He laughed “No, I’m working there. I’m a rigger, just spent the morning setting up the main-stage. Can’t stand the music that’s why I’m in here”.

“Wow.”  I always tend to do that when mildly impressed, I guess I sounded as if the guy had just told me he’d returned from space or had spent the morning wrestling dragons, when he’d just spent the morning with a screwdriver and a spanner.

“Funny,” I said “people paying for tickets and clamouring to get in there and you’re in there and can’t wait to get out.”

“I just don’t like the commercial music. It’s all it is these days.”

After a moment of silence drinking our beers I asked him:
“Have you ever done Glastonbury?”

“Oh yeah, was there this year at Arcadia. We set up this giant 40 foot high fire breathing spider.”

“Wow.” I said, realising that the first wow wouldn’t have been deployed had I known that he’d helped build a giant fire breathing spider for the Glastonbury festival.

“It was pretty good. There was a space inside for the DJ as well. That was a pretty good couple of nights that was to be fair. Got completely off my face.”

“Well,” I said, judicially,” I suppose you’ve gotta put up with your commercial weekends in East London to hang out in the West country with a giant spider.”

“Best time I ever had was in Moscow with the Scorpions.”

“Spiders to Scorpions. Nice!”

He laughed a single chuckle.

“We’d gone around Moscow and it was just as I’d been led to expect you know.  Just sort of drab and almost like life in Europe 50 years ago. All the women wearing these funny headscarves and the men in blue nylon trousers and inflammable tan coloured Terylene shirts. Like a sort of uniform of drabness and I wondered what we had all strayed into. It wasn’t just another country it was like another century and I thought this is all a terrible mistake.  Maybe they’ll run us out of town or maybe the KGB will decide we’re a danger to public Communist morality. It got even worse when we started setting up for the Scorpions. There was the Russian military everywhere doing the security, all pretty dour and they were as dubious about it all as we were.  And so we were just hanging around doing the checks and people start to come in but they’re all hanging about around the edges of the stadium or far off into the distance and all we are really aware of are these bloody Russian soldiers with those Kensington Market military caps on we’re up there on stage like being on a military firing range or something with all these blokes lined up just watching us. Anyway,” he took a drink of beer, “the roadies come on and start testing the equipment and that seems to have been taken as a sign and all these people from the back just fall in at the front and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. All these  rockers with leather jackets, punks, lads with studded denim jackets, women with shaved hair, and I was like ‘where the fuck have this lot all come from?’ I couldn’t believe it! It was just like a home crowd, and that just made the contrast between them and the soldiers even more weird. And they all had these flags and placards in English ‘Peace not War’ and they were almost jostling against these uniformed soldiers and for me that was it. I saw it all. This row of  confused soldiers who didn’t really know what was going on, what they or we were doing there, against this surging crowd of rock fans who looked more like protesters and it dawned on me: this is the fall of Communism right here. And so it was. Three months later the Berlin Wall came down and the rest is history. But when that happened the whole world was taken by surprise but I don’t know, but I had been expecting something like that to happen ever since that Moscow gig. Something happened in that gig, something almost mystical which set off a train of events.”

“That’s incredible.” I almost said ‘wow’ again but fortunately stopped myself, instead I contributed my small insight into life behind the Iron Curtain: “I had a girlfriend from East Europe once. She lived in East Berlin. She told me of how the government had monitoring devices installed in everyone’s apartment because there were people in her neighbourhood who seemed to know all her families private business and the things they discussed at home. I’m glad you were in there to see that crazy shit crumble to the ground but all that seems to have happened is that it has left Russia and this same weird peeping spying evil is creeping into the Western world. I mean why do we have a thing called ‘political correctness?’. Do you know where that comes from?” I asked, ready to pounce triumphantly with the answer.

“Marxism. The Frankfurt School. Otherwise known as the Institute of Social Research.”

“That’s it. Well this girl had a weird Portuguese friend who was trying to recruit me into something. Don’t want to sound xenophobic but whenever there is a large cadre of European students at a UK university, particularly if they’re doing Business, marketing or Economics then there’s almost certainly an Illuminati component behind them as a sort of common understanding. I liked this girl but she was trying to get me to join something, maybe it was just the Freemasons but they seemed to go to extraordinary lengths just for a dinner club. He made his big pitch to me once and he asked me: “What makes the world go around?” the answer was obvious of course. ‘Love’ I said, he seemed confused at this and corrected me ‘no, it’s money’. Of course I couldn’t let that stand. That’s just a stupid song isn’t it? No basis for a philosophical line of reasoning and certainly not a sound economic proposition. But these people believe it and they can think of nothing more than money, it was fairly easy to explain to him that without love the world would stop in its tracks. Without money people would find a way to make things work, but without love what reason would there be to try to make anything work. Love is the great motivating force for continued life on Earth and perhaps that’s what happens when people kill themselves: they just run out of love. Anyway I got a phone-call from my girlfriend later that day asking me bluntly if I wanted to join their organisation. I said I didn’t and she told me she was glad. Who knows what she would have said if I had agreed. Would she have said the same thing. It was odd. Odd people, but she was really pretty though.”

I felt my point had been made so I ordered a Hakushu whisky and smiled to myself about this guy who had momentarily sought refuge for the dreadful music he had helped set the stage for.
The Landlord remarked to his daughter serving at the bar that Malcolm hadn’t yet made an appearance and was about due. Within a few minutes and man walked through the door who I presumed was Malcolm. 

Malcolm the regular came up to the bar though me with two pints inside me, a Japanese whisky  and some pretty good stories felt like I owned the place and HE was the slightly self conscious stranger from out of town that I should have been. I greeted him at the bar and waited to see what kind of a person he would turn out to be and whether he might give me a cigarette. He greeted the barmaid with a grandfatherly consideration and she in turn greeted him fondly like she was his granddaughter. A pub is a wonderful thing. Perhaps the only commercial operation left in the world where the people who work in the trade actually show fondness and a personal regard for their clients and treat them more like friends.

Malcolm took his drink and remained at the bar next to me, he then pulled out a copy of the Mail on Sunday and proceeded to reveal the crossword for the benefit of himself and the landlord to pore over.

I was starting to feel pretty swag after lubrication and wondered if I should have more here or move on elsewhere. If I stayed here I’d get pretty sloshed because the beer was good and it was comfortable and this place seemed to be where the real Londoners and not those on a three year study visa, were still to be found drinking.  I turned to Malcolm and couldn’t seem to stop myself speaking my thoughts aloud and addressing him in a completely unsolicited manner.

“It’s pretty nice here,” I said to him, “Not been round here for nearly 20 years. Used to live here, and it’s all changed.” I felt like an old man saying this but since he was an old man I considered that this approach would be met with benevolent understanding.

He nodded sagely then said: “’’ere you don’t know this is do you? Four letters bulbous fruit of the Rosaceae  family?” He held up the crossword.

I puzzled and dribbled for a few moments trying to find the answer but I couldn’t.

“Rosaceae? What’s that? Rose?” I was being  bit drunk and dense and never could answer questions like this that I hadn’t read to myself first. 

After a moment of them pondering the clues aloud and me admitting to myself that I couldn’t think of answers to any of them; I really fancied a cigarette I decided to ask the barman if I could buy a single.

“We can sell you a packet but not a single, that’s illegal you know.”

“Nah, I don’t want a full pack. Just fancied the one.”

Malcolm piped up from behind the newspaper:
“I’m going out for a cig in a minute, you can come out wimee, you can ‘ave one of mine.”

I smiled and expressed my thanks and shortly afterwards he beckoned me to come out with him to the street for a smoke.

Out of doors I felt the sun struggling against the clouds since I had entered the pub and  though the sun appeared to be winning the battle against the clouds on that atypically sunny Summer’s day in England, I knew that chemtrails and poisonous aluminium rain wouldn’t be too far behind.
“I can’t believe how much this place has changed?” I returned to my theme, because I suppose it was something which bothered me. The gentrification of London and the replacement of decent British beer with generic German lagerpiss. But also it bothered me that British people are losing their homes and capital city to an endless horde on a student conveyer-belt who are forever just passing through and contributing nothing of value to the community except their removal and the replacement of indigenous culture with indentikit boil-in-the-bag Euro culture in the shape of Tapas bars and even more coffee shops for women and homosexuals to compare their shopping and their clothes in. I shared my concerns on these matters and him being a bit of an old geezer I was sure would agree.

“S’a bloody disgrace it is. All these Muslims ‘ere. What are they doing here? We don’t need ‘em.”
This wasn’t exactly the tack I was hoping for and I seem to have momentarily shown myself to be a willing participant in a potentially racist conversation outside a pub in East London. Obviously back in the day this kind of working class rhetoric was common but not these days amidst the Tapas bars and Cafés and I felt a little cry of victory well within me that we two cockney geezers (with me as pretend one) where expressing our opinions like working class men without regard for intellectual fashions and political correctness. 

“Well I live and work in Muslim countries. I quite like it. Since they’re all so keen to come over here I return the compliment and go round theirs. I like it though. It’s not what people think, these countries are a bit like England used to be fifty years ago, kids playing in the street and a strong sense of community.”

“Yeah, they do like children.” he said, as if this was somehow unusual or a unique ethnic habit of the Arabs, but I suspected it was just an example of the English art of understatement.

We continued in this vein for some time and I even managed to get into discussing the Iraq war, bankers and the Zionist Israel threat to the world. The ease with which Malcolm dealt with these topics and the lack of reflection involved in his responses told me that these are probably the key topics of conversation that are usually discussed here and I suspected the possibility of a little far-right BNP hobby club somewhere involved in the Malcolm’s life. I suppose one can’t blame these people really for turning to misguided extremism after being on the front lines of an unprecedented culture and economic swamping by the poor, war-torn and demented from all the world’s most badly organised and unstable countries of the world.

We went back into the bar and we continued our conversation indoors, although I sensed the Landlord seemed to have some reservations about taking me fully into his full confidence and seemed to be more of an observer than a participant in our litany of complaints about how the European and Zionist interest are deliberately destroying the country we love.

We continued drinking and talking and the more I talked the more dogmatic and sure of myself I started to become, and I found myself in the position of guest speaker or revolutionary agitant and it seemed to me that potentially, if there were more people like me refusing to mind their own businesses and piping up with their own unwanted opinions, then the country would probably be only 10 pints from revolution.

Unfortunately I didn’t get to 10 pints on that occasion and so the revolution would have to wait. It seemed we were tactically  interrupted and our threat of sedition and insurrection diffused in the form of a rather ugly looking tall feminist Marxist type with goofy teeth and the dyed red hair middle aged feminists they seem to wear as some kind of uniform or moppy flag of recognition. It was probably just as well because I think I was starting to turn slightly messianic and I think I got to the point where I was telling the blokes in the pub that what we needed was a righteous King from a non German royal bloodline. As far as I was concerned the Saxe-Coburg crew are part of the invasion of England force and I don’t really know why Hitler needed to invade England at all since their royals already had done.  Of course it was no coincidence that I had non-Germanic royal blood dating back to William the Conqueror and my surname was suitably British heralding to a Celtic ancestry. It’s no secret that I secretly saw myself as a mixture of King Arthur and Jesus. But we’re all entitled to our secrets. 

Something about the demeanour of the guvnor told me something was up and there was something forced and contrived about their interactions, it almost struck me the some ears had sense the foment within the walls of the pub and a liberal agent had been deployed to ensure that the liberal homosexual all-inclusive politically correct London be maintained and the neutering  of traditional British masculinity and expression. I almost felt as if this was some kind of inspection, but not from CAMRA making sure their beer was alright and there was a traditional pub atmosphere but by an agent of HM government ensuring that the pub was not contending in any ways against the Liberal agenda.

I left as it soon became apparent that as long as the red haired witch sat there then the fight back could not continue and I considered perhaps that I may have endangered the renewal of Tony publican’s license because the red-headed Marxist will likely report him to the local Community Observation Committee for hosting  racist and homophobic conversation between two men, so I made myself scarce.

I made my way to Kenwood on foot in the sunshine and gleefully took photos like a kind of delinquent snap-happy tourist.  Funny that I’d lived in London for nearly ten years but had never taken any pictures of its ancient and modern architectural wonders. As I strode into the Square Mile the sun bounced and beamed into me from the glass windows and the shiny steel like a electromagnetic hall of mirrors.

After my long relentless march Northward I decided to drop anchor in merrie old Camden Town and have a poke around and see what’s new, hopefully not too much but I was disappointed that the Camden Stables market was now totally dominated by even more noodles bars. One couldn’t really call them restaurants since there was no waiter services and only rickety old wooden benches to sit on, the prices however seemed to be under the misapprehension that it was a restaurant and not just a shitty and overpriced trendy rip-off for chumps. The ever ongoing devolution of the old and historic Camden Market into nothing more interesting than a giant open-air canteen. Why the fuck are noodles cool? Why is food and being homosexual and/or foreign replacing culture?

However amidst the tedious and swiftly breeding noodle-bars was one remarkable shop near the station and opposite the Fresh n’ Wild store was a funky shop and my eye was caught by a black sailor’s bag with a picture of a pirate on it which looked awesome.  The shop was full of old band t-shirts, random badges salvaged from some 90’s teenager’s bedroom drawer, amps and audio equipment likely salvaged from under dad’s bed. Nothing seemed to have any price on it and when I asked Ben the shop’s owner about the price he didn’t really have a figure in mind and demurred until I suggested 10 pounds.

“Hmmm,” he said, “It is new. How about 5?”

This is the first time in the world a shopkeeper has ever bargained for a lower price. I wonder why he didn’t want 10 pounds, maybe he himself felt the bag wasn’t worth 10 pounds, maybe it was only worth 5 but I would have been happy to pay 10. Who walks into a shop and expects to pay only five pounds for something which isn’t a carton of noodles? I looked over at a badge with the word ‘SMILE’ on it in big friendly orange letters which I had plucked from a bowl of random odd and ends.

“How much is this?”

“Er... I don’t know. I think everything’s 20p in that bowl.”

“20p!” I was astounded. You can’t go into a shop and buy anything for 20p anymore. Perhaps this guy like all of his merchandise was found somewhere in the 1980. When you could buy a newspaper and a Mars Bar and still have change for a 20 pence coin. Or nearly.

“I can’t give you 20p for this. I’ll give you 2 quid.” I was insistent so I bought the bag and the badge for 7 pounds.

This time I actually paid more than what he asked. What a strange shop. Maybe it’s some kind of self generating honesty dynamo in the shop’s erratic pricing structure which encourages the generosity of those more able to pay what they think something is worth to them personal. In a quest to discover what are the items in the shop’s intrinsic value. For Ben the badge was worth only 20p but I saw 2 quid’s worth in it. Maybe it’s an experiment in economics or something. A university research project of some kind. I did find something in the shop which had quite a high value, apart from his old 60’s valve amps which they often sold though he told me he had sold the last one for far-too cheap. The last one he had  sold for 200 when he said it was probably worth nearer 600. As well as these he sold his own guitar distortion effects switches using parts he had salvaged from old 60’s diodes from an old amp. He asked me if I wanted to try it out and I was curious to be honest so without any ado he gave me a guitar and plugged me into an amp and so I started nervously but fairly competently to play guitar. Some electric arpeggios, finger style then some bar-chords turning into a riff and some twiddly bits and bobs. We were all impressed including myself and I observed that it would sound even better with a more powerful amp.

Without any further ado he invited me to the back of the store where I met a Brazilian guy who was fixing or messing with some electronics parts. He was surrounded by old amps and had one turned on ready. This time me and the Brazilian guy plugged in our guitars and effectively had a cool little jam. Afterwards we chatted about pleasing platitude and personal biography and I remember that I was on my way to Kenwood house and was hoping for a swim in the ponds. Alberto remarked that this seemed a good idea on a nice day like this and with fond farewells to the remarkable shopkeeper Ben and Alberto I continued my journey, now with a swag looking black sailor-bag with a picture of a pirate with a red bandana on it. Awesome. London could still prove itself cool in these uncertain times. I was very pleased about that.

The woods of Hampstead Heath and the large green pasture of Kenwood House combined with the water in the pools was a fantastically refreshing experience, though at the ponds I was disturbed and awed by how many beautiful girls there were lying in the sun. One of them I am sure was bathing topless in a corner but I didn’t dare take another peek to confirm it. I found myself falling in love with everyone and started, for a misguided second, to make eye contact with a girl, but I checked myself and noticed that most of them were accompanied by men and one never knew the politics involved in a situation like this. So I told myself that the sun loves me and that’s all a boy could ask for so I made my way across to the Spaniard’s Inn for some photographs of this fascinating and unchanging, old toll-gate and stabling Inn. Apparently Keats wrote An Ode to a Nightingale here and I could almost see him looking through one of the top windows looking over the Heath. Keats’  actual house was nearby at the bottom of the hill towards the base of the Heath, and I had visited the house several times when I lived in Gospel Oak, Gospel Oak is a grimy little place dominated by a weird fortress-like council-estate, at the bottom of Hampstead Heath, caught in total obscurity between Camden and Hampstead Village. It’s one claim to fame being that I once lived there and that my great aunt had a Pet-shop called Animal Crackers which still exists to this day, though under different, though no less enthusiastic management by a hearty Irish chap. So as a result I consider the poet John Keats to be a little like a ghostly neighbour of mine, forever standing on the green lawn of 10 Keats Grove and conspiring poetry  or upstairs in one of the small rooms drinking claret and wondering what will become of London in the future and will this fine old Spanish stabling inn still be here hundreds of years from now when I am long gone and nothing but a Hampstead ghost. I mentally answered him and felt a sudden pleasing feeling of eternity and transcendence.

 It was  moving past late afternoon and into early evening when I finished my solitary musings at the Spaniards Inn, speaking to no one except to buy a couple of pints of nice cider, a packet of crisps and to ask a Frenchman for a cigarette which he was happy to give to me. The atmosphere was quite different here to the pub with the old fading spirit of East London. Here there were families having some food after a long day spent playing with Frisbees and ecstatically bounding Golden Retrievers; there were also dating couples, business meetings and confidential chat in low tones, but this wasn’t the place for the drunken righteous King of England to find a following. These people were not alienated from their environment at all, in fact they likely felt perfectly at home in this so called ‘modern Britain’.

So I merrily made my way down Hampstead Hill to the Royal in Camden Town which had caught my eye coming up the hill by the presence of some totally free music tonight. So that would be the plan. By the time I got to the Royal it was nearly 9pm as I had taken a few detours on my way down the hill becoming enchanted with the beautiful quaintness of Hampstead and wearing out my finger taking pictures of things I likely would not see much of when back in Casablanca, namely anything green and anything pretty.

I got to the Camden Royal in the fading black and orange glow of a full ripe summer’s day withering then falling into night. Inside the pub was like a darkened cave with small flickering and clustered lights which served only to illuminate the blackness of the walls. Why does everything to do with music and gigs have to be black? Black amps, black speakers, black curtains, black boots. Maybe not always but the Royal was particularly dark, even though it was fading day outside it was already night in the pub. The walls were black, the shadows were portals into the abyss and there were creatures which came in from the darkness. And most people were wearing black boots. There weren’t many people in the middle of the darkened room, most were propping up the dark walls and trying not to fall into shadow. Others stood at the bar but everyone in there seemed the need to stand next to something. Not quite sure why. I came in an immediately caught the whiff of ‘open-mike’ with some odd looking ginger headed guy just getting up on stage and confusing everyone. After a moment of listening I started to get into it and he stood there with his guitar manically strumming chords and making ranty but amusing observations, like a kind of one man Housemartins. I immediately surmised that I had walked into a Folk-Punk night in Camden, a free Folk Punk night in Camden and I wondered what else I might be in store for.

The guy Jake, rattled off his act and his funny collection of songs wryly about failing to understand the opposite sex and also doing stupid things, usually as a failure to understand the opposite sex. He was very good and pretty talented,  but I had arrived only to catch the last three songs and he went. I wondered feverishly if there would be more music and asked someone who quickly reeled off the three other acts that would be playing that night.

So I dedicated myself to enjoying the music and a few beers and not to get distracted by thinking about women as I had at Hampstead mixed bathing pond. After all, like Jake I’ll never understand them. I think the key to happiness for me is to keep away from what I don’t understand and just enjoy the things I do understand. This makes perfect sense really.

 The music was varied and interestingly powerful. There was another solo artist and two band and all the while I felt a genuine excitement building about this powerful acoustic led vibe with articulate punk protest poetry type lyrics. I mentally controlled myself not to think about the girls who were in my vicinity and who I occasionally noticed looking at me. I went to the bar and ordered another pint of craft-ale, as I was waiting I overheard one of the barmaids say to the other ‘that I was cute’ she said other things but I determined not to follow their conversation and pretend I hadn’t overheard them.

I went up to the toilets and found the door wouldn’t move, so I gave it a push and as I did a group of five black men suddenly  all hurriedly came out. They appeared to be carrying one guy who was crying and angry and they were trying to mollify him.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s just ‘ad too much of the good stuff.” God know what particular good stuff they were talking about but when I got into the toilet I saw a pink marigold glove perched on the edge of a urinal. I wondered what that was doing there and did it have anything to do with what these black guys were up to in here and why they hurriedly came out. And why that man was in such a state. Was it some kind of initiation? Some kind of gay shaming bonding gang initiation ritual. The only way to be sure would be to smell the glove and find out where it had been. As I stood there at the urinal next door peeing I thought to myself if I just smell the glove then I’d know what had been happening here. For a moment I almost did, but stopped myself through disgust and also from the mental picture in my mind of me holding this glove and smelling it, while perhaps the same bunch of black lads all came back in. Or indeed if anyone came in. I don’t think I could live down the shame and it’s just the kind if thing someone would do if they were drunk like me, so I fortunately I managed to realise that I was drunk and considering doing something which in any case, is a pretty disgusting thing to do. So I didn’t smell the glove and complete the research and have no idea what part this glove had in the initiation activity but I can guess it had something to do with men’s bottoms, why else would they have needed a glove. It was unlikely that they were in here doing the cleaning. Unless they were doing community service of some kind but trying to blend it into their evening out. But that’s unlikely. Cleaning pub toilets isn’t a job done by young offenders.  It’s a job which as we all know, is not done by anyone.

About a minute later one of the guys, the same who had done all the talking before came in and asked me if I fancied any coke. It wasn’t really my thing and these guys were certainly not my thing. Instead I asked if he could get me any weed. He told me to see him later. I’d been offered free cocaine before at a gig. The last time it was one I was performing at. Afterwards as I walked down Dalston Lane with the other musicians a guy in an alley way beckoned me down there and asked me if I fancied a line of coke which he was about to line up for me. He was insistent and I was suspicious. What was all this about? People don’t lurk down alley ways giving free cocaine to anyone passing by, they do in horror movies  though and there was something about this that I felt if I went along with this guy then I couldn’t be sure of what might happen next. I would be in their power somehow. And so I walked on and said thanks but no thanks and caught up to my mates who had not even remarked on my disappearance and hadn’t even stopped to see where I was. They’d be no good in a zombie or horror movie that’s for sure, carrying on yapping to each other as one of their number is plucked off down an alley to be eaten.

When I went back to the bar I noticed that a few people including the bar-staff were sniffing and touching their noses and looking a big spacey. I went outside for a cigarette and remarked that most of the people here including seemed to be using these guys’ coke. In front of me stood a short fat hairy man with a red face. He greeted me and asked me if I knew who I was. The strange thing was that as soon as he said this all of the thirty odd people outside suddenly scattered in all directions, like a kind of dissolved flash-mob. 

And I couldn’t get over the strong impression that him addressing me was a signal for everyone around who presumably were part of this thing with black gangs and coke or whatever it was. 

I asked him for a cigarette and he gave me a one willingly and asked me where I was from. I told him. He then told me that he was from Israel. 

I told him I lived in Morocco and he seemed surprised and said:

“Aren’t you scared?”  he seemed scared for me and I just smiled in disbelief.

“Why would I be scared?” and I immediately dismissed him as a lunatic and misinformed bigot  of some kind. But he got excited and told me the he was from Morocco.

“Were you born there?”

“No, I was born in Israel but my parents are from Morocco.”

It seemed strange to see a man like him here, I didn’t quite understand what a man like this was doing here at all. His presence, like the presence of the black drug gangsters initiating each other in pub toilets, was somehow an imposition.

Then he leapt into a strange sort of sales-pitch for the state of Israel, and I wondered if this could be connected to the spooky events of the evening. Was the free cocaine part of it too? If I had been coked up I wonder if I would be more receptive to this hairy red faced short little Israeli man. He told me all about the Hebrew patriarchs and I told him my man was Jesus.

He went into an incredible spiel blending mathematics with religion, going on about the generations of man and asking me to make daft little calculations about how many generations ago Jesus lived. I think part of it was an attempt to bamboozle me with numbers and  getting me to give answers and also affirm his calculations, in a sort of rhetoric of acquiescence to  make me more receptive to his ultimate message whatever that turned out to be. Maybe this is what religious mind control looks like.

“So now, you like Jesus, so how many generations from now to Jesus? One generation is 25 years.”

“So 60 generations?”

“Yes, so 60 generations, so how many to Abraham, 120, 60 more than Jesus. Right?” I nodded.

“And  how many to Noah. Ten more generations, seventy generations before Jesus am I right?” I shrugged.

He continued: “And now, how many from Abraham to Adam. Remember they lived longer in those days because they were closer to God but we can call it 20 more generations! And Adam was the perfect man, and Noah was almost as perfect and was spared by God  and Abraham was next in perfection and chosen by God, and then a long time later comes Jesus.”

His idea was as clear as it was ridiculous, that because Abraham was older than Jesus that he was better.  Because he was closer to Adam who was according to this man ‘more perfect’ than Jesus despite the story of the fall from paradise. It was certainly a strange kind of theology.

“Do you know the story of Abraham and Sodom and Gomorrah?” He asked me and I said I did.

“That Abraham made  a deal with God that God would not destroy the city if 50 good men could be found in it. Then he gradually convinced God to accept a smaller and smaller number of good men to be found because he knew there were so few. Until God accepted not to destroy Sodom if 10 good men were to be found there.”

I wondered to myself if he was trying to tell me something about the nature of Zionist terror, that they first corrupt the culture in order to find as few righteous just people within it giving them the excuse they need to act for ‘God’ and destroy it. Rather like the League of Shadows from Batman Begins.

“We are animals” He said suddenly “We have to protect our family” I didn’t know quite where he was going with this but suddenly he had become quite bellicose and seemed to be rousing himself to some new religiously inspired madness.

“If I attacked you, you would need protection wouldn’t you? He seemed to jeer at me.

“In ancient times I would fight you.” He said and I stopped him short:

“Hang on I there, I’d give you a pretty good run for your money. I can go nuts if I need to.”

He backed off and stopped trying to physically intimidate me:
 “We need a big war to sort everything out in the middle east. We need to be safe from our enemies.”

“Your enemies?”

“The Muslims! We need answers.”

“I have the answers.” I said, because I did, I was drunk. Anything's possible when you're drunk.
I smiled at him in his angry bellicose fluster and in my drunken messianic righteous King guise I disarmed his diatribe and showed him I wouldn’t be joining his strange little club.

He looked at me and walked off.  He either didn’t understand or had to admit that he had totally failed to convince me that Israel should be allowed to instigate a huge world war to kill all its Muslim neighbours.  

I turned myself in the direction of King’s Cross and resolutely set off for the ‘home’ of the smelly hostel. Before I had escaped the confines of the pub’s facade one of the black cocaine guys came after me and walked along with me promising to get me some weed, then just as I was about to acquiesce to further trafficking with these people, two women suddenly descended on us and started flirting with us. I sensed that the situation wasn’t entirely natural and that it was part of this strange OTO Zionist magickal continuum I had just strayed into, so this time saying a quick goodbye, I made myself scarce for good. I didn’t fancy hanging around  much longer with dodgy black gangsters and strange boisterous old Israelis lurking around.

The walk home was a little nerve wracking as several times I sensed I was being followed and would hear shouts coming after me. I didn’t let it scare me, I just punched the lamp posts occasionally to show my toughness and told myself this is what anyone who messes with me will get. A bang in the face hard enough to make a metal post ring.

Opposite King’s Cross a man working in the London sewers was sat propped against the wall and he seemed to be ill. It was a sad sight. To see what some people have to put up with to keep this dirty old city rolling. Much dirtier underneath and this man appeared to be suffering from the effects of methane poisoning. It was the first time I realised that a third class does exist in the UK and they only come out at night. The people who have to clean up all our shit.

The hostel was smelly and the couple next to me were having sex so I put in my wax ear plugs in to drown out their drunken sex adventures. I guess this is why the place was so full of Europeans. It was knocking shop for Europeans. Pretty sure they wouldn’t have gotten away with the same thing in France. Unisex dorms are a particularly British moral provocation.

As I got to the station I decided to stop for a bottle of Fuller’s Vintage ale for my dad. I had to be careful not to shake it up too much as it was a bottle conditioned beer with a yeast sediment. Not sure if it was still alive after 15 years since I bought the 2000, but they’re supposed to improve with time. As I walked onto the platform I heard a voice which seemed to be directed but not directed at me at the same time. I had encountered this kind of thing before. A one way psychic conversation, since I have consistently resisted becoming psychic some people can connect to me and hear my thoughts if they are directed to them, but I cannot hear theirs. Since I have no wish to read minds. It is an actual phenomenon however and seems to work through our conscious electrical signal which is continually giving off hidden energy. A thought creates a radio wave and some people are capable (or sometimes they have no choice) of receiving these signals and reading them.

I felt an energy from the man as I walked past and I sensed that he was trying to tune into my mind. I refused to be drawn and walked on. Suddenly from behind I heard an angry voice shout ‘don’t you ignore me.’ Weird, I got a auditory response from a psychic exchange. Was he schizophrenic? Are all the top-spook people secretly schizophrenic and can read minds or something? Or are they psychically tuned to some weird hive-mind?  Are they all in on this big secret together and they are all terrified of us finding out about them and simultaneously utterly contemptuous of us because we do not have the psychic gift/curse which their ever extending Illuminati family provides.

As I walked away I sensed the man was making a phone-call. Suddenly my phone rang with the chilling words ‘unknown caller’ and I nearly had an heart attack. But I pressed on trying to keep my bottle of conditioned beer as upright as possible.

I found my seat on the train and sat down with a ‘phew’. Rather an intense though enjoyable day all things considered. Still it was all a bit intense.

Just as I was settling down my phone rang again, I panicked for half a second, but this time it didn’t say ‘unknown caller’. It said Tom and I felt a lot better. If anyone could help me get through this crazy shit it would be him.

“Hey mate, what’s up you playing?” he said.

“Sheet yeah, I need a drink, but Tom, things are getting a bit fucky, you’d better bring your space suit.”

Tom laughed and hung up the phone, or at least he pressed the red button. I know Tom wouldn’t know what to do about all this stuff but he would definitely be happy to spend a couple of hours boozing with me talking about it all.





3 comments:

  1. They have their own website now. Surely you've seen this:

    https://www.illuminatiofficial.org/

    ReplyDelete
  2. Dude.

    You are the most honest of people whom have experienced

    What we have

    It's interesting, no?

    D.No

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes. It's pretty cool...Feel like I'm the only one though....just me and the sunshine for company.

      Delete

Hi folks, please leave a message after the beep, and I will get back to you. BEEEEEEP!

I'm on FIRE with dat TROOF.

I'm on FIRE with dat TROOF.
Kundalini refugee doing a bit of landscaping.

Morocco Snapshots.

Oman man!

Cyprus, history washing over old stones.

Egypt... getting proper stoned.

Jordan. Biblical landscapes.

Nice shots of Morocco

Moor from Morocco.

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