List Of Names And Other Notes & Memories

121024 List Of Names
And Other Notes & Memories
of fellow tenants of
The Pie Shoppe” backpacker's hostel
338 Harrow Road, Paddington, England
1976 to 1978
[Updated 130531]

Robin Parslow, whom I'd been introduced to before leaving Australia, was a woman related to neighbors I grew up with in Kenmare Street, Box Hill North 3129. Robin let me board for a short time in the house she and others were renting in west London. That was in 1975 or 1976, soon after I arrived in England. Ealing Common was the London western suburb. Can't recall the street, but may with a Go Ogle maps search. “Birch Grove”, I just found?

Dave Allen, a bloke I met at the same house, and associated with for a short time once I returned to Australia.

There were others there, but don't recall much about them. One English chap, was noted for his smelly socks. One Australian chap, nice bloke, found his homosexuality over there.

My memory of times and events are that old, 34 or so years old, so the chronology here is likely wrong.

I lived with my sister's 1st husband's brother Bruce and his wife, Elaine, at 23 Chepstow Villas in Notting Hill for the 1st 3, perhaps more months after arriving in England. They were very accommodating, as (looking back) I was very naïve, far mentally younger than my 20 years of age.

I lingered there for longer than I should have, outstaying my welcome, as-it-were. Then, I lacked most all intellectual and social tools to either fend fully for myself in a strange world, or to go about the tasks of finding a place to rent and live. I see myself then as a total “dolt”. I don't recall them being unfriendly, or urging me to find my own place, but the time came and I did. A one room bedsit somewhere not far from the Notting Hill area.

That was very miserable. I think I was rescued from it by another female associated with Robin Parslow's circle, and was basically called to move into the Pie Shoppe above 338 Harrow Road Paddington, by the same circle of people.

Nicknamed “The Pie Shoppe” because the premises was located above a “Jack Horner's Pies” take-away food shop on the Harrow Road street-front, although the quality of the pies, was low, and dangerous to eat, I seem to recall. During the times I lived there, the shop changed to being a take-away kebab shop, that sold food almost as bad as the previous tenants. According to comments on Google Earth in 2011, nothing has changed!

The backpacker hostel had 3 floors, a large kitchen and a larger lounge room on the 1st floor, 3 bedrooms on 2, and 3 bedrooms on 3. There was a small bathroom with a big bath on the 1st landing off ground floor's entrance corridor. One large, one medium, and one single bed room on the top two floors, accommodating 4 beds in the 4 larger rooms, and single beds in the small ones of each floor.

The “population” was steady at about 15 to 20 backpackers, sometimes 25, sometimes 12, some of whom were either Poms, or Aussies and Kiwis working in England, saving for their next Euro or British holiday. Many came from all over the globe and stayed at 338. Antony Bistarde Hervou Sandanista, etcetera was a friendly and warm Sao Pauloan (?) Brazilian lawyer who stopped for some months. (I only recall 2 of his names, and include him just because he was a nice guy, and took pride, or fun in saying all his names when asked, which were about 6 or 7.)

Some, apparently, like me, were simply “living” enjoying the verve of London's inner suburbs, working, mostly with “temp agencies”, getting pissed and stoned as oft' as possible, etc.

The backpackers was 1st, when I moved in, allegedly set-up and run by a Kiwi mob. They may well have been the early team who operated the “Contiki Tours” backpacker tours company, as that name seems right.

The building was owned by an Irishman, who's name may have been “Jim Green”, but can't be sure now, as I knew a “Jim Green” I think, before I left Melbourne for England.

A fun house was the Pie Shoppe, with a large turnover of backpackers passing through, but a number stayed for most of my time there, and assumed friendships with myself. But my reflections on the person I was then, are sad, making me wonder why anyone of their kind, mostly from Sydney, would be interested in this idiot as a friend.

I guess I was “handsome”, and a “live wire”, but comparatively, I was a fool.

One of the 1st girls I made it with, out of Australia, was Pauline Kilkenny, from Brunswick, Victoria Australia. Nice and mature woman, who, in retrospect, was either asked or told to bed me, as she walked in to my top floor, single room one night, and “WHOOPI!”

She remained socially distant most of the time from then, but we made out more than once, I think, then she returned to Australia to marry her fella.

Alexander Wunder, appeared after a time, and let me in, as-it-were, whence we became partners.

She came from the north shore of Sydney's suburbs, Balgowlah, near Manly, with a small number of friends. Louise O'Brien, younger sister Chrissy, and later Alex's sister Margaret joined them I think.

Anthony Goodman, from Hurstville side of Sydney was a fun mate, who was around for most of my times in the Pie Shoppe. His mate from Sydney also lived at the PS for a while, “Paul” maybe. Paul and I didn't get on well, because he was a Japanese motorbike fan, while I was stoically for British bikes, owning a ratty 1958 BSA A10 650 twin - FOUR STROKE!!!!, whereas Paul owned a Suzuki 250cc screamer TWO-STROKE - YEEERRRKKK!

Tony's younger sister, Margaret, joined the house after Tony was there a while. Almost connected, but for my professing to be a one woman man, with Alex.

Geoff someone, I think another of Goodman's Sydney mates, lived there too for a while, and he, was receptive to my arguments against Japanese bikes, so found hisself a rippa-little BSA (2-stroke) 1960s 125cc Bantam. He got it from a bloke who was the 1st to build and ride a Bantam upto 100mph. And Geoff's Bantam went like a rocket. “Gedang-gedang-GEDANG-GEDANG-glugglug-CLUNK!” 2nd gear, Gedang-gedang-GEDANG-GEDANG-glugglug-CLUNK! 3rd gear!

RIPPIN' ALONG!!! Well....? Good for 65mph, aye Geoff! Handled like a dream!

Lots of people passed through, whose names are gone now, but somethings of their character and carrying-on are remembered.

Norm and Dave” were 2 young English “lads”, who “blagged” their way into the Pie Shoppe during my stay. Cheery lads, English “larikans”, criminally sharp, like no-one had seen, but fun and lively to know.

A mate of theirs, from Manchester, Phil Cooke, stayed for a while and showed us how to consume several acid tabs at once, drink copious amounts of alcohol, smoke hash endlessly, and then walk across 150mm-wide window ledges, completely off-his-face, 2 storeys above Harrow Rd, amongst other amazing feats he was capable of.

3 fearless characters, about 500 times more “savvy” than me, and far ahead of the other Aussies also.

Tony Goodman's on-again-off-again girlfriend, Robin Veness became a happy face to have around, although she was apparently besotted with Tony, who treated her like shit most of the time. Robin is from south side of Sydney too.

Wendy Wales, was staying there when I 1st moved in I think. A robust young west Australian woman, were I any less the idiot, we would have got it on, perhaps?

Jenny Wignall was Wendy's friend from the west too, who was around for a while, and amazed me with her depth of intelligence. I noted how she would sit in a window corner of the house living room, reading huge paperbacks. I would watch her reading novels, and was stunned to see her flick pages over at a rate of about one every 3 seconds! We would chat occasionally, and once she told me she read “War and Peace” in one day or so.

Another West Australian, who was around for a little while I think, who became friendly, was Ian Yeoul, or such.

We had fun one day at a 2nd hand shop on the Harrow Rd up about a mile from home. The Pie Shoppe's group was organizing going to an open air rock concert being given by American God, singer, Muso, Poet-song-writer Bob Dylan, at a disused airforce airstrip south of London, so I decided to buy some binoculars, so Ian and I were browsing at the 2nd hand shop. We found a pair, but they didn't seem to work. We mentioned this to the shop owner, and we all stood looking at the binoc's with dismay.

(Bob Dylan gave Londoners, an “apology” concert for bad ticket-selling arrangements prior to his huge “Earl's Court” indoor concerts. I, and a small group of 338-ers went to Hammersmith to get tickets to the indoor concert, and waited with everyone, for 18 hours for the tickets! Dylan heard about this delay, and volunteered the outdoor concert to say sorry. I think we just had to have our tickets from the previous indoor concerts to get in.)

Ian was about to put the binoculars back on the shelf when he managed to “open” them. They were, typical of binoculars, telescopic, and he pulled the right way and they came open and so operative. He and I saw this away from the shop-keeper, so like school boys, we said we'd buy them anyway, for something like 5 or 6 quid. I still have and use them today. They may be 1st world war field glasses, made of brass, and compact. Good enough!

I can almost “feel” Yeouli's glint each time I use them. He was a happy bloke, and cherry company for this generally weird and wild puppet.

As said, a plethora of Aussies and Kiwis came, and many others from all (white) corners of the globe, stayed and traveled on at the Pie Shoppe, which made it quite an experience, combined with the endless life of London in the 1970s.

Bruce Mackie, or Mackay, appeared, from Sydney too, with a few of his mates.

One, “Neville”, with Bruce, and an English chap I came to know through another small circle I am supposed to have “fallen in with”, Chris Brown, from Newbury, Berkshire, and I, took a drive, in Chris's 1954 or so, Morris Minor 2-door convertible - rego: WER-something - thus nicknamed “Wer”, up to Scotland, in middle of winter, heading for the Isle of Skye on the west coast.

Another fun trip! Bruce, told me he is a direct descendent of Robert the Bruce of Scottish Freemason repute.

And, if looks could establish this as fact, he was! He stood some 6-foot-4 tall, had wild, long red hair and long beard, had a definite Scottish Warrior demeanor and facial features, and he and I, facially, looked like we were identical twin brothers, as much I s'pose for the fact that I too had the same wavy, long red hair and beard, and then, similar ape-ish, neolithic brows and noses, freckles, and I'd guess, blue eyes, but for the fact that I was some 8 inches shorter than he.

We made a few hilarious entrances into Scottish country pubs on that trip!

Of course, I knew absolutely nothing of my own alleged ancestry, or of my fate and destiny, then.

I was not to be told that I am supposed to be descended from the oldest established clan in Scotland - the Sutherlands - whose 12th century or so, Earl, top dog, fought alongside Robert the Bruce, and was also instrumental in establishing the Freemasons!

What a different little trip through Scotland that would have been, were I a lot more mature, and knew of all these links?!

Depressing. Ve-ery depressing!

But my reflections show me that everyone else knew who I was, or am supposed to be, and that Bruce and Alex, and Tony And the Brazilian Tony, and all others, came to the Pie Shoppe specifically to both give me some friendship and fun-time company during my English stay, to have me believe I was part of the world, to allow me to have some pleasant and personal, intimate experiences, but also, to nurture me to one day become their, the Zionist Catholic/Freemason/Theosophical Society cult something or other - King? Master? God? Or merely the 1st world leader?

So, only over the last year or so, have I determined that England for me was one huge indoctrination.

I do not recall ever having conversations around or about the secret society behind most of my existence, the Theosophical Society (TS), but again, on reflection, the Pie Shoppe was definitely one of their constructs.

About the only tangible memory I have with which to connect the 2, is that Robin Parslow was connected in some way to the Pie Shoppe, as I met her again one day, some years after, back in Australia, when I was shopping for some books on eastern scripture, in the TS bookshop at about 125 Russell Street Melbourne. Robin was working behind the book counter. We said hello and a few other things, but that was it. I do remember that she was watching me from the sidelines though, as if assessing my psychological condition.

Nevertheless, that Robin was connected with the TS, links it with the Pie Shoppe, and confirms, for me at least, the link between TS and most everyone else I met and (thought I) knew in England.


And it also leaves me completely “hollow” in my Soul, for being so much a manipulated puppet.

“Good intentions” no doubt, but for this sacrificial lamb, they pave my road to Hell.

Thanks, fucks!

Chris Brown, owner of “Wer”, I came to know via a different avenue of seduction.

One day, wiff me “A10” running shite, I rode to the local British bikes' spares shop - “Hamracks” or thereabouts, somewhere between Paddo, Notting Hill, and Sheppard's Bush.

After doing whatever I was, I left the shop and outside, on the centre stand, looking very sad for itself, as was it's owner, was a 250cc version of my cherished 1st motorbike, a BSA 500cc single 1972 “Gold Star”.

A BSA 250cc single, B-25.

Matey, who turned out to be one “Steve Eustace”, was bemoaning in no time to me how he needed some help to fix, ie., rebuild the sad little 2-fiff.

So, somehow we nurtured it back to his top floor bedsit in (?) Gloucester Terrace, Bayswater, next to Notting Hill, and a new bunch of drinking mates developed around me.

In the terrace houses basement, lived the caretaker, one Derek Burridge, and his partner, Alison Cullen, who were good mates with Steve and his Irish girlfriend, Anita.

Rollicking fun times they showed me, and Alison and I hit it off for a while, sadly behind Derek's back. Alison was a great shiela, and wanted to move in with me, as Derek went ballistic, allegedly, once he found out Alison and I were shagging.

But me, little idiot me, was as concerned for Derek's happiness as for mine and Alison's, so I insisted she return to Derek, which she did. Alison said Derek threatened to suicide if she came with me.

Nevertheless, we all continued to get on, drunking regularly at the “Fuller's” real ale pub, possibly called the “Churchill Arms” on Kensington Church Street, Notting Hill. Many a pissed ride home from there, thereafter!

Until! One night, retiring drunk, from that pub, while Alison was tagged to me, on back of BSA A10 650cc twin Golden Flash - turn-right out of Ken-Church Street, onto Bayswater Road, traveling east at a rapid rate of acceleration - damn that ol' Beeza could motor! BANG! SHIT? SKREEECH! CRUNCH! SHIT! Again!

A 2-door Lancia or such, sports-car flipped a U-turn straight across our east-bound path.

No time. No option. BANG! The bike and us hit the driver's side of the Lancia, glancing-off onto the bitumen. WHACK!

Before I knew it I was up, not running to help Alison, but over to my Beeza, which had continued to slide on it's side for another 20 or 30 metres over to the other side of Bayswater Road.

I was very pained by this, as I had only that day, or one or 2 earlier, bought the bike!

A rough looking, but mechanically beautiful, one owner, I'd snatched it from Derek's grasp, who wanted it too, as he was the one to spot it under a tarp on a nearby housing estate.

I think I paid 35 quid for it, which made the whole affair even harder for Derek.

But..., the crash, saw Alison be thrust off the bike, over the bonnet of the Lancia and thrown metres down the road. Once I did the idiot thing and tended to the bike - still ride-able - I went to Alison, probably still lying on the road, who's face had taken almost the full impact of her torso and head crashing down on the car's bonnet as she was catapulted over it onto the road.

One side of her face had blown up like a balloon, and she was not feeling real good.

Can't recall how long we stayed mates after that, but I moved on, I think soon after. But while we all got on, we had a lot of fun riding country roads on my 650, Steve's 250, and Derek's 500cc Triumph, and other bikes he owned.

They showed me a warm side to English life and people, albeit it a cover for the grand plan, with the “Free House” pubs being great insights and draw-cards into the warmth of English culture.

Nevertheless...., the review puts that group into the same basket of TS scammers, all paid and directed to make me something larger than I could dream of or know.

[As these “friends” who are sent in to befriend me, all move on soon enough, and are paid well for their little forays, their little “missions” to do whatever to my mind, I know some of them have migrated to Australia, and no doubt are well-to-do with it.

It may be they're staying close to me, so-as to be “guardians” in the shadows, but that has definite undertones of keeping me within the control of the TS.]

It best be made clear that the cops had it in for the driver of the Lancia, and wanted like crazy to have me go to court as witness for the prosecution. I was too distracted by my generally wild and hazy life, and declined to help the cops, which pissed them off with me.

Lately [re-editing 130531, before posting this to the blog], I ask myself if the Lancia dude was in fact from some opposition to this mad and grand scheme. Wonder if his last name was “Sinclair”? The incident could have been a set-up, because the traffic was relatively clear when he threw the U-turn, and so it's not impossible, considering all I now posit, that he was waiting for me....?

But Alison's injuries it seems, were minor, and her facial bruising was gone astoundingly fast.

Around the same time, I'd rebuilt Derek's 500cc Triumph twin, and it was stolen from where I parked it around the corner from the Pie Shoppe, the night before or so, I was to return it to Derek.

Derek refused to believe me, saying I'd actually fucked the rebuild and decided the best option was to “lose it”, so he could claim the insurance. He knew. What a laugh!

Nevertheless...., if these two events were close, then it's probably right enough to put it down that soon after it all, Alison was paid 3,000 quid compo for her injuries, and Derek got the insurance for the stolen Trumpie. But Alison's 3G was enough - apparently - for them to afford a 2 or 3 storey rural solid stone house north of London somewhere, that I never saw.

Lucky them!

Over my years I have noticed most of my mates, finding their feet in housing and businesses, have done very well. I have to discern between the natural rise through income and wealth as is most white, western, and mostly Catholic or other Christian schooled middle-class people's course in life, and situations where such as mates are paid-off for being my mates, and for, in the case of girlfriends, trying to help me come online, in the sexuality of the occult sense.

But there is no doubt in me that those who come into my orb , are there for a mission, friendly or not, and their success or not does not interfere with them being remunerated, and mostly handsomely. Always too, I'm shunned and discarded as a friend thereafter.

Thanks, fucks!

I have to say, that all of these various associates have had my better interests in mind as they came into my orb of experiences. Many times I was “worked” to open my 3rd eye, by them.

But, fate, destiny or reality always seemed to intercede, and I was each time, left off the radar of magical love and life.

I put it that the several “influences” from my pre-England youth, were determined to retain “ownership” of my Soul, mother undoubtedly the most possessive, so these tries by the people I was brought into living amongst in England, really had little chance of success, I guess?

Exactly what one should expect from a conspiracy of such delusional and grandiose proportions, methinks.

And, hard though many of them tried, as much for my own sake and elevation from this 3-dimensional illusion, to “wake-me-up”, I'd say that as many of them were also smarter, and so, were as skeptical, of this whole secret, planned drama of building me up to being the superwitchking of all chrissendomdiddydom.

Trying to come to some grand, final conclusion to all that has gone before, in and around my being, my existence, I find it impossible to regard my own being as 57 years of “life”.

I refuse to be swayed by mere majority opinion, where everyone I come into contact with is either convinced, bribed or seduced to believe I AM “THE WUN!”, and thus must be forced, by any means, to open my 3rd eye and play their superman, and shoo away all their frightening visions - aliens, ghosts, demons - whatever stops people from being able to be honest and relaxed around me.

But, more important it seems, is that the whole fucking world has been seduced to believe that only I can defeat humanity's enemies.

Yet so far, I'm stuck, and also deduce that as the whole scheme is a fraud, it cannot concord with higher, truth-based Cosmic laws, so it, I, must fail.

Sure, coming online in the occult is for us all (after decades bitching that it's the path to Hell!), but I reckon I'm in too hard a place to get out of, to get across the bridge, for this damaged, deceived, and severely maltreated puppet.

Also, each memory of my passed 58 years brings up the worst kind of sadness, for knowing that I was the only one amongst all these “friends” who was not awake to the 4th dimension of the world of witchcraft, and that they were all quite aware of it, and were using it on me all the time.

Leaves me with the most miserable “hollowness” of soul, if indeed, I have ever had “a soul”? Certainly has me feel little else but hate for them all, and destroys my wants, desires, and needs for other humans, knowing now none can be trusted.

This is made worse again, for knowing that others are not anywhere near this situation, and that others do have long, enduring close, intimate relationships with lots of people.

Little wonder, each hour, being assaulted by “friend” and foe alike via their occult powers, I am kept vulnerable and in a deeply bitter state.

The smart cunts would retort “Karma”. I dispute this now, seeing I have never been told of any of this conspiracy behind my back, and am but a piece of “play-dough: for any childish piece of shit to manipulate.

So, as for taking any “plunge” and opening my 3rd eye, to be their fav'rite little king or whatever, they really have fucked-up, because I really do believe I would go sick on every one of them, and on the larger western cults, catholic, freemason, jewish, TS, and seek for their obliteration.

Not just out of revenge for what they've done to me, from what they'd stolen from me, and turned me into, but also, and this goes to the better more honorable side of my role in this bullshit, because of what they in their WRONG WAY cultural ignorance, steal from everyone else.

That is, everyone else's own soul's sovereignty.

But Christianity has stolen it for 1600 years, not to mention the Jewish theft as has been going on since - Eden?

Back to the Pie Shoppe, there's a New Zealand contingent to the Pie Shoppe years as well.

All good folks. Jenny Millington. Jenny “Blue Eyes”. Russell Simpson. Austin and Adrian. Patrick Downey.

A huge and champion Aussie, Ian White, appeared around the same time, as a mate of Russell, and a bunch of us lived in a house around the corner from the Pie Shoppe. I shifted into the house in Amberley Crescent, tenanted by a few nurses, one an Aussie, maybe another Jenny, when the rent I was charged with collecting from the backpackers in the Pie Shoppe, was stolen from my bedroom. As the rent was thus unpayable, the Irish landlord appeared with 4 or 5 huge Maori dudes, to put pressure on little me for the money.

Ummmm? Shit!

As something like fate would have it, the day before these mighty fine chasps came to 338, to throw me around the place, and/or out a top floor window, and to get the rent I owed, 4 or 5, maybe more, similarly large white Sydney-side rugby players arrived to camp at 338 for a short while.

So, cornered in the loungeroom by multiple Maori shoulders 6 pick handles across and a grumpy, threatening landlord, I lent over, slid the lounge-kitchen door open, and nicely asked the rugger boys to come in and say hello.

Hmmmm! The landlord and his thugs left quietly, and we all got stoned again!

I moved around the corner that night! For about a year, until the dust settled, then moved back into the Pie Shoppe. That's about when Alex Wunder and Louise O'Brien arrived from Australia, or perhaps from a snow-skiing trip to “Sol-day-ooow!” (in Loui's best Sinny whine!), Andorra in the French-Spanish alps.

The Pie Shoppe became a “squat” after the landlord affair. Apparently he gave up trying to resume collecting the rent.

This too, has me suspect TS involvement, in order to give me that gentle introduction into rebellious life, designed no doubt to guide me into English alternative politics of dissent, et al.

But how much of an intro did I need, after consorting and riding with a wild bunch of motorcycle outlaws, ex-Hell's Angels, Commancheros, and other gangstas, in Melbourne before I went to England? Most were at least 10 years my senior, but took me in happily, and taught me some about their side of living in a class-based society.

Lately, it has hit me that they too, however, were well aware of this scam, to build a messiah king commander etc. So this puts the Hell's Angels and all “Outlaw” bikers in the same conspiratorial basket as the global elite!???

“Squats” were relatively common across some areas of London's suburbs, and there were whole streets claimed by organised Squatters not far from the Pie Shoppe, that had sustained for years, possibly even decades, even then in the 1970s.

The Steve, Anita, Derek and Alison crew were definitely counter-culture, what wiff Derek brewing all manner of tuber, vegetable and fruit wines in his basement apartment, etc.

Looking back, I reckon Derek, a very sharp mind, was nevertheless fairly pissed most of the time. He was always good to be around, but I know now he was deeply skeptical of the plans hidden from me.

But...., on reflection...., most all of them were sent in to befriend me, and thereafter be something of guides to this future god, exactly as the mob of fellas I came to know when I found a job at WEA Records, Ltd, Alperton, Wembley, west London, in 1977, or so.

All, once more, champion dudes, who took me in to a minor extent, and showed me a happy few years.

Clearly, there was chatter behind my back, at WEA.

The depot, the distribution centre for WEA Britain, and northern Eurape vinyl records and cassettes (1970s!) was new, and I, and the rest were employed to set up it's bulk store, picking store, receiving and despatch sections.

Aussies were loved back then, for our “she'll be right!” attitude, and apparently we had a good reputation for being hard workers, albeit for only months at a time.

So, with that, my naïve, but happy attitude, and something of a tenacity for hard work, I did well.

I made it to “team leader” I think, in a couple of sections, despatch, goods-in, picking and the bulk store for a short while, and once I was interviewed to be trained up for management. But the devil in me, spluttered to a shocked Phil Rogers, my shop-floor boss, that “Y're trying to set me up!” so I said I wasn't interested in be promoted. What a dickhead! Now, I guess I can “thank”, other players who wanted total control of king idiot the 1st.

While in despatch, a bloke came in as the driver. Pete Blumental.

Great bloke. We struck it off and spent many evenings in restaurants and other venues, with others from work.

[Thursday nights was our little tradition, to go out together for a restaurant meal, mainly as I recall to an Indian one in Wembley. Often there'd be 8 or 10 of us, getting pissed, eating our hearts out, and sometimes throwing crumbed hashish into our meals. A fun delusion.]

Pete had not long before returned from a very uncommon non-stop 2-year stint with the British armed forces, in Northern Ireland. Can't recall his rank or battalion, but think he was SAS, or such.

Later, after he left WEA, he appeared, and took me night-clubbing on a couple or more nights, in a Silver Shadow Rolls Royce!

He'd gotten a job as a chauffeur for the last King of some Arab nation or sommut? The King's son, maybe? Prince or king Fizel? Ne'ertheless, the prince let Pete use the older Roller of his 3 or 4, for his own hours, allegedly, so Pete would rock-up to the front door of the Pie Shoppe, and I'd jump in! Yahoo! A couple of times at most. Reflecting has me ask whether the Arabs are in on this conspiracy beast also?

At WEA, soon after he arrived, another English fella, Fred, who was on a similar level of “team leader” or so, as me, made it obvious he did not like Pete.

Reflections tell me he, like everyone else there, were told the superdude king of everything was here to get some work experience, and a feel of English society, via the various employees and the inevitable after-work fun they all had, etc, and he, Fred, was NOT happy about it!

A solid ex-military man himself, Fred was good English working class, and clearly, - on reflection - saw something evil in my very being, let alone in the bullshit plan they had in store for me. So we were never good work mates.

He shunned me after that, which I only recently saw why. Fair enough Fred! I'm on your side!

Not that I'm an enemy of Pete or the others, just the establishment, and their insane plan.

Then there was Nigel! And Andy!

And Joe Hillier. Barrington! And Gassa. Cozy! And Dennis! And Phil Rogers! And Chris Davidson. And, not to forget, the ebullient Liz' Mercer! And Clive. And all the crew.

Reflections show me how much a dupe I was. All of them, on reflection, had been informed, and seconded to “patronize” me.

Being certain of this, and thus, that most everyone I've been more than a customer of or such, have been sent in to accompany me along my warped road, not at all of my own reconnaissance, will or choice, empties completely my heart.

It certainly has me feel very very alone on earth, and, rather antipathetic to most all white, western, zionist, christian, catholic and other cultist people.

This, undoubtedly, is why, each morning, I wake up and in no time think about war. About bringing down this completely decrepit and terminally corrupt western power, and beliefs system.

As it is, if I go the full distance, of war against the machine, against Rastafarian's “Babylon”, ancient Israel's “Rome”, but today, the OCCUPY Movement's greedy “1%” on top of the world, which is as much Zionist Israel, in bed with Rome, the USA, Eurape, and most every other elitist social class, but definitely Britain's, who have bred me, it would mean, basically, the end for everyone.

From here, while I don't take serious aim, or do the occult preparation to fully empower my “Mojo”, it's more likely I'll trash the Pacific rim of nations, while the culprits from the north - Britain, Eurape, Israel, east coast USA, et al, are merely shaken, not stirred, by the utter devastation Japan, eastern Asia, the Pacific Islands, west coast America, quite possibly however, most all coastal cities and communities less than 50 kilometres inland, would be destroyed by?

Just like old Rome planned!

So..., while those named here, sit projecting vibes my way, both from the “SHUT UP MAX!” side or from the “We DO want to help you, for your sake!” side, which I simply do not believe, and while both sides or their psychotic occult masters interfere with every avenue I take - JUST - to give myself a waterproof and snake/mouse/mozi-proof abode, I am clamped, busted, cemented to your ignorant beliefs, their warped expectations, under your retarded hexes and remain damaged by your brutality.

NOT, the most suitable conditions, for or of mind, or of body, for to bring me happiness enough to let go of the last 58 years of your white christian deadly, seriously ignorant, delusional brutality, until I can actually feel secure, and therefore relaxed enough to allow the Kundalini to do it's natural thing.

Then, for me to resume, for the first time, association with society, in the better more acceptable, less bitter and vengeful state of mind, I am always in.

Not while the elite's have so messed with your minds and senses that you can now not see me, but only the demons inhabiting my soul and aura.

Demons YOU, and the TS, with every idiot catholic, freemason and generally evil-minded piece of shit put in, with your delusional desires to be part of this whory “lets-build - or - let's fuck-over -our-very-own-JESUS!?” madness.

So..., While I have enormous Respect for those in the danger zones of my temper, the Asians, and Islanders, Et Al, while the white bewitched christian, and anti-christian, Zionist zombies of the world cannot progress themselves beyond finding me so interesting, I will continue to expect the largest jolt ever seen, when I end my dream, and drop dead.

In fact, as the Taliban and other Wiser Tribes know, I may even ignite that Pacific Rock-and-Roll event myself. Even at risk of being kicked all the way to Hell, for a very long time?


To me, now, after this bullshit life, I see no peace outside of the Absolute Unity, where everything , everywhere, is just a gentle spread of light.

No you. No me. No thing. Anywhere!

Very Peaceful......



Max Nichols Cook-Meredith-O'Brien
Et Al


All Praise the Immortals!
All Praise the Warriors who have fallen
Fighting for a Just World!

from the Traveling 4x4 Tent of


Hell's Gate Warmongers

Education &