The Club

Duncan Jones portrayed me as the nasty ogre Blackhand in his movie Warcraft which shows me that his father had no idea at all who he had been writing songs about since 1999. I have opposed every war that I have been aware of over the last twenty years, and before Jones senior sang Fall Dog Bombs the Moon in July I had marched in London against the Iraq war. It was an historical occasion, there were over two million protestors, and the first time that I am aware of through reading that people marched to stop a war before it began. No war for oil, we chanted. This was unknown to the celebrity stalker who had a history of drug abuse, violence, paedophilia and familial mental illness to his name and therefore never appeared as a part of his biased propaganda campaign. He had spoken to and received information from one person only and of whom I had gone out of my way to upset in language. As a young man, I had always looked up to this old phony for approbation, but he had upset me when I realised what he had done.    

The Conservative government in Britain are David Bowie fans. He’s obscenely rich, oppresses the poor, is into human sacrificing, body organ donation, and in him they see a kindred spirit. He is a national British icon manufactured by the BBC and the government were peripherally aware of me as the target-victim-villain of the rockstar and as though to confirm and consolidate his elitist position they attempted to turn me into something totally abhorrent, such a thing as I do not even recognise as myself.

The government hoaxed the Manchester Arena event where a bomber was alleged to have killed 22 civilians at an Ariana Grande concert. The government-celebrity-media had taken the rock anthem “Heroes” literally and rallied around backstage to engineer the event that within the loop was to be blamed on David Bowie’s named object to beat; the depersonalised screen image of Blackhand.  

Innocent photographs of my Sunday stroll into town were taken as a design blueprint for the alleged tragedy. This over a year later was why Ariana Grande was said on the radio to have stopped and restarted her concert so that a man in the audience could take photographs. The media speak in encrypted parables that only the elect can understand. The elect fashionista “sticking together”; the masses kept ignorant by asses. Ariana has subsequently been offered a damehood; one is rewarded for safeguarding the corrupt with silence.

The first photograph that I had taken was of a playing card, the seven of hearts, this card was situated on the side of the road on the grass embankment off Main Street on the morning of the 21^st of May. At the top of the hill I had taken a photograph of a small rock with a love heart that had been painted by the hand of a child on its surface and as I walked back down the hill, Forest Grove Fire Department had been testing their hoses and there had been a jet spray of water against an azure sky, I took a photograph of this. Walking up Pacific Avenue I took a photograph of Forest Grove Theatre where I had booked tickets to see Oscar Wilde’s play The Importance of Being Ernest and then I had sat down for a pint of lager in a pub owned by an Englishman called the King’s Head, it was the only locale in town I could buy cheese n’ onion pasties from. I took photographs of the blackboard, the word Yorkshire was written across the surface in chalk and there was an image of a white rose and I thought I would show my friends on Facebook, three of whom had booked tickets to come out and see me from Yorkshire which after the staged event had to be cancelled.  

When I got home I arranged the photographs on my Facebook page starting with the playing card, and then the rock, and then the blackboard in the pub. Then I posted the theatre house, and then the water spray against the sky. The following day I posted the medical marijuana logo which was a green cross in a circle, I would see this image on a daily basis on the sides of the road and then I posted the letters JC, above this an image from a graphic novel about Charles Fort. The word Fort appeared as the novel’s title heading, the subtitle; prophet of the unexplained. I was making allusion to a “Fortean” event that had taken place the week before, but the government turned this word into a place name. Chester is an old Roman word that means a military fort; a Man-Chester pertains to a manned military fort. The playing card maybe showed echoes of London’s 7/7 bombings, that seems uncertain, but the rock with the heart on was turned into the bomb and the blackboard with the word Yorkshire written across became the theatre foyer where the bomb was alleged by the media to have exploded, and Forest Grove Theatre was turned into the venue, Manchester Arena. The water spraying against the sky was turned into the nail bomb explosion, the medical marijuana logo became a medical emergency and JC became Jeremy Corbyn on the television news lying through his teeth, like a politician as he talked about how communities need to come together to stop such anti-social behaviour, bizarrely, he didn’t mean the government, but their innocent scapegoats, such is the power of social conformity, particularly when the few ringleaders have microphones, guitars, appear weak and effeminate, and adorn big smiles. He seemed to be talking literal Jesus Christisms whilst he dishonestly played along with this crooked and corrupt in-group game agenda. Nobody seemed to be defending me who without any intent of drama at all had simply being uploading photographs of my morning out into town.

The government had only Jones and sons arbitrary and erroneous profiling of me in songs and movies and celebrities must be correct without question. Neither Jones and son had ever spoken to me despite the rhetorical lie in the song title, “When I Met You”. Everybody within the government-celebrity-media loop fell into the perception umwelt of these two shrewd and manipulative Nazi’s with their proposed agenda of genocide which appeals to a government of fox hunters contemptuous of the contained and oppressed people they like to game hunt.  

Leeds had sold me to David Bowie for a lot of heroin and cocaine and twenty years later have made further threat to my life, now absurdly insisting that I’m a serial killer, “we only kill serial killers”. Such logic was the ground on which I told David Bowie to kill himself on. They call me a vampire, a symbol I have always associated with the most atavistic and backwards of people. I have seen the people from Leeds only once in a twenty-year duration. I gave them a piece of my mind back in 2003 before my hand was forced into leaving the city. The nightclub working with Bowie turned my language into his next album that was filled with nasty and mean spirited threats. “Send me down a river of perfumed limbs!” the Machiavellian “duke” crooned.  I complained to the authorities in 2005 and 2007 about this and they could do nothing at all about him. The government were useless. I wasn’t a rich man.  

In 2012 after I had settled into my new apartment in the states and I posted the song that promoted my name from the Keep It Unreal album to my public Twitter page. I then targeted the NHS Maudsley’s Twitter page and made many open and critical analysis of their practice. The doctors of Maudsley seeing the song on my page sought to attack the nightclub in Leeds which they knew as the source origin of the song. I had planted seeds with them years earlier. The doctors were attack minded approach-avoidance animals.

The nightclub was undoubtedly upset for having their licensing temporarily inhibited. For a brief duration they lost a lot of money not being able to sell MDMA to children. They had to change venues; they bought a Church which had been my uncredited design idea I had suggested to them in 2003. I was blamed for the inconvenience they suffered, and Bowie came back depicting the event in his single Valentine’s Day whereby I was turned into a serial killer, which was simply not the way I had ever thought about people at all. People like David Bowie? They maybe not aware what a nasty closed-minded propagandist he is, his fans seem clueless and sycophantic to me. The nightclub would have not had temporary licensing issues at all had Bowie not made their venue his stalking ground. In the nineties some of the ravers had voiced discontent of the negative publicity Bowie could bring them. I had only been to the nightclub one single time, it was not my scene, I had never been one for frequenting pubs and clubs and Leeds was a city I have never felt fondness and regard for. I had never wanted them to make albums about myself. I was not there business.  

The nightclub had misrepresented me to the rockstar. The first song on the 99 album seemed to insinuate there had been domestic abuse with an old girlfriend when there hadn’t been at all. I had initially glossed over this aspect of the song as it seemed completely irrelevant to me. Bowie had wanted me for my CNS condition; he’d made a career about it.  

In 2017, the nightclub ordered that a female friend of mine I had known since we were in high school together be assaulted. She was cornered by four male thugs one of whom struck her over the head with a baseball bat as she walked home from work one summer’s evening. The rave culture nightclub were the worst hypocrites and tyrants, there would be no songs hitting the airways slurring these people as violent abusers of professional mothers for they were the cool dudes who artfully manipulated the sub-culture’s propaganda machine.