Cheers to all my friends – and there are many – from Ireland, particularly Pat McManus and his family … he’s a cheeky blinder with a wicked sense of humour and a heart as big as Dublin.
He is Irish and proud!
#stpatrick #pat #patrick #day #irish
No, we aren’t black-heart monsters – we are victims, just like our children
Looking at the life of a bloke who met a woman, had a child in love, then lost everything to hatred
“Parental Alienation Awareness Day is just around the corner and do you know, I am sick to death of being thought of as a dead-beat dad.
It’s a killer.
So, how did I become a dead-beat dad?
Well, what I did was walk away from a totally toxic relationship after seven years of trying to get things right. Then discovered I was being cuckolded too.
The majority of people in this world who have had to end a relationship where a child is involved – the only good thing perhaps to have come out of those years together – knows it’s not easy.
It is certainly the hardest decision you will make in your life, believe me.
Still, today though, I believe our child was conceived in love. It was our world that went wrong, not our child, she did nothing wrong. So, why was she punished?
That is the tragedy.
When my ex was pregnant I supported her financially on a monthly basis… I voluntarily paid for my child before she was born…
Two years after she arrived on this earth – me and her mum had broken up ‘for good’ times but got back together because of our commitment.
But by then – the unholy campaign to paint me as a dead-beat, a cheat, a liar, a thief, a benefits fraudster and an alcoholic and drug addict, began.
Three vicious – I would say psychotic – wives (my ex and two of her very nice middle-class lady friends) conspired against me. Three bitter and bored neighbours in a middle-class British leafy dormitory decided to collude against me.
I became the totem of hatred for everything they saw as bad that had happened to them in their lives.
They phoned my boss to tell him he was ‘employing scum’, they tried to get me banned from local pubs because, they said ‘he doesn’t pay for his child ‘cos he spends ll his money in here!’.
And they hid my daughter from me, literally. They physically turned her face away from me if we came near each other accidently on the streets.
Yep, there are dead-beat dads – those who refuse to step up to the mark – but that isn’t me, nor is it any of the thousands of male victims of parental alienation we have been involved with other the past decade.
PA is an inhuman abuse of human rights and it affects men, women and children alike.
Yes, it is a family killer.
Do you know, suicide is the biggest ‘cull’ of men under the age of 45 in the UK?
Every day we must remind ourselves that parental alienation remains a deadly secret all over villages, small towns and cities across the world.
But now us victims have our own day, Parental Alienation Awareness Day.
So, let’s use it to tell the world our stories … the date us April 25 2023
PAAD is a major part of a global awareness campaign aimed at making the general public, judges, police officers, mental health care workers, child protection agencies, lawyers and social workers aware of one of the biggest unchecked crimes in the world today.
They all need to remember – just like the rest of the world – that we’ve all been through break-ups. And in fury we’ve all grabbed at, metaphorically speaking, the nearest ‘blunt instrument’ to get back at our ex, make him/her suffer and make them know what they losing by leaving us.
But the weapon you chose should never be your child.
Using your child as a weapon of crass destruction is horrific life-changing child abuse, psychological abuse. It is selfish, cynical and shameful.
Ask yourself one question … how can you possibly claim to love your son or daughter when you brain-wash them into insulting, attacking, abusing – or even just ignoring – their other parent?
If you abuse your own children for your own satisfaction and to punish somebody else, what kind of human being are you?
Ask yourself that question and answer it honestly. Face yourself in the mirror of your child’s heartbreak.
That reflection, if you look deeply into yourself, will show that you are no better than the family courts, child maintenance organisations, CAFCASS and social workers.
These are the organisations that work rarely for the child but almost always work for the bitter, dispossessed and dumped ex.
Yes, you are the parent with care but the simple fact is, if you are an exponent of parental alienation, you truthfully and honestly DO NOT care.
And still today it is difficult to get the world to notice you and what you and the courts are doing…
We, at The Society, along with Andrew John Teague, from NAAP and D.A.D.s. have been fighting for almost a decade to get things put right. So far, we haven’t reached the end of the road.
And we’ll both keep going.”
The idea for PAAD was introduced in Canada by Sarvy Emo in late 2005.
#parentalalienation #children #families #courts #cafcass #socialworkers #SarvyEmo
A customer services operative gently weeps and security gathers like blubbery Vin Diesels with tea-breath – all I said was my dongle didn’t work!
What is wrong with you Britain? What happened to your manners and your self-worth?
The personality of this once green and pleasant land is now based on passive aggression – but woe betide anybody who shows any form of good old fashioned real aggression – not fisticuffs or anything like that – just the gumption to stand up for themselves!
It all began with the advent of customer services – that last bastion of lost ambition, pointless platitudes and inverted aggression, the industry that seems only to employ failed parking wardens, bloated pointless pompous ousted county councillors and those hypocratic oafs of the NHS, jobless doctors receptionists!
Here’s a real conversation with a real customer services representative at a real supermarket (you’re not allowed to call them shop assistants anymore!)
Me: I hand a CS rep the opened package of an internet dongle: “Hello, the dongle I bought here a few days ago doesn’t work.”
CS: “I’m sorry, I’m here to help sir, can you explain what the problem is?”
Me: “Yes, my dongle doesn’t work.”
CS: “I’m sorry sir, do you have the receipt?”
Me: “I’m sorry I’ve lost it.”
CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid that without a receipt there is nothing I can do.”
Me: “Yes you can…”
CS: “I’m sorry sir, it’s company policy.”
Me: “Well, it certainly isn’t my policy or the policy of the law of the land …”
CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m only trying to help you.”
Me: “Well you’re not helping me by telling me there’s nothing you can do to help me!”
CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m here to help you but I can’t help if you adopt that kind of attitude towards me…”
Me: “All I’m saying is that you actually can help me if I don’t have a receipt…”
CS: “I’m sorry sir, I’m not willing to be spoken to in that way – if you persist, I’ll will have to call security.”
And in this way we proceeded for some minutes before the manager came along, caught in the wake of his eggy and p*ss stained uniformed security with their clunky mobiles and bald heads.
The manager changed my dongle for me without argument or an apology as the customer services operative wept like a guitar as medics hovered and security loomed like blubbery, toothless Vin Diesels…
What is wrong with you Britain for Godsake?
When I became a hoarder in the mid-1990s I had just given everything away – my second wife, my job and basically my way of life.
Oh, and my beloved old red 3.5 SD1 Rover saloon (now that hurt).
I became essentially a loner, except of course for my very middle-class Golden Retriever.
We scratched along together well enough in my cacophonous, collapsing 18th century pile in a small hamlet by the side of the road. I had adopted a comfortably numb drunken and drugged state at the middling age of 40.
I say cacophonous pile because to pay the bills I’d filled the extensive rooms of the house with Hells Angels and a gay lorry driver called Toni.
And even though I classed myself as a loner, I suppose I’d actually become a sort of collector of strange people and set them up in my strange but manly doll’s house.
I have to say you’d be arrested if you hoarded people, but human ephemera is a totally different kettle of fish like I suppose end-of-day glass fish.
Anyway me, my dog, the bikers and Toni all got along rather well together.
In fact all of us and the house and my dog – he always had an eye on wine-o-clock just like the rest of my motley guests – got rather a reputation in the Village of the Damned.
The joke down the local was: “Do you know why there are no aliens around here?”
“No?”
“Cos all the space cadets live at Leigh Banks’s house!”
I appreciated the joke, even though the locals, who had one brain cell and a cow between them, didn’t actually appreciate the constant parties, the roaring of motorbikes or the blisteringly loud music at my house.
Another thing that bothered them was the fact that my 300 year old roof was so full of holes it was like a colander meaning that when we had the disco lights going, the house looked like a big space invader, flashing on and off on and off against the weight of the night sky.
It actually became known as Colander House.
But all that said, the 21 room house stood in its own grounds of nearly quarter of an acre surrounded by crow-bearing trees and bounded by a large stream filled with scientifically important greater crested newts and some ducks that ate them all. Therefore I didn’t really care.
Anyway, time passed in a fug and haze of illegal substances and Tennant’s Super and I started to noticing I was acquiring things ;like tatty old ornaments – fairings as they were known – bits of ephemera and even the odd taxidermy-ed bird and fish.
They began appearing unannounced round the house. A bit like magic I suppose.
Then a roulette wheel appeared on my coffee table. Then an old oak coffee table joined the existing coffee table out of the blue. That was accompanied by a hand-driven coffee grinder.
Next a set of bull horns somehow nailed themselves to my lounge wall, followed by a a rather romantic French bed in my bedroom which took Toni’s interest.
There was a massive ornate cast iron lathe in my barn.
And colourful end-of-day glass fish glistened damply all over the house too!
A few days later a 1950s telly replaced mine. Then a brilliant ‘baby’ Aga appeared fully plumbed in and working in my kitchen. My microwave was gone though. Seemed a fair swap really, so I didn’t complain. Besides Hells Angels and gay hauliers are a bit temperamental about the cold and they were always complaining that my oak-beamed cottage was chilly and they were happy to keep the fire going. My cottage was toasty again.
Toni appreciated it too. He spent almost all of his spare time going round the Wrekin car parks bumping in to friends and liked to bring the colour back to his cheeks in front of the fire.
I was happy. Nobody had really taken care of the house since me and the missus had split up, so having Hells Angels keeping it tidy and toasty was very nice thank you.
It didn’t take me long to find out what was going on though… it was Jeff the Peth.
He actually lived with his wife and family in a tiny two-up-and-two-down cottage just down the road. Jeff had filled his own cottage to busting with an eclectic miasma of car boot buys and bargains.
He therefore needed somewhere else to store his ‘stock’ and decided I wouldn’t mind him using some of the spare capacity in my home, particularly as I also had three garages and three storey barn.
Jeff was right. I didn’t mind and we’d spend many pleasant evenings sitting there surrounded by his growing collection of antiques and chatting about them until the sun came up and hurt our bleary beery eyes.
We became the best of friends and I started going out with him to car boots, country actions and country house sales.
And that’s how I became a collector and antiques dealer, something I did for 15 years, until people stopped wanting to live in the middle of nowhere in money-pit cottages with yokels yapping at their door and moved to minimalist industrial-style apartments in the the cities where they worked.
The country antiques trade died off for many years.
Anyway, a few months ago I started to notice on social media that well-heeled people – perhaps as middle-class as my drunken Golden Retriever – were revitalising the trade and buying on-line the kind of stuff Jeff and I used to buy from country sales.
Tretchikoff’s green Chinese lady seems to be a particularly favourite today … we used to buy prints for a couple of quid. But key-board dealers are now paying £60 -70 for the same prints!
And lava lamps, back in the day £3, today £100 and more!
What about painted furniture? Well, it goes like a bomb. But we used to paint it to hide blemishes and stains which would only be discovered when it was stripped back to what should have been its former glory.
Now nobody seems to care.
It’s a new age, a new sense of second-hand decadence, cheap furniture representing a cheap past.
And good on them for having a go at the ancient art of Lovejoy, David Dickinson and that bloke who has a second hand emporium in Detroit or somewhere.
Anyway, here are some pictures from a quarter of a century ago when my home wasn’t a home but a dusty old antiques shop in the middle of nowhere! It was real McCoy.
And if you think it looks a bit untidy, well don’t blame me – blame the Hells Angels. That was their job!
#collecting #antiques #lovejoy #hellsangels #staffordshire #woodseaves #lgbgt
BY OUR SURREALIST WRITER and REGULAR CONTRIBUTOR ERIC LASTICK
Renegade outlaws sand-spurs of the Comanche trails…
THE OUTLAW RUN)
Old gun sling quarrel…Mr. Briggs of big at Bitter Creek. Perceives and executes, as old as it is new. Proves and their prices of nowadays praises…and of old dusty-bred oratory on bullet bands. Holsters leather brands of Western Ward sons. Western hoofs, grooves. Courageous, you might say…though bitter the swallow of all who live long enough, to banjo & wisdom. Hearts replenish only if you will, yet where most won’t. Sings of sad, though stars seem in perfect alines, in linage of crimes, once again of our living, our breathing!
SPECTACLE: Now a gunfighter of four…or as one feel it. And gives you a boost to the next mapped out miracle moment. But it ain’t real. No, not at all; as the Dalton gang rises of the forward Tomb buzz. Look-like wings in circles. Circle may the fool. Roundups and saddle tight you–flight, all through the rain drenched and dark of night. Calls, hums and whispers—though never so clear, here at Bitter Creek. Swallows in strikes of sounds…and the willows of the perturbed.Morning may long be magic with a horse drawn steal. An open and shut range, until the next Marshall come-a-looking. Not to judge, but to see that the law lingers…and it trust much further than, the fear of a common scared and law abiding townsman. His lady close at his side.
Dalton bullet vest sunny sweet in ones own mind’s one. Earlobes in the heat of the Comanche oversees—like waves of courses so cruel. Hollow canyon take us back to where simpler times…though the bitter of wind and rain follows a poor choice in six gun folly, careless shots to sacred still will quarters. Hears and listens of ancestors, high native sky!
(LONG RIDERS…OUTLAW REND)
Crazy spurs…and dust bend whiskeys…all black hatted. Terse eyed and know-ed—-too a last ”rob of a caboose.” Meet me at the pass of the notorious Younger James…train turnovers and notoriety, 1863. Hope-hold country fair—see’s side of roughed rove Missouri . Bold as it is cold travels. War torn Rebel’s in Grey coat. Tooth pull monkey wrench—go the bushwhack…and truth be known of a lieutenant H. B. Noggin’s, flag and binocular—these gun slinging savages on a hooping hell-firefight’s to his authentic gang…so– take heed, fine people. Better to man-up an iron horse. Draw a curtain past this hardened and crude large lasso of terror, that be known and reiterates”, say it well, the common’s man. Long and never short winded after a banker’s nightmare on the steals! Angry and dry stagecoach occupants are left with just the mere shirts upon their backs. Woman of loose leggings–as the James gang styles lady eyed— too the next town, with sparkles and new wealth deepening pockets.
” Will me a new day, away from the hoof-prints of this rough gang of thieves and wretches– and to that which survives…and those who lay dead. Yet not until the gun and bullet frame of Robert Ford strikes the back of Jessie James. 1870’s to never be the same…of a mixed message of the lore of the old west. Paint a fine print of this Missouri take. The stagecoach…and the bank, the trains last stop be of a burial 1876. A last stop to the outlaw line. The tripped and reads of the townsfolk…and eye of the outlaws museum. The bite down
of dust…spurs rust, and one more horse singles the coded soured dime which it stands.
(SAND MOCCASIN THE COMANCHE TRAILS)
Comanche stay the wolf. Red rider, red wolf…bare of extinction. Kiowa too, in vision quest–storied of Chief -ton ”Big Bow” Coy a wolf, mesh the Grey. Kicking bird chirps and distinctions of yellow wolf. Gold symbol to a renewed day. Wolf-en pal …mutual stretch at the curve trail. Tall the sky…strands of green, the morning dew. Slick the hillside. Light’s glare and raises of burnt orange mix with fog, held by last night’s thunderous electric branched mountain tie. Wolf and i, dodge the bolts of lightening. Wind bend air rush of the hour to dawn. Tangle web catch those frozen from fear. Owl centered…seeing the mood of late day. Wolf seek the shelter of the pack. Lone though, my mutual pal, say the Comanche. Surge, bite and claw—all through adversity of dense forests. Duel howls of the moon. Soon, a retrograde back to Indian river. A TRAIL, until home…as within no time a place for those speakers. Their calls to the Plains. Spirit reign…land us at Colorado station. A single train sit among this space. This place of the sights and it’s longest miles…pile of buffalo hides. Longhorn carcass, yet past this, medicine bags and riches of a simple stop in this rapture. Beautiful night to stop and take-in, this summer’s wind. Comanche read’s of signs, the message of this grand old west; as if our own front doorsteps! In this wild, walk forth Comanche, stay the wolf. Wolf and red man pass the pain and hardship of this great land—taken by the currents…it’s flows of Anglo gold. Riches for one. Wolf savage–yet bold, too save the very next red road. These trails and this path of mutual savior. Struggle set above this drink…and these waters…these steals. Press and forgotten on the reserves which are our homes. Tempered drive—too the path. A place called peace. Gains of freedoms, meet at Red road. Join star guides…souls who pass among the envelopes of hope. Comanche stay the wolf, my mutual pal. I call you friend—-with guide of the wolf, tomorrow we will surely separate to find our own, though this journey is to really see, and structure what needs doing. The unity of the wolf…and the red man—stretches of blessings. Memorials to all those whom have fallen. Future peace and unifying, this new day—-all along the Comanche trails.
Join us as we fight back! This is not conspiracy, this is cold hard fact!
We are ‘old folk’ and we have proof of how utility companies are lying to us, misleading people like us and trebling and quadrupling our household bills.
On the negatively-positive side, we are howevergetting compensation from utility left right and centre!
But why don’t they just do their jobs properly in the first place? Why cause customers hell? Keep them on the phone for hours? Mislead customers? Get caught and give us a bit of dosh back?
Why do they try to make everybody pay estimates in advance and how much do they earn by having OUR SAVINGS in THEIR bank accounts?
Now we have proof ofcustomer services at E-on.Next, BT, EE and others ]blowing the whistle’ on their companies…
This is what we have records of them admitting:
1. Bills are ‘guessed’ at instead of being estimated
2. Records to base bills on are available … but ignored
3. Pre-payment meters cannot be changed for credit meters
4. A major company has not completed its infra-structure yet
5. Pre-payment meters can work out cheaper than other payment methods
Andrea spent weeks on the phone to the likes of E-on Next.
And ended up with demands for money we didn’t owe, had our electricity bill trebled by a new electric meter and were lied to or mislead.
“E-ON Next guessed at our usage of electricity – even though they knew exactly how much we used – and trebled the bill!
“How do the elderly, people on benefits and those on low wages get by?
“We have full recordings of conversations with representatives who ‘spill the beans’ on what is really happening to their customers.”
These are the questions EON’s public relations office have refused to answer:
. Has E.on Next at any stage in 2022 had a policy of NOT replacing pre-payment meters?
2. Was the infra-structure for replacing these meters in-place immediately after the takeover?
3. Why would customer service people tell customers these meters couldn’t be changed?
4. Does E.on have access to customer records of usage?
5. If not, why not?
6. Are bill estimates simply guesses?
7. Are bill records ignored?
8. If they are used, why are bills generally estimated at three times the reality?
9. What happens to the over-charges made?
10. How much customer money does E.on hold at any one time?
We have never had a response … we took our findings to OFGEM. Never got a response, hohum.
However, we are actively on ALL the cases now! Why should our major utility companies be allowed to act the way they do and yet refuse to answer basic questions?
TELL US YOU TALES OF WOE AND WE WILL FIGHT FOR US ALL!
#utilities #eon #electric #phones #mobiles #gas #power #customerservices #
By Eric Lastick
Jacklyn Strumpet is bailed out of the London drunk tank…hour of 3am, New years, less tea time, in the wee early morning—receives of her belongings…and a polite wishful, “Best in the new year, Madam May” Say of the jailer and heavy handed ring of keys. The Caddy call of her jail mates, ms-charmed & bar bound ugliest; wave a dirty hand and bated breath whistle—– towards this hard pressed woman Strumpet… as a late night rumble with her own emotions…stumbles with her drinks, 7 & 7 ale chasers, less a man in waiting. Although some intrigue to the stranger by the name that only reads as ”Chappo’ on the bail bond ticket. First name just as ‘Rog’ ? Befuddled is Jacklyn, but most revealed to be set free, this new years early…as her first stop is back at her small flat, just outside the city. Her pillow sack and case is where she dives her money. She’ll dress the day and be the working girl she so self measurably is.
TAKING ON A NEW LEASE ON LIFE, Ms Jacklyn arrives right back at the lonely corner tavern. One last gift to the best dressed lady lush in a long legged snazzy built luscious lady, she truly is. She places herself confidently at center bar of a lone drink. Then rightfully resourced to her private section just off bar of failed dreams. The local mobs and mob scenes which pay complimentary drink at her fair circle. She is a real head turner with her hair up and pretty loaded indeed!’ She can put um down with the best of um. That indeed! And on an empty stomach none the less. She draws attention to our fair Londoner city…and any and all as she sees—–right through her glassy eyes and foggy smile…dodging the wrecking ball of any thought towards marriage…it’s plans,,,weight gains…and a place to bed a permanent home.
Restrictions no, not at all. Yes, highball drunk and deranged—with aces of the last clasp of street touch, making her way in a cramped corridor sinking fast to the ladies room…and straight back on an outskirts view of no exits at all…as she makes her way, a tavern tab, racing past the heckling men. The iron-on beat ups of old rummages…card swingers. Poole hall faces of grim and losing. TV screens of owes of the race horse finish line.====right until dawn. as all glisten call on taxi grab. Subway cars…and city runs crosswalk empties…as our best dressed Lady Strumpet, choose of another Daccuri, or perhaps an extra dip of bloody Mary sip…and borrowed from an occupied stool?
SIR ROG’ CHAPPO….decides to go for a solitary stroll, this New years afternoon.
(GLASS ALWAYS HALF FULL)
—AS IF LIGHT YEARS, THE 1960’S AND 70’S, TO AN ODE, AND ADMIRABLE HITCH AND TIE OF THIS NEW YEARS, GLASS HALF FULL, HER’S HALF EMPTY.. A NEW TWIST EVOLVES!
The trees out of Londoner walkways of a step in time, lay of the side set pubs. Pony shows and long lost dogs of latter day peace and love—high tail in salient sentences of friendly backdrops, the getaways of an old rock star, whom so long lived and styled in these cramped in corners. Crazed guests, relivingold lifestyles. Vicariously bold, in fake emboldens. Never know the rants and rave of such hill climbs, which decide the guts, and all of the glory of an English rock band called Family. Music industries suit-tree the grazing, take in the cow tow, to bring upon a country road. A raisin fest of cockatal and Tomas,twin. Chappo saluted ofhiber shots, raised of his own law for some sort of peace and calm. Glasses and shots, the cranberries and ol’ girly smiles,as an old admirer, rock the boat, and tipsy riled. A havers club look-in for a safety raft, yet all jelly minded. Quick skirted to top. Toes polished in moths of mole-ville. High on gins and candies, yet yellow jackets sting airtight out of the old hippie nation. English swing and save, as all this, and all a good fellow wants, is a little space to stretch and enjoy a good cheer to the new incoming year. A subsequent scratch of voice once admired in it’s originality, et still quite an inspiration —-too his fine catalogue…and in it’s surrounds and merriment of the very best. Then Sir Chappo locks eyes of the Ms Pretty on the bar stool right next to him…as Jacklyn Strumpet touch full ale bottles as they meet. He, Chappo was the one whom set bail. She just senses. ”To old times’, he says. She just thanks him with a smile and ups and leaves. His glass bottle half full, hers so half empty, the bar calls count to less many.
A mumpreneur decided to dedicate her birthday to raising money for Australia’s abused women and children.
Sara Banks, who lives in Wembley, Perth, WA, said: “I chose Zonta House Refuge because they were one of the many support services that helped me two and a half years ago years ago with their amazing program, Positive Pathways.
“Not everyone will know why I used them, but if you want to help other women and children break free from abuse even a small donation will help others to rebuild their lives.”
Beauty boss Sara left Manchester in the UK for Australia a decade ago but her dream-come-true fell apart with her relationship with her son’s dad.
She said: “I was facing becoming middle-aged too, so I wanted to do something with my life after things started to go wrong. That’s when I decided to open the salon. It’s been difficult because of Covid but things are going the right way now. I can call myself a mumpreneur finally.”
A mumpreneur is an entrepreneurial mum, who has children of 18 or under, but at the same time is running a business.
Operating since 1984, Zonta House is a small not for profit organisation in Perth focused on the needs of women and the gaps in the community.
USEFUL CONTACTS:
Police 131 444 or 000 For emergencies.
Crisis Care Help Line (08) 9223 1111 or 1800 199 008 Is available 24 hours a day for information and support.
1800RESPECT 1800 737 732 Is available 24 hours a day to anyone impacted by sexual assault, domestic or family violence for confidential information, counselling and support services.
Entrypoint Perth (08) 6496 0001 or 1800 124 684 For crisis accommodation.
#oz #australia #perth #domesticviolence #womenandchildren #zonta #refuge #Mammashq
Another strange year fizzes and bows out, so let’s look to the future … we all have memories, we all have the present and we all have what is to come…
Let’s stay tough, say how we feel, believe in the truth and more than anything let’s celebrate what we have and where we are going…
Let’s spend a bit of time with some goodwill and happiness from one of the greatest artists in the world! It must be Bobby!
Happiness, love and hope everybody and let’s start looking to the future…
Bob Dylan – Must Be Santa (Official Video) – YouTube
#bobdylan #christmas #wishes #malibu #fun