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.
Bizarre!
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?
FUCK
YOU, WHITEGUY!
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......
Great!
DEATH TO ZION!
JUST
DEFIANCE
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
JUST
DEFIANCE
aka
GENERAL
BLUE MEANEE
Anchor,
for
Hell's
Gate Warmongers
GLOBAL
Advocating
Land,
Tax,
Housing,
Family,
Agricultural,
Cult,
Drug,
Work,
Education
&
Environmental
LAW
REFORM
