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

Are we really living in a world gone wrong?

#Spain #UK #Russia #Ukraine #BorisJohnson #Sunak #Marbella #Putin

Click to see video

When that bloated Grim Reaper Putin invaded the Ukraine he spun the world by its tail.

And the gut reaction of many global property speculators and ex-pats was that `particularly the Spanish market, would fail as Russian money was frozen in the world’s air like black ice.         

But far from it.

The market in Spain is actually still booming – although house prices in places like Marbella, Torreveija and so many parts of the Costas are so inflated that it can be cheaper to buy a house in the leafy suburbs of the UK and an expensive sunlamp.

Yep, the country which has been a favourite with Brits, Irish, Swedes and Russians for decades is no longer the cheap bunfight of wine women and thongs.

Many of the sunny resorts are becoming oases for elderly couples moving in to  Moorish retirement homes close to the beaches or pinned on a mountainside near a fly-blown lake.

Rich Russians have for decades been big buyers of swish and not so swish holiday homes in the Costas – Mad Vlad himself owns a 4.5 acre compound in La Zagaleta  in the mountains outside Marbella.

It was thought that the freezing of Oligarch-ish fortunes in a panic response to the blood and destruction in the land of the sunflowers and corn would take the boom out of the market.

Certainly there were reports of deals falling through because of the big buck sanctions but the market held on to its hopes and prices more or less remained.

Actually. one reason Spain may have been seen as a safe haven was its initial inability to freeze any Russian bank accounts, despite detaining at least three luxury yachts linked to ‘blacklisted individuals’.

In fact after weeks of war even neighbouring Portugal had blocked only one account owned by a sanctioned ‘individual’, with just 242 euros in it.

So, there are many reasons people – including Putin and his lot – still love to be beside the seaside, soaking up the sun and the vodka-laced sangria. In fact he still owns a 20 million mansion in Marbella.

And despite the war speculation and investment in the Land of the Bull – and nobody can deny how much ‘bull’ has gone in to boosting the price of homes in Spain over the last decade  – it still seems the way to go for people looking for a cool new life in the sweltering heat.

 The Russian Federation against Ukraine was bound to affect the foreign real estate market in Europe. And the world.

Well, after the Russian invasion, interest in countries that, due to geographic location or neutrality, can be considered safe for the foreign real estate market, has gone up.

“After the outbreak of the coronavirus pandemic, there was a shock that meant a decline in purchases of foreign real estate,” Jan Rejcha said. He is a foreign real estate specialist.

However, the invasion brought an immediate positive response and interest now continues to grow month by month, in Austria by 68 percent, Croatia 72 percent. And in Spain 45 percent.

In Switzerland the hills are alive with the sound of cash tills… interest increased by 210 percent! In Italy, it is 168 percent.

In 2020 the Costa del Sol property market suffered travel restrictions, But 2021 was  totally different. The market has seen strong growth in all areas. And people who work in the property sector say the second half of 2021 was  one of the busiest periods ever.

By the end of the second quarter, sales had picked up by  5.4 percent.  

#spanishproperty #aplaceinthesun #migrants #putin #marbellA

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?

It’s up the apples and pears as Rodney pips Leigh to the post of woe, wind and petulance. And that’s just in Spain!

Wait till they get on to the UK! Outrageous? you can bet your life they are!

Click to view video…

A minute’s silence in the UK led by Prime Minister Rishi Sunak marked the first anniversary of the day Russia launched a full-scale invasion of the Ukraine, triggering the largest war in Europe since World War Two

The tragedy and horror of what Putin is doing to the people of the Ukraine are portrayed sometimes in the intimate detail.

The intimate details of what it is really like to meet death without warning on a street corner.

We are brutalised by modern ways of dying – the glint of a lone-wolf’’s knife on London bridges, a refugee child drowned in freezing black sea, fleeing diplomats hanging from rescue helicopters, teenagers blown up at a concert, shopping families mown down by brain-washed drivers …

But in this picture – credited to Reuters – it’s not the horror that brings it all back home, it’s the quiet devastation.

The moment your own life ends but you are left standing.

And your child is lying torn and dead before you.

Callous killers had flown their tin cans overhead and killed this man’s son for no other reason than he was standing with his dad and sister at a bus stop in northeastern city of Kharkiv.

Hurricane salvo rockets tore through the grey sky and sucked the air of the streets as they hit.

Then this thirteen year old boy was gone.

Yes, the horror is in the detail, the dad’s sensibly-worn man bag, his tick tock zip-up loose at his waist, his dark designer denim jacket… they all meant something before this moment. In a way they defined the man, the dad.

The son’s black trainer protrudes from the red tarpaulin which are used to hide carnage. They cover the bodies for dignity, they say.

But dad and son are holding each other in the veils of death.

***

At least three Ukrainians were killed in this Russian airstrike.

The dead teenager’s 15-year-old sister was also injured, according to the Kharkiv Regional Prosecutor’s Office.

In another image, the father was seen with his hand on the boy’s exposed chest. Another distressing photo showed two other men moving the boy’s corpse.

A 69-year-old man and his wife were also killed in the attack, authorities said.

#putin #war #ukraine #death

Once spread a campfire on a rustic cold late summer with a former Chess King on the Dis-ta Not Boris!

(My Version and how i see it) To the coldest of New York winter’s…and to the stalls of avenue street lights of wind-blown hazy snows. Pegged like stick-on’s. Frozen walkers. Frozen breaths in the night air, seemingly to never leave—as my mind in the mire of the images of my 1962 Black Bug, wedged and avalanches on a local side street of a New York city drive—–sustained! My friend Bobby, a recluse and reprobate of his own brand of sweeping negativity. Renounce of an age of all religion…somehow & in some crazy way, has requested me as his practitioner…and opposite on his heavy inundated sole chess board of the uncommon, in an opportunity to be a kind of intellectual sparing partner; or just someone to forward the knighted horse handed Bishop…as the pawn that i was…and that i am. Our other friend, Steve, a Domino king in his own writ—–said that Bobby needed someone to hep hone his craft…and help learn a social type of language, by picking me? A lost tenured former small college English professor—-with a proclivity to tilt the bottle a bit to often, and at most inopportune times! Steve, the Domino champion, always felt that Central Park’s own Social security Grey hairs…and  day trippers of the passers by—-with cigar smoke and luncheonette stops, in the bested of your move, then his move.  (CHECK MATE!’) 

So in all this ballyhoo of all our January’s…New Years…old hats…old crews. Old but unwise, too a precocious young Wiz, booting through the thick of snow. The inner rain. Warmth out of the storm. Shovel and hollow-out, like a gilded caravan, too meet at the Chess table…& another take of the Queen—-taking for-granted just how good Bobby really is—while i lose another practice match, looking out windows of ice freezing rain, and nod to the pained of a real master. A player about to go all crackers. (“INSANE”) Odd, but what’s new. Bobby needed a rival. Yet i kept asking myself in quiet mind: “Why me?” —As i lose once again. I raise my head in exhaustion…so sincere of a winter storm, of high packed winds that just will not go away. There are no pleasures at this very table. Squared a board of the calculated. Yet in reflection, it taught him how to win.To even be on schedule as his simulated Russian martyr—too another red-eye loss; though this one time, i actually won! It was crushing for him…as it made him work harder and harder, although this part will never be known. Soon he will be world renowned…world known; as i sit in the day of a lonely table, giving strength, by losing, but making it tougher and tougher on his mind…our mind’s. Inter-connected!

There was a cold War going on. There was also Bobby’s War of mind. Chess was all of life. Relating to everything. I proudly held those coat tails …and gladly watched the match of Television—attached rabbit ears of the early nineteen seventies. And though i never got there…& never received mention, i felt a part of something. Something big! N0, not a second best. Not a seat at all—-too one American…one Russian, Fought on a game board of War not peace! Ironically, there never really was any peace. No peace of mind in which he never had.

AT THAT LAST ICELANDIC ICED, LATE GOODBYE; A hardy sip of good Russian Vodka, with the sounds of the Kodiak…and cross shooting stars. Cool too cold. The look and feel of the sounds of hot springs, whale watch waters. Late Summer campfire burn of flames of his angst. Bitter of his own…as i could not persuade him. Now the chess king, though it now was yesterday’s news. He strung so many negative issues. I suggested to not look back.’One must move forward, yet too no avail…as to leave abrupt with backpack, solely down hill. I watched and i tried to explain it to myself that he would get past the pain of mind. The soaks of genius which often becomes a terrible place.Then it all just fades away, yet the biggest Chess victory ever!

I’ve always been a Walker … not in the Walking Dead way, more in a fay

Thoreau way.

I just got lucky, I suppose. I was brought up on the edge of ‘Ravine Park’ in the heart of Manchester and spent most summer days down among the dumped trolleys and detritus in the ravine with my dog, There were drunks, tramps and preacher men down there, they went by like old flickering films.

I guess by disassembling their minds, sneering at bricks and mortar or bashing a Biblical story of redemption, they felt they weren’t walking the line.

But they were.

The line is always there, the way to go, the farewell conveyor belt.

Yep, the road ain’t long but it is entirely confined by lines … lines of lanes, lines of sidewalk, streets of coordinates, left and right turns, the aesthetic lines of cars and big trucks.

Walking down the line with only one place to end up.

Thank God I haven’t arrived yet!

In my late youth I got luckier. I became a writer for the rest of my life. I lived in my own confines of fact and fiction, the strict lines  of news, broadcasting and travel. I once had a show on the BBC called Travels with Banksy.

The thing is, I got paid to be on the road, just expected to come up with

a few good lines every day that would sell newspapers and magazines. I was good at it!

But like most Walkers, I lost a lot of things along the way that I really needed, like a family and a couple homes. Often, I slept in my car, drank in cheap bars and ate out of old newspaper on street corners.

It was the way to go.

Then a few days ago, LA film director Bob Mori emailed me his new video of Canadian Mike O’Neill performing Bob Dylan’s 1963 song Walking Down the Line.

Bob Mori – IMDb

It is generally seen as a hobo song but its child-like poetry, its sense of joy against its elemental misery make it something extraordinary.

  Mike O’Neill is a St Louis singer-songwriter, apparently.  But I couldn’t track him down for a chat! So, little info on the man who created this very gentle, breathy slightly gruff version of a very old song… So, little info on the man who created this very gentle, breathy slightly gruff version of a very old song…

Get in touch Mike, let’s tell everybody about you!

#bobdylan #bobmori #mikeoneill #walkingdownthe;ine #1963 #hobo

Paul Gadd – a monster up there with the likes of Jimmy Savile and the BBC’s laughing hyena Stuart Hall – is back on the streets of the UK at the age of 78.

Gadd who used his fame as Gary Glitter, a bargain-basement Elvis look-alike with pop-shlock pointless songs, was jailed in 2015 for sex offences on three schoolgirls.

The twisted glam rocker now only has hours to register with his local police station after leaving Portland, Dorset prison.

The sad thing is society needs to never forget about him – in the 80s he had glittery, tacky fame. Now he only has infamy and shame.

And I can find no real signs of a man who cares. Obviously, the powers that be found something about him which they felt they could allow them to throw away eight years of his incarceration.

But as this child molester dresses to the nines and hits the streets, now a Quentin Crisp look-alike, society should never forget his victims.

This is what one victim had to say after she heard the diminutive disgusting devil was being released.

It is her words that matter. We are protecting her anonymity.

“I can’t believe this is happening to me. I just can’t do this anymore.

‘He should never been let out of prison for what he did. He’s just done eight years but I’m doing a life sentence. I can never forget what this monster did to me and I’m still struggling to deal with it. I really believe that he is still a danger to society, who knows what he could go on to do?’

‘What he did to me has affected my whole family and it’s ruined my life. I feel as if I’ve been let down by the justice system and that I’ve been attacked by Glitter again.

‘This is not right. I’m sorry, it’s all just too much for me, I can’t handle what’s happened today, it’s brought back too many painful memories.’

The victim was aged 12 at the time of the attack and gave moving testimony during Glitter’s trial, describing how the musician plied her with champagne in his hotel room before raping her.

Gadd is thought to be worth up to  £6million despite the fact he is blacklisted on most UK radio stations. But he still gets airtime in caring-sharing America raking in up to £250,000 a year. 

How pervert Savile fixed it for Tabloid Terrors to get back to exposing the truth

#GADD #GLITTER #PERVERT #VICTIM #HALL #SAVILE

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 18^th 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.

https://leighgbankspreservationsociety.blog/why-george-bernard-shaws-broken-english-was-music-to-my-ears/

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