The Treacherous Legacy of Having Inside Knowledge

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This article could rightly be considered a follow-up to an explosive account of the silencing of “Petra”, the first 9/11 whistle-blower, which can be read here, for a full understanding of the following piece.

Recent events compel me to write this article, in no small part to express what my faithfully logical wife and two of my closest friends who witnessed those events, following a painstaking process of elimination, are convinced was an attempt to poison me with a huge dose of potentially lethal bacteria, which was almost certainly contained in something I drank, after a gathering of some of my most trusted associates in the midlands of Britain.

The following morning I awoke very early, feeling like I had the symptoms of a cold or flu coming on, which one of my friends almost certainly passed on to me unwittingly during our interaction the day before. So I blasted them with spoonfuls of organic coconut oil and bicarbonate of soda, which saw off any signs of illness for the next 12 hours, during which time I drove 170 miles north to return to my wife and daughter at home in the early evening, where I experienced an unexpected burning sensation in my bladder and urinary tract the next time I passed urine; something which I had never suffered before. The sensations became more painful every time I subsequently visited the toilet.

Despite consuming a cap-full of organic apple cider vinegar and four drops of organic Greek oregano oil in a couple of gallons of ozonated water, along with a litre of chaga mushroom tea with pure maple syrup, by eight minutes past nine the next night, every organ below my heart, except my bowel, felt like it was being burned by acid, which I saw in my mind’s eye as a luminous greeny-yellow, viscous substance, that I needed to expel from my body at the earliest possible moment. I instinctively knew that my life depended upon it.

Huddled in agony over the toilet, unable to pass a single drop of urine without crying out in agony, I then realised that I was staring into the abyss of potential respiratory failure, as my breathing had become limited and painful, whilst my heart was racing like I’d just been flat out on a cross-trainer for forty minutes. Despite this, my whole body was freezing cold and no amount of clothing or duvets or hot drinks could warm it up. In addition, all of the colour had drained from my usually ruddy complexion and my vision was becoming increasingly blurred.

From the outset, I knew in my gut, which was completely unaffected by the bacteria, pretty much proving it was not contained in something I ate, that I would survive my ordeal without any major damage being done, but also that it would take a gargantuan mental, emotional and physical effort to achieve this, as has proven to be the case. Indeed, without the healing magic of the electric universe I would not be here to chronicle my experiences.

Having stared the Grim Reaper in the face thirty-one years ago, after my blood was poisoned by a burst appendix, I am fortunate enough to have experience in this regard, but I knew I wouldn’t be going anywhere near a hospital this time. That night in bed I became lathered in sweat and got hardly a wink of sleep because of the incessant pain and all to frequent visits to the toilet. I must nevertheless have sweated at least two pints of fluid whilst I was tossing and turning under the duvet, as I was now burning a raging fever. I took this as a sign that my condition was slightly improved, on the basis that my skin was now assisting my bladder, liver and kidneys in the expulsion of the poison from my body, as a result of the burning of the fever.

My blood stream had almost certainly been invaded by potentially deadly toxins released by a virulent strain of E.coli bacteria [STEC], which very often leads to a type of blood poisoning known as Sepsis. Thanks to my previous acquisition of a Silver Pulser, I was able to purify my blood using micro-currents of electricity, which I did for at least two hours a day until my symptoms started to abate after six days. Upon further reflection, doing so might well have prevented me from dying of blood poisoning, as well as kidney failure.

For almost the entire period my bladder and urinary tract felt like they had hundreds of tiny hooks embedded into their walls, making sleep a virtual impossibility and exhaustion an inevitability. Whilst the constant painful feeling that I was desperate to urinate was almost unbearable and only eclipsed by the agonising pain I felt every time I tried to empty my bladder, my condition was rendered even worse by constant aches in my kidneys, which I knew was an early warning sign of potential failure; and my urine was a luminous greeny-yellow during the most painful emissions, exactly as I had envisaged it during the darkest hour.

I have now been flushing my system with several litres of organic cranberry super-juice and ozonated water, along with four concentrated cranberry extract capsules, per day for the last 24 days. I didn’t eat anything for the better part of four days during the first week, nor did I have any appetite to do so. My wonderful wife and trusted friends were obviously deeply concerned, but having witnessed me heal a broken ankle without any medical intervention, they intuitively trusted that I knew what I was doing and supported me in any and every way they could, as did my truly remarkable daughter.

My on-going research has revealed that I was displaying signs of having been infected with a large amount of Shiga Toxin producing E.Coli bacteria [STEC], which affected most of my lower organs without preparing me with a single warning sign and resulted in potentially fatal blood poisoning. My bowel, however, was completely unaffected, which is very unusual in cases of E-Coli infections.

It seems perfectly plausible that the oil and bicarb I took on the morning after the gathering killed off the flu-like symptoms, whilst the type of E.Coli bacteria I was infected with in such large amounts generally has an incubation period of 24 hours; which strongly suggests that I was poisoned as I ate and drank with friends in a public house in the city of Nottingham, during the early evening of Saturday the 11th of October 2014.

It has now also been confirmed that no symptoms of bacterial infection were reported by anybody else who was present at the gathering or the pub that night. Just me. Furthermore, on the basis that my bowel was not adversely affected, I can only have consumed it in a pint of draft cider, since I drank nothing else while I was there. It naturally follows that if the barrel had been infected there would have been reports of many others suffering the same symptoms and the pub would have been closed for health and safety violations, which has not transpired. Neither have I been able to find any reports of E.Coli infection anywhere else in Nottingham that weekend.

If we accept that the incubation period was most likely 24 hours, given the size of the infection, the bacteria can logically only have been added to one of three glasses of cider I drank at the pub, whether knowingly or unknowingly, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise.

At the time of writing this article, I am still flushing with cranberry, which appears to be the nemesis nature provided to cull certain types of urinary infection, without killing the good bacteria required for a healthy bladder. According to testimonials I found in online reviews, cranberry, in sufficient amounts, not only gets rid of such infections, it makes sure they don’t return.

Thus far, my experiences corroborate these claims, since I have largely been unencumbered by relapses. A chesty cough has nevertheless persisted throughout the recovery, which is probably 99% complete now, albeit 25 days after the symptoms almost consumed me, along with the feelings of utter exhaustion I have experienced throughout, all of which obviously gives rise to a chilling question:

Does anybody really have sufficient motive to attempt to murder me?

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From the first conversation I had with Petra, more than thirteen years ago, I knew that my life would never be the same again. However, even the weight of carrying such heavy information in my mind was manageable in comparison to dealing with the thought that all of my communications and physical movements were being monitored by the secret intelligence services, for the simple reason that I was in possession of said knowledge.

Since I knew full well that almost everybody would accuse me of being a paranoid conspiracy theorist, in the event that I chose to share this information with them, I kept it to myself and my most trusted friends whilst I researched its components; and for the purposes of securing an insurance policy which might well save my life one day, perhaps without me finding out that it has.

Even before Petra informed me that she had been told by the mercenary who pulled her out of the burning US Embassy in Nairobi, that everybody she was in contact with was being closely watched by MI5 and perhaps MI6 as well, I had often wondered if the phone in my North London flat was bugged, after hearing intermittent, yet persistent, clicking on the line, which those I spoke to on it often commented upon, without ever taking seriously my explanation that we were not alone on the calls. Given the fact that Petra insisted that I was the only party with whom she had shared everything she knew, I was a somewhat obvious surveillance target from September the 14th 2001, the date our communications began.

This predicament was rendered somewhat more complex by the fact that, after ten years of working as a stand-up comic [as well as a stand-up comedy teacher], writing and performing in plays on the London fringe theatre circuit, composing screenplays, learning how to produce low to no budget films and co-directing a 35mm short film which was broadcast terrestrial television, my career [I was consistently informed] was about to take off in a big way, whatever that meant. For a while at least, I saw no reason to believe that the predictions were misconceived.

In early Autumn 2001, having been commissioned to write a comedy drama series for television three months previously, I was invited to meetings with two heads of department at the BBC, both of whom recommended that the head of drama green-light the project for production funding. Meanwhile, the final draft of a screenplay I had been developing since 1998 had attracted an international award-winning cast, with a working budget of £3.5 million and production slated to begin the following year.

However, despite everything, I felt a desperate urge to leave London at the earliest opportunity, for the purposes of ridding myself of the constant feeling that I was being watched; so much so that I was too distracted to foresee that what Petra told me was capable of destroying my career. Literally.

Even if I had foreseen that, I doubt very much whether I would have taken a different course of action, on the basis that I already knew that I was despised by all the wrong people in the cocaine-drenched offices of the Ox-Bridge mafia, for nothing more than refusing to genuflect at the altar of inherited power, money and privilege, in accordance with the ancient maxim of my forefathers:

Y’can tek a Bernician oot o’Bernicia, but y’cannot mek’em kiss a Saxon’s ring.

By the spring of 2002, the BBC did a u-turn and passed on the television series which two heads of department had recommended for production finance only six months earlier. This was almost certainly because I had been identified by MI5 as a potential security risk, during the infamous secret intelligence vetting process which all potential BBC employees and contractors are subjected to and which they had every opportunity to undertake during the six months prior to the head of drama passing on the series. This just so happened to coincide with all but the first and last two months of the period I was communicating with Petra.

The producers were nevertheless undeterred and pitched the project to other potential financiers and broadcasters for the best part of the next 18 months, until every avenue was exhausted and the project had to be shelved. Whilst nobody, including myself, wanted to accept it, it was obvious that I had effectively been blacklisted, just like film director Roland Joffe 25 years previously, having more than likely been deemed a “security risk” because of the “sensitive information” in my possession.

In the summer of 2003, I finally fled the encroaching total surveillance state of London and moved to the quiet canals of Amsterdam, where I spent just shy of two largely idyllic years producing various European and US-based projects and developing the final draft of my screenplay about a couple of North London dope-dealers, who accidentally get sucked into the murky world of international cocaine trafficking.

During this time I was a relatively frequent flyer to various destinations, including London, Nice, Milan and Berlin, where myself and my business partner attempted to raise the money to realise our defiantly independent slates of films at European film markets. For the first few months at least, I was not aware that I remained under the surveillance of various intelligence agencies, but it certainly wasn’t a surprise to find out that I was.

In the winter of 2003, I was asked to fly to Copenhagen at a few hours notice, to sign a contract which would guarantee that a film I was co-producing would complete production on schedule. After checking in a Schipol airport in Amsterdam, I noticed that I was being watched by a man who was dressed in a flowery shirt, a baseball cap and Bermuda shorts. It was winter, so he stuck out like a nudist at a wake.

Sure enough, he followed me to the end of the bag-checking area, before aggressively approaching as I retrieved my bag from the conveyor belt. He was holding up a badge contained in a brown leather wallet, which I assumed to be that of an undercover Dutch detective, as he demanded to know why I was flying to Copenhagen and why I had taken so many international flights since I moved to the Netherlands.

So I calmly told him the reasons why and he asked me if I could prove it. His face was crestfallen when I told him that there were various documents in my bag which proved beyond doubt that I was who I said I was. After I had done so, I tersely informed him that he and his colleagues, who were obviously watching the whole thing on CCTV, were clearly prejudiced towards me because I was a long-haired man in a suit, flying business class [which I had been bumped up to by KLM at no extra cost], which I described as “a fucking disgrace”, as I picked up my bag and made my way to Copenhagen to sign the contract.

Incidentally, the film was completed on time and went straight to number one in the Danish box-office chart when it was released the following April, recouping what it cost to make in just ten days. Needless to say, the film’s investors got shafted by the Time-Warner owned distribution company, which held back profits it was not entitled to; whilst Her Majesty’s Government shafted the producers out of 10% of the budget after production was complete, by with-drawing a tax-break the film had already qualified for, resulting in the loss of the money which had been allocated to cover post-production costs.

Not long after my trip to Copenhagen, I noticed that my apartment in Amsterdam was under video surveillance from an otherwise empty flat across the street. This was revealed when I saw a small bright red light in the window opposite one dark evening, which appeared to be located next to the very edge of a curtain, as if somebody was trying to hide the bulk of a camera behind it.

After continuing to see it for a couple of weeks, one Saturday morning I stepped out on to the balcony opposite the camera and showed the peeping toms my big bald Bernician arse. Within a few hours both the camera and the curtains disappeared, never to reappear during the rest of my stay in the Dam, which ended in the spring of 2005, following the micro-budget production of my directorial feature debut, which was shot in 17 days for £17,000, after every possible source of production finance passed on the film, despite one of the most impressive cast lists ever assembled by a first-time feature director, on the strength of the script alone.

Over the next 18 months I moved around a lot, as I tried to complete post-production without any money, living hand-to-mouth for short periods on the Northumberland and North Tyneside coasts, in North London and then southern Spain, where I temporarily became homeless after the ostensibly unexpected total collapse of my career, which happened much like a car crash in slow-motion between the Cannes Film Festivals of 2005 and 2006, by the end of which I knew I had no option but to radically alter the way I lived my life, having been blacklisted in my chosen profession and thereby prevented from both recouping monies invested in any of my projects and repaying the faith and confidence of those who invested in them.

This understandably resulted in the renunciation of my blacklisted professional names, the gradual acquisition of my own production and distribution facilities and a permanent move back to the land of my birth, where I finally met the amazing mother of my children, who recognised me at a time during which I didn’t even recognise myself any more. It is also the location from which I successfully revoked my consent to be governed, canceled my registration as a tax-payer and assisted my wife in our refusal to register the birth of our un-vaccinated, home-schooled, auto-didactic daughter – a true force of nature if ever there was one.

Given these demonstrable facts, as well as the four year legal battle my father and I have been engaged in with Bank of Scotland, which resulted in a momentous summary judgment in the high court on 21/07/2014; along with my voluntary association with a community of independent sovereign anarchists, dedicated to ending democide on these shores; and the fact that I have established my own diplomatic status as a signatory of an international treaty, as well as the inviolability of our property as a Special Diplomatic Mission; it appears obvious that the establishment might well have sufficient motivation to attempt to silence my voice permanently, before my perpetually suppressed body of work is exposed to a wider audience.

Especially when one considers that, finally, almost ten years after it was shot, my blacklisted feature about the hypocrisy of the drugs laws [and a certain shockumentary film called The Great British Mortgage Swindle] are set for international release.

All things considered, however, I instinctively know that the most likely primary reason that the Rothschild-controlled secret intelligence services would go to all the trouble of setting up deep cover operatives, in order to get close enough to me to have ample opportunity to bump me off, is because I have released into the public domain information that leads directly to Rothschild’s implication in the financing of the 9/11 terror plot, thereby fulfilling the promise I made to a woman I haven’t communicated with since May 2002, who bravely shared her inside knowledge with me in good faith, the legacy of which has most certainly proven to be treacherous.

Nevertheless, without anything other than circumstantial evidence and no obvious suspects, there is virtually no chance of proving that I was deliberately poisoned, which brings me to the ultimate purpose of writing this piece – to deliver a message to those who may have conspired to bring about my demise, whomsoever they might be:

May the malevolent actions of you and your kind be profoundly assuaged and your cruel intentions eternally thwarted, by your indomitable enemies, truth, equity and righteousness, as the indigenous peoples rise up to declare sovereign independence, reclaim their stolen lands and overthrow your tyrannical empire of ill-gotten gains in the 200th year of its hegemony.

I am fortunate enough to know that only a free life is worth living; a life lived in fear is a life wasted; and by a man’s deeds shall he be known, long after he shuffles off this mortal coil. It is therefore self-evident that, whether I was poisoned by an as yet undetermined assassin or not, my body survived because I was able to calmly recognise that death was on the near horizon and to identify both the cure and cause of my rapidly deteriorating condition, before it was too late for the healing magic of the electric universe to take effect.

I will therefore continue to walk fearlessly down the path my heart has chosen, knowing that the legacy of my actions will inevitably speak more eloquently upon my body’s demise than anything I am capable of conveying while I am still engaged in a life worth living, which I intend to be for at least another four decades. Your ongoing support of any aspect of my work is nevertheless greatly appreciated, in whatever form it takes.

Much love from The Bernician, a free and fortunate man in deed.

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