October 22, 2003

  • They think they may have found Amy Johnson’s plane, the pioneering pilot who vanished in a small plane in 1941.



      This story was one of the many stories, not taught so much in school but by my parents and their peers, the bandsman  Glen Miller, also vanished in a war-time plane, as later would Jim Reeves and Buddy Holly.



      In a way, the war still dominated the fifties and the sixties childhood in a way unbelievable now. How many times had some moaner said to me “I fought a bloomin’ war for thee lad, I dunna ken why I bloomin’ bothered” and “If it weren’t for the likes of me, we’d all be speaking German”.

     

      There were many men who skived off work with “old war-wounds” as many as today skive off with “nervous exhausion”

     

    School heroes were brave white men who held at bay uncivilized wogs who never washed and who ate funny food, and in Africa, ate babies. God was an Englishman, and Jesus a middle-east genie.



    And no one else mattered, least of all us.



    To be con’t

     

    Before we go any further, I am pissed off with the sort of American who thinks they are pure and the rest of the world is evil. There is someone on here who wants to delete the whole of my blogs.

      If Americans want to believe in Jesus Christ, and ghosts and aliens and fairies and angels and the stars, that is fine by me. If they want every loony to own a gun, and every black man in jail, there is little I can do about it. Though as a long-fighter of facism, I DO object with America trying to bully the rest of the world to buy their inferior and substandard goods and esp GM foods which is an insult to the God that I know. I am also amazed on their obsession of sexual perversion. I wrote the Sophie Lucy Morgan blog in pure innocence. Okey, so it was a mistake, but I took it down not because some people thought it fact and not fiction (silly people!) but because I was called a pervert, I would love to sue anyone who calls me that!

      So remember that if you want, that I will not be bullied by right-winged dirty-minded old women!


    I said I was going to speak the truth on this blog, and I will.

October 18, 2003

  • Note: If anyone objects to this site let me know, I can go private, whatever that means.


    Lest the truth be strangled by the fiction of which I will not talk about yet, not wanting any cross-references, you can have the one, there’s a key there, but only someone as weird as me will find it, find it, find my flat, I do not care for though I have done things that have hurt others, I will not mention some names, and I might even have to even twist other facts (though I hope not to), if you are here, if a name is you, then I have been given the fame denied to me for the whole of my life.

      One other entry of this diary of a long life, and THE TRUTH!!! as a mad Murdoch newspaper would print…

      A note about my musical tastes. Between ? and 17, it was pop-charters. I remember at nine or so, singing “Qua Sera Sera” with my poor mother, in Mornington House. (will have to index all this!) and with Ian Payne air-guitaring (or as we called it, “pretending to be famous”): Tommy Steele’s “Singin’ the Blues” and Bill Haley & The Comets’ “See you later Alilgator” and “Rock Around the Clock.”

      Now? Wait or forget, this journey have many roads yet, this truth from a born (and obsessive, cos screwed-up) liar.

    To be con’t

  • ENTRY ONE:


    “The Clowne from Clown” The real story, all the worts that would not make anyone innocent suffer, dead or alive. But the guilty would be named.



    An autobiography as a blog, and as a blog snippets rather than chronologial order. AND UP TO NOW, ANY SPELLING MISTAKES ARE LEFT IN.

      But typing errors are not, for I type slowly with one finger having suffered from an acute lack of concentration for the whole of my life. There is a name for it in children. There was when I was a boy. Backward. For so long people thought me backward that I stayed backward, never allowing my intelligence to get in a way except by psychologists, because the first one I met emptied his spe”m-bag up my anus.

      So I showed only the testers that I was not stupid. “He’s cleverer than me!” one told my disbelieving father and my mentally abused (by my dad) mother.

      I found some notes (my dad destroyed them when I questioned him about them) from one other psycho-tester (a Fraudian)

    Who wrote that I had an iq of 173 and should be sent to a special clever school. Fair do, my father battled with public schools, I past the tests but was considered “weird” by the headmasters, one of which I wanted to kiss me, not ho”oness of course, just seeking a little love from a peer of genius.

     

    To be con’t

     



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