Update on the story I may never be able to tell you

PART III

THE PLEDGE

Storm clouds are gathering … the town looks like it’s on fire, Genghis’s ghost army is billowing.

Yep, those good ol’ good fellas are getting ready for war… they’re pumping up their ancient smoke and mirror machines.

 Stirrup pumps and burning cabinets.

They are the arsonists of truth and security. These good fellas take away your safety, put you in jeopardy and pocket your hard-earned cash and demand that you do not insult them, attack them, expose them or tell the world they are lying cheating vicious, black-hearted conmen and women.

I’ll be ready for them this time though…

 I’ll be right here, waiting behind my cabin door. If those bastards want to fight on my doorstep, they’ve got it!   

I might only last a few seconds as the punches fly – but I’ll black some eyes, break some noses and ruin some reputations on my way down. I just have to accept that when my head finally hits the concrete and I bleed from my ears, they will turn around and ride their stolen horses away…

You can just hear them can’t you: “That taught the c*nt … that’ll teach ‘em all round here, if you take us on, you are dead!”

They’ll ride their crock horses to malady cross, slug whisky and suck on gay cigars – that’s what these bad boys do in their Bada Bing go-go bar.

Bada bing, bada boom, eh?

Or so they think.

Yeh, I’m watching Genghis’s army gathering… but its head is in the clouds and they forget I am a farmer in the city…

PART II

THE FEAR

Yep, it has happened again … they are gathering at my back door. The lights of the road don’t reach there.

I am going to have to fight them again, aren’t I.

I beat them off last time, but I had to go into hiding afterwards.

Below is everything I can tell you about what is going on… it is something I need to share with you without being muzzled by fear … this a terrifying story about money, power, abuse, loss, cynicism, corruption, secrets and lies.

But I can’t tell you anything about it.

All I can tell you is that soon there will be blood. And it won’t only be mine.

PART I

THE PARANOIA

And they WILL NOT destroy me and my family.

It’s a story of crime and flabby gangsters, conmen and shysters, all the worse for the smiles on their bloated shavers-rash faces and their tea-breath fibs.

That’s them over there, though I dare not share their names.

But beware, they are all around you. They hide in everybody’s plain view.

Look out your window now!

THERE THEY ARE, LOOKING IN!

Others are keeping on going in dump trucks, in 4x4s and on horseback.

Yep, on horseback. Working class hooray Henry and Henriettas clopping down the lanes on their proud posing mares…

Wait!

Sshhh…

That could give even a casual reader a clue. Sounds like it might be a rural tale, about not-so everyday country folk!

Sshh!

I can’t risk it…

So, for transparency and fairness (and security and safety), this kind of gangsterism goes on in cities and towns too, and in any corporate thrashing ground. So, I could be keeping this secret about anywhere…

After all, I’ve lived all around the world, boys.

No, I can’t pin it down for you to anything more than ‘somewhere around the world boys’ … yeh, crime that happens whether you are watching the glister in  Vienna at night, or ruminating in a beautiful morning of elephant’s eyes.

But my silence isn’t fair to you is it.

And it’s not fair on me, the whistleblower who’s had his whistle blown and now is afraid to tell his story. I only set out to right a wrong, which could even have been a mistake.

At first.

But then the bullies started lying about me to everybody and dropping simulated pearls in a few diamond encrusted shell-likes.

Truth is, between the bullies and the shell-likes, they shook me and my family up – then shut us down.

And they left me in fear of just how far they might go to get their own way.

Seriously, I can’t tell you what part of the world this is happening in, little tin-pot thieves aspiring to be pillars of society.

They are the real good fellas.

So, back to the window while nobody is looking in and I can’t see any listening van outside either.

Let’s look at the facts – It would be psychologically, emotionally and financially dangerous for me to share this story with you now…

But I can’t tell you what happened, when, where and who these people are who believe they are entitled to crush the lives of the little man under the wheels of pan-global progress.

Who are they? I know, I have their names … but I can’t expose them, they are simply too powerful, dishonest, self-serving and stick their silver tongues down just too many shell-likes. I’ve got all the answers you know, documents, emails, recordings, letters from government officials and Ministers, and billidos containing personal insults lies and threats …

And it is this very dossier that brought about this very real danger.

Well, that and the fact I took it to the police.

Yep, that scared those blingy gangsters out of their pretend Bada Bing club.

It scared ‘em, for sure.

But only for a bit.

Then a few more pearls appear to have been dropped into other shell-likes, many under pointy hats topping off blue suits.

The police station door clanged in my face.

I’d reached my metaphorical cell-by date.

But, the way out of it all was simple for me. The didn’t tie me to a chair or anything – or hang me upside down from a meat hook – just kept offering me an escape route …

Masonic marauders in cummerbunds and lacy Hush Puppies, kept telling me all I had to do was keep my mouth shut.

Stay schtum; Avoid telling the truth.

Not stand up for the rights of myself and others.

Losing my home and my family was the ultimate price they would expect me to pay if I ever wanted to be counted again.

By then though it’d gone to far – I was outed by the powerful ones as an obsessive and a weirdo, a dope-smoking, hard drinking ex-Fleet Street journalist, a seeker of truth not to be trusted.

I’d gone to a member of parliament (they have them all over the world you know).

And then the battle got elevated to Parliament itself.

The word was out and the Bill I was championing was filibustered into a blank  stone.

A nameless headstone for a nameless man who went down fighting but would soon be forgotten.

As far as the good fellas were concerned though, they just saw me as a bit of a nameless cult!

Although I can never explain to you why every one of them – from detractors, horse-faced neigh-sayers, buzzing negative gnats, brain-dead bone doctors, to poisonous scoffers – were so determined to bask in the bonfires of my losses.

And yes, because this fraternity of old-fashioned, boozy, gobby, rolled-gold-dripping, deal-making, fat cat tw*ts, operates in every community across the world, people loose so much to them every day.

Often the sanctity of their homes and hopes for the future.

Because of this ‘mafiosa’ – and I use that term with a certain amount of nebulosity – I could be about £100,000 out of pocket.

But I don’t suppose I should have told you even that, should I?

I am genuinely afraid that these so-called people might turn up one day and kick down my gates and set fire to my boundaries to shut me up forever.

Corruption is dishonesty undertaken by somebody with power to acquire illicit benefits for themselves.

Like I say, I have a lot of evidence to show this is what happened.

Yes, I am afraid. Very afraid.

The things I dare not tell you about are like the final nails in the coffin lid of democracy and honesty.

I have been a full-blown working journalist all my adult life and I have exposed cant, pomposity, cruelty and abuse on a daily basis. I worked on exposing Jimmy Savile and his cronies.

Back then though, I had all the backing of legal eagles who were feathering their nests by protecting people like me – journalists – from the criminals and perverts we were on the tail of.

Nowadays, though I’m just that ancient trouble-causer down the road who the bullies wish would simply go away.

Or die.

I’ve got to say I haven’t done either yet – and there will be blood

Many years ago I was commissioned by a leading magazine to investigate the burgeoning interest in ancient hauntings in the early 2000s … I got quite well paid for the articles over three years and retained the copyright.

Anyway, I ‘sold’ myself as the Skeptical Occultist with a mission to prove or disprove existence of ghosts which would bring us a lot closer to proving or disproving the existence of God!

A grandiose claim, I know and blush a modicum internally as I have to admit we proved absolutely nothing!

Still, it was interesting (for a while) and took us to some strange places…

In this case, Welcome to Electric Lady land.

And sitting there, over by the roaring log fire, is Mavis Price, the Electric Lady herself. She prides herself on being able to cause electrical goods to explode simply by touching them; kettles, irons, toasters all have fallen victim to her kinetic powers.

Once she had to abandon a computer training course after blowing up an Apple Mac.

With her is Terry, a tortured little slip of a man who is staking his future on a liver transplant.  He’s an ebullient character though and says he shares his rented flat with a man who died from liver failure decades ago. They communicate through a second-hand television set.

Mavis is middle-aged and full of raucous laughter. Periodically she wafts her walking cane at a ghost cat muling around her ankles. Terry might look ill but he is regaling Mavis with his camp and witty tales. His hands tremble as he warms them against the flames of the fire.

I wonder if he knows that those flames may be roaring up from the conflagration in Satan’s hearth? Mythology in this small rugged enclave of rural Shropshire has it that the fireplace Mavis and Terry are sharing is one of  the county’s Gateway to Hell.

Nothing is what it seems here at the Alerston Inn, on the outskirts of Telford. Even the Gateway to Hell is, in reality, an ancient well capped after the tragic death of a young girl one hundred and fifty years ago.

And the inn? Well, that isn’t what it purports to be either. It looks like a bucolic 19^th century coaching house, and boasts an ingle nook, crannies and corridors, a wealth of oak beams, uneven walls and a steep and narrow stairwell. The central heating rattles incessantly but makes the building hum with an almost oppressive heat. The floorboards creak and doors groan.

But the Alerston Inn is a modern folly, a house-that-John-built in 1985 on the site of an ancient piggery.

Local builder John Clarke wanted to construct a property that looked as if it had been there for centuries. And he succeeded.  It’s an eccentric, charming and incomprehensible pile.

The motley crew of paranormal investigators, have taken up their posts around the pub and guest rooms, and they are quiet with anticipation. This could be a good investigation, some very strange things happened two weeks ago when IMP did their baseline tests.

Two happened to me. I really do not have a desire to be numbered amongst the haunted, but like Mavis has an effect on electrical goods, I seem to have an effect on things beyond the grave. That’s why I’m here with IMP, for a greater understanding of the fundaments of life after death.

The first incident happened at about 4pm as I photographed the outside of the £60-a-night inn. The shutter captured two curious balls of light flitting across the roof. They are particularly curious because they have tails like comets, short and stubby, but tails all the same. And they are moving in different directions. Initial tests on the photograph show that these ’comets’ do not seem to be made up of the natural constituents of light, the red and blue  of the rainbow appear to be missing.

Later that evening I was talking to Les Beer, co-ordinator of IMP and other team members on the corridor outside Room 7, the room landlady Merle Cotterill says is her most haunted. Suddenly the ceiling light above my head began to spin impossibly. Les and I watched in astonishment as the lamp made a dozen circumnavigations of my head. Then it stopped dead. Not even a sway.

There were no draughts along the corridor, no open windows and the lamp was too high for me to have knocked.

And the movement it made could only be recreated by holding the flex and spinning the lamp vigorously.

This all added grist to the mill for the investigators.  Merle had already told us of a chanting she heard on this same corridor: “It was almost like a red Indian chant, very disturbing. It just went on and on. I get very nervous up here and don’t like being by myself. And it’s not just me … the girl who cleans the rooms for us has told about things being moved from room to room. She describes it as a playful poltergeist.

“Then a guest in Room 7 became very uncomfortable after he saw a shadow walking around the bed.”

Mavis too has seen things: “I was sitting in the bar when a cat started brushing up against my leg, I kept shoo-ing it with my cane – but there was nothing there. Nothing, yet I could feel it brushing up against me. Another time, I had my credit card in my hand when something snatched it off me and flung it across the room.”

Terry claims to have seen two old men sitting in the bar area. The pub was closed. He described them as Victorian workmen, coats pulled tight against the cold, thick cavalry twirl pants, boots worn, soles still thick.   Their hands were cracked and dry and looked like clay in the moonlight. Fingers tapped on the arms of the chair.

The investigation began late. It was almost 1am when the tills were cashed and staff  had gone home. Les, Merion, Paul and myself settled in the dark in Room 7 armed with recording equipment and monitors. Other investigators based themselves in the corridor at the top of the stairs with infra-red cameras and Tom set up camp in the bar near the entrance.

And so we waited in the dark in sweltering heat on a moonless night. The Alerston Inn yawed and groaned around us like an ancient sailing ship.

 It was as hot as hell in Room 7, despite the fact the heating had gone off a couple of hours earlier. It was so hot that Merion lay down on the floor to find cooler air. Room 7 is very small, barely enough space for the double bed, hand wash basin and the wall mounted TV. It was airless and uncomfortable for four men.

Then something happened. Les inexplicably began to complain of feeling cold down his right-hand side. He sounded spooked and shined a lamp onto his arm to show the goose-bumps spreading like a rash.

Paul pointed a directional thermometer at him and we watched as Les’s temperature dropped by four degrees in as many seconds.

It was obviously bothering him despite his protests that he was fine. He kept muttering: “This is weird … this is weird  … this is really weird.”

I felt the air around him, but there was no discernable change in the temperature. Paul started to get concerned and asked Les if he wanted to take a break.

Les’s reply was terse: “No – this is what we’re here for – note it down.”

Interestingly, the night’s log showed that Tom had experienced the thing at the same time downstairs in the bar.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully amidst the creaking of the inn, the hushed whispers of the investigators and the submarine-like bleeps of their equipment.

At 4.30am Les called off the hunt and the team began packing up. But Les had one last trick up his sleeve and the Alerston Inn was about to respond gamely.

He used a technique I’ve witnessed him use once before and it had an equally dramatic result then. Les calls it Electronic Voice Phenomena, or, in laymen’s terms, Calling Out.

The simplest thing to do is give you a transcript of the three minutes ten second recording he made at dawn as embers died in the fireplace. There are long silences:

Les: The beginning of EVP experiment … can you give us your name? (silence) Can you tell us if you live here? (silence) Can you tell us if you died in here? (silence) Can you tell us if you are a man? (silence) Can you tell us if you are a woman? (silence) Can you tell us if you are looking for somebody? (silence) If you are looking for somebody, is that somebody a girl? (silence) (Inaudible) … any messages you’d like to leave (inaudible) on this table?  Leave any message you want. (Silence) I have one final question for you … are you a little girl who fell down the well? (Silence) Are you looking for somebody who fell down the well which is situated under the fireplace?

Tape: (Muffled sound) ‘No’.

Les: Did you say ‘No’? (silence) Was that you talking? Did you just say  ‘No’ to my question? (silence) Did you say ‘No’ to your (sic) little girl? Or did you say ’No’ to the well?

The tape ends.

So, there we have it, one fascinating night in the land of the Electric Lady. Of course there is nothing conclusive, at best it’s a hotchpotch of unusual tales and mythologies, unexplained happenings and an indistinct voice on a bad recording.

None of it adds up and for a very good reason. Whereas the equation of life is calculable, written as it is across the face of the world, the equation of death is written in the recesses of the mind. Parts are hidden in dark places of fear, prejudice and ridicule and parts of it are undoubtedly written in places we have not yet discovered.

But the equation of death is the sum total of life itself, so we must keep on looking.

Nice guy who crooned his life away for us all

I was sad to hear of the death of crooner and all-round good guy Tony Bennett at the age of 96. In some ways he was the urbane smiling, freshly showered, elegant face of smartness and comfy shoes, no matter how patent.

This is a personal view – I think Tony was on top of his own world but never became the vocal influence he should have been – but who was he up against? Frank, Elvis and Bob, that’s who!

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They each had an eccentricity that I never saw in him … Frank was edgy and dangerous even when he was covered by syrup, Elvis could break your heart with his baritone andits tenor-tendencies … and Bob? Well, listen to every rock singer in the past half a century and you will hear Bob’s influence.

Yep, Tony was stylish but there were others with more impact…

But I am genuinely pleased that Once Upon a Time I shared the world with him…

Here’s Bob singing for Tony…

Do you know, there is something inherently wrong about the story concerning a depressed TV presenter who got caught up in a scandal either of his own making or not.

Huw Edwards is one of the UK’s leading journalists with coming-up-to half a century in the job. He should have known exactly what the consequences were if his peccadillos leaked in an international newsroom.

Except, it appears, if you work at the heart of the BBC’s news-gathering operation.

Many at the BBC feel they are walking on a thin raft of Teflon, never thinking for a moment that they might slip off it.

The BBC is a middle-class oik and as such is now bleating vaporously on its tea-breath that it’s all the Sun’s fault!

Is it?

A few days ago the BBC Newsnight programme went for the jugular but, as usual, with a weak flappy-paddle wrist, a headache and scornful pomposity.

The BBC didn’t look at its own failures, it looked for somebody to blame.

Yet its own reporters were probing allegations about Huw Edwards BEFORE the story broke.

Well, they must have agreed with the Sun and all the other news outlets, that yes there was a public interest then.

And let’s look why it has public interest …

1. Parents approached The Sun saying they had evidence that Huw was paying large sums to a young person with drug addiction. Sexual pictures were involved apparently.
2. The BBC news editors had shown no interest.
3. Huw Edwards was named by his wife and social media. Not the British Press … we were respecting privacy and deformation laws
4. The parents said they wanted the payments to stop.
5. Police told them nothing could be done.   
6. The family asked for no payment from The Sun.

Do you know what they wanted?

A voice That’s what…

What should the hard-talking, street-wise Sun have done? Told the family to f*ck off?

Ignored what appeared to be another clear abuse of power by a leading BBC celebrity?

Do you know what it is like to have a major problem in your life but you have nowhere to turn?

I do.

So, the Sun opened its tabloid door to them, took them in. Now, the couple chose the Sun, not the other way round.

And because of privacy the Sun never named Huw at all.

Social media did though, without any checking, investigating, interviewing, legal advice or indeed KNOWLEDGE.

As the Sun said: “(The BBC) and its media supporters, sanctimonious haters of tabloids and The Sun especially, leapt on the police’s initial finding that no criminality had occurred and claimed the story thus had no public interest.

What self-serving duplicity.”

Well, what can you say? The BBC now appears to be doing the job they should have been doing months – or even years – ago.

The Sun was on it and published bringing up many questions including so many about freedom, our right to know … and the dark side of our democracy.

Who did it wrong Huw Edwards, the     BBC or the tabloid press?

Are you happy as those in power, judges, politicians and perverts are removing your voice box?

Is it just to keep you quiet..?

Why is news giant rolling like thunder under the cover-ups?

I am saddened and angered by the new attacks on the popular British media… these attacks are a defence of the not-so-popular BBC, which may just be the most convoluted and ‘secretive’ news organisation in Britain today.

Simple equation … the media investigated – totally legally – claims over yet another BBC celeb acting in a questionable way.

And then did the legitimate, legal thing; Published.

The BBC however – Britain’s supposedly premier news vendor – kept it all secret, put up smoke screens, waited, procrastinated… waited … and when the story broke, got very upset.

The organisation was also very upset when, in January 2022,  Eric Gill’s sculpture Prospero and Ariel was attacked by protesters as a “paedophile” artwork.

Eric Gill wrote about abusing his daughters, interfering with his dog and having sex with at least one of his sisters. Prospero and Ariel shows a tall, robed Prospero with his arms enfolding a small, naked boy, Ariel.

The BBC decided to preserve the statue. Good for the ‘luvvy’ argument over protecting difficult works of art … but surely the BBC needs to take a PR-view on its burgeoning reputation over secret relationships rolling like thunder under their cover-ups.

As democracy is peeled away from us Brits like dying flesh, we should celebrate, defend and extol the virtues of freedom – freedom of speech, freedom to investigate, freedom to ask questions, freedom to publish.

Believe me, the laws regulating news publishing in the UK make it feel like you are reporting from a gulag in Putin’s wasteland.  

However, the Sun was pretty quick – yep, some clarification here over when they actually knew – to publish the updates on their original story after correspondence from London lawyers.

By then the BBC were saying, guardedly, that the parents were at fault.

Truly outrageous.

But the truth will ultimately come out; for instance breaking lockdown? Loveheart emojis to a schoolie?

 See! Allegations lead to investigation, quite rightly.

These things need looking into, but the BBC couldn’t be bothered for weeks and weeks. It is our right to KNOW what’s going, that there is PUBLIC examination of allegations, that the mark is IDENTIFIED (Nicky Campbell and Jeremy Vine agree!) for public safety and to throw open the chances of further evidence to be revealed – evidence positive or negative.

Surely, it is the BBC’s job to take cases like this seriously and share publicly any information they have. THAT IS WHAT NEWS IS ABOUT – EXPOSE AND TELL THE TRUTH.

#ericgill #bbc #children #media #freedom

By our resident writer of surrealism, Eric Lastick

EAGLE SOUND STRUM: Peyote buttons…desert high. Monies of the gold you run—through lucid dreams…soulful battles of wretch and whistles. Native Indian scenery on a hit sandy say. Hot gifts from the prophets now look dead on. Not a myth! Witchy Woman align with parts and figures of “The Umbra” & it’s lunar styled shadowy days. Iron on the bloods of the Shamans. The mythifiers. The inner lobe opens to the wides—-sculpted as art on these desert sands. Cold and dark the spirit of the enlightens, as Lucifer’ the lonely…and his headed stove—-out on the high drives of secular poles. Angles as one shifts. High and dry thirsts of the forgotten…the tune play on in cool waters, non-exists. Buzz song in the chugs of the all nighters. fake lake you swim with all your rested laurels—until the wave of dry tide bright you back. Handsome hides and fallen to the seas of leagues under a wishful of hand crafted lead guitars…and inspirited sky. Cactus flow the needles in and out of one’s harmful trippy mind. Time to come home, Ol’ warriors of the rock beats. A Witch doctor’s potion clears air for the early arrives of the next studio album…as the Witchy woman is ”All ready gone!’

EAGLE CRUSHING IN THE FAST LANES: Great is the song of bridged and over-lasts to the truths…and the burning of the candle at it’s very evenly ends—too a hard fall! The fast track is great for racing. The left lane is for passing, yet comes with extra built speed—which often the taking of law as far as one can…and sometimes past the Limit. Girl watchers salient reprise…get the prize—when the music plays… and you know it’s time to reach for ” One Of These Nights” Crazy old ones…as few can attain a fast lane without pain & burnout. Yet remember when she was pretty. “Terminally pretty, as Don, the drummer whom boldly tapped of the eagle sound strum; the rage & the race is on. Yet the players developed engine trouble. The heart was there…not the movements…the stage. The place of the dance was laying down to sleep; until ”Rumple, Rumpelstiltskin arrived at the homecoming. Babe’s tried to brush her hair with saggy arms… hide all mirrors! Guru is left leaning on their wages in the fogs… come and gone. Holy man leaves the California suit in uncommitted and uncommon anger. Life in the fast lane turns as life in the no lane…as we will see you two on the other side of Saturday, without heart in it. Yet Don will still handle a drum kit. A snare and stroll on Jo’s guitar. Next stop, as the eagle has landed. A reunion. One can only hope the faster lanes can at least sit up…and take a little soup. The heavy of the horse and low running engines may be on a misfire? Though who’s to know, except under the spell of a Witchy Woman…reprise—-and her wind dust-fist-ed broom, seizing to long out in the sun; as the align’ of ”the take together moon” reveals the very next steps to the famous ”Hotel California!”

THE ARRIVAL AT HOTEL CALIFORNIA: Seated so high on the hill and reaching new levels of counterculture’s indulgences and free love…a future actual Time Traveler string-on-a-worm off a cosmic Witch’s pole—faster than the speed of light; as a latter day Astronaut of sorts has taken heed of an Eagle sound-strum. Space he claim…though steered off course in the range of 200 yrs on a backtrack, where bare bones and human frailty mixes of a cocktail of cast a spell of spoiled technology to enter the real Hotel California (1977) Lock-in log entry date…and palm tree brought of dreams! Aligned and stopped dead in it’s astral tracks. Man in time. Astronaut  of human form, set right in the center line of a welcoming of 2 moving rolling gates…and to the sights and sounds of very voluptuous decadent tribes of various life goers—as right there, a single sole man of immediate travels, attempts of making way back home (2177) Although, he finds himself on the grounds of sunny Southern California two hundred years in reverse course at an inadvertent and grade (A) Hotel, no less, yet an extraordinary strange forwardness of the waves of sun bathers…swimming arms…belly flops—and the looks and loud of fastback cars. Blue raise and Sting Rays. High tall waters flow—too everyone’s eventful finds of it’s drunk fountains…youthful gallery…picturesque celebratory stay. As once you cross the drawing line, the high climb diving boards—headlong and aspiring; there is no getting back…and no way of leaving! 

A strange pair of eyes now watches you. Not quite human…and not quite right—as it’s mad methods begin to suck and draw you in. Sign and form at entry. Fun filled in the forever, but an ultimate price to pay! The time traveler has finally made it’s weight in gold—–right at the moment of a total eclipse of the sun! The Witchy woman in headdress of black wig—stir with the winds…the multiverse spin of a cone. ”The Umbra” and it’s lunar styled shadowy workings of the totality so depraved and basking in it! She spells of it’s eternity of tarnish and erosion. The stems of Hollywood’s branches. Founded of it’s scream. Time traveler and Man of the future, now of indecision—bounces off the maps of change…of his desires, his pleasures, as young girl run. Wet towel he slides. Waiter toss their trays—skimming just under his chin, until an alcohol hot heated cocktail makes a head first run at him. An adverse thought not so wise—tossed right into the entry ring of incalculable hot lust—drawn down upon a seemly crackpot in a strange futuristic space suit—during broad daylight…and to the every inbetweens of a sensuous bikini dressed fun. He, the space traveler has cramped all decadent restored—clear off the boards. Yet still, the old rule of: ”You can never leave” still applies…as he is chased by 2 Gargoyle toughs—too the throws of their ever gilded dungeons! There, he stay in the forever chains. On and on with like minded mal-contents…party poopers…and the repeats of the rift of proper’s; as now, all days dark the same in ”the umbra” All of the nights are pitched like tents of unseating stars; as an all night guard struck a match in what does forever. Time traveler sits lock and key in the dirges of every good man’s hellish dream. He thought of the Hotel as a myth. a long standing great Spanish guitar and electric jam. A Hotel California of century’s ago? But not the fear of the sounds above his dwelling of a permanent summer vacation fun? A place of his heightened-thought…and imagined he presumed to know? Still he is a study of the Eagle song. Hotel California wedged in his mind. Now he realizes that you can check out but you can never leave. Yet he is in the bad graces of such an evil power. He knows it is time for him to try and flee…however can he? This is the nightmare that all those whom put themselves in harms way must face. So out of sheer adrenaline he bends and twists his shackled wrists…and places his finger to the attached dial of his space suit…and in a flash, after setting it forward—-as all systems are go—–he clears his way; and right on back too the future. Or at least he thought so? Although he has reached earth’s grounds…and just outside the compound…though still in the year 1977! The Eagles and their sound strums can be heard all across the compound. Hotel California plays with great will and ease.

Alan Bennett, the brother of ‘lost boy’ Keith, has written another gentle and heart-felt piece giving a glimpse into the world of those who were left behind and were forced on a quest to find the remains of their loved ones.

Thank you Alan, your writing is keeping memories and support alive…

Alan writes: On July 1st in 1987 the body of Pauline Reade was discovered and brought off Saddleworth Moor, 24 years after Pauline had been murdered and buried on the moor by Brady and Hindley.

After she was returned to her family Pauline’s mum, Joan, told us that ‘It was like a big dark cloud had been lifted off my shoulders’.

Joan found some small peace of mind eventually and the change in her life after Pauline was found was so very good to see.

I met Pauline’s immediate family and I can honestly say that Pauline’s mum, Joan, who I got hugs from on quite a few occasions, was one of the nicest, gentle and sincere people I have ever met.

Thinking of and remembering Pauline and her family.

#paulinereade #bradyhindley #myraian #moorsmurders #keithbennett

IT IS MORE THAN A YEAR SINCE THIS LETTER WAS SENT TO THE PEOPLE OF RUSSIA – WE SHOULD ALL SEND IT AGAIN

According to dictionaries, propaganda is the sharing of misleading information for a political cause.

It all began in 1622 when Pope Gregory XV Propaganda Fide to tell the world about the Catholic faith. Since then propaganda has become the incendiary and cataclysmic lies of war … deadly, spontaneous lies flying through the holes in the air where nature used to wheel and spin.

People say that we journalists are the world’s biggest propagandists. But that isn’t what we are about … I have done my ‘war stint’ and I tell you, our time isn’t spent sifting through the detritus of lies of ambition and death, many of us face bombs and bullets on burned-out streets to discover what the truth is.

Well, now a major UK tabloid has written a letter to Putin’s victims of lies – his own people.

The Mirror has asked its monthly readership of 33 million readers to tell the Russians about the horrors of war taking place in Ukraine in their name.

AND HERE AT THE SOCIETY WE SUPPORT THEM ENTIRELY AND ASK OUR OWN HALF A MILLION READERS TO DO THE SAME THING.

Below is a letter to Putin’s people, written by the Mirror. Please copy it and use this Russian adress generator to send it, by post to those who are being kept in the dishonest darkness as the world faces some of its darkest days.

Russian addresses can be found on a random address generator at: www.bestrandoms.com/random-address-in-ru

The Russian people are NOT being told of the deaths, bombing, massacres rape – and talking about it – if you know about it – is a criminal offence leading to 15 years in jail.

Russia’s honest media outlets have been shut down, and protests against the war crippled with speed and severity.

The Russian people almost certainly have no idea of what is really happening in Ukraine.

So help The Society, the Mirror and the brave journalists dodging death on the streets what is really going on.

The tabloid said: “Since the Russian invaded Ukraine on February 24, many Mirror readers have been asking what they can do to help.

The letter says: “There is no free press in Russiaand your leaders are cheating you with a daily diet of lies about the war in Ukraine. Your President is not telling the truth.”

Well, let us – readers and writers, contributors to The Society and the Mirror – TELL THE RUSSIANS WHAT BLOOD-LETTING, DESTRUCTION HITLERESQUE HORRORS that are happening in their names but NOT in their hearts…

Please cut out this letter and send it. It is the least we can do.

#zelensky #putin #mirror #letterrussians

Rocker asks Putin ‘is your money that good …’ as her band members fights on Europe’s streets of death (see video inside)

The lanky musician who has brought an element of punk blues to Dylan’s performances over the past decades has stepped into the spotlight of war.

Charlie Sexton, the six feet three inches tall, string-bean meastro of some of Bob’s most creative work took to the stage with a singer from the Ukraine to perform Masters of War.

It was performed as a pointed statement to the Madman of Moscow who has brought the world to the brink…

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire

Then you sit back and watch
While the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
While the young peoples’ blood

Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

Charlie lives in Austin, Texas, where the venue for the SXSW regular showcase is held. And the ‘walk down the road’ to join Oleksandra Zaritska – known as Sasha – on stage was a dramatic moment of emotion, conviction that showed Dylan’s words from more than half a century ago still ring true.

Just prior to Sexton strolling on stage she said “I have a message to Putin: It’s a song from Bob Dylan and its name is ‘Masters of War.’

Sasha turned to Charlie for her cue because, while its message is indelible, she couldn’t remember all the lyrics in English.

But the lyrics couldn’t help resonate.

Sasha, was the only member of electronic-folk band Kazka able to attend the showcase. Bandmates were made to stay in Ukraine to fight or volunteer to help people.

Charlie Sexton was hired by Bob Dylan to replace Bucky Baxter in 1999. Sexton had previously played with Dylan during a pair of Austin, Texas, concerts in 1991.

Before the performance Sasha told how she had witnessed Russian bombs falling on her hometown of Kyiv.

She told the audience: “You can stop this war. Use your voice.”

#bobdylan #sexton #austintexas #ukraine #russia #moscow #neverendingtour