‘To be conscious that you are ignorant is a great step to knowledge’ – Benjamin Disraeli.

robertj.cook@btinternet.com

This page is for some of my personal views and images. For the time being it replaces Rambling Robert because lockdown has lost me my job and freedom to ramble.

There will be some overlap with other pages because it is my view that life , apart from the challenges of getting very old, is about adjusting to life in an ever tighter Police State- which some Brits don’t seem to like while others do not notice.

I find it interesting how many use comment section to send crap about sex, presumably some if not all from moronic police. Please note, the ‘Sexy Me’ page is a piss take on the British weird obsession with sex, the transgender comments are serious, placing the phenomenon in its political context, hate male concerns the vile anti male ( especially white ) hate outpourings from the feminist, Terf and feminazi movement, with other references, notably police sexual hypocrisy reported as and when. I am not interested in garbage about porn condoms, viagra or other weird stuff . Police take note. I am very interested in you. I think the current police recruiting drive says everything about you, your priorities and what types you ar looking for. It is creepy and sexist.

R.J Cook

For more on my personal experience of the British Police State, see the Police State Page Robert Cook

Someone I want to kill by Robert Cook

Television was a magic box to me in the 1950s. The first ones were large pieces of furniture with large polished wood cabinets and flickering blackish and whitish images on tiny screens. To have an H Shaped  aerial attached to your chimney was a status symbol like owning a car. We never had a car. Dad rode a bike 10 miles to his long day’s work as a lorry driver. Just before his accident, he stepped up in the world purchasing an NSU moped called a  ‘Quickly.’  He was fluent in German and had fought the Germans during the war , but we had German relatives and he admired their engineering.

The war had a big impact on my parents. They were both Londoners where the blitz cooked and killed people. Mother lost a brother and boyfriend.  Our television arrived in 1957 and I was allowed to watch it without censorship until 9 p.m. War films , where death was always heroic, interested me, but it was not until 1962 when my father ended up on a terminal ward in Aylesbury that I heard the sound of death while we visited on a  regular basis. The sound of the death rattle was horrible. Eventually it was my father’s turn. He was 41. Brought up as an agnostic, I had no doubt he had gone for good. Very poor already, due to his long illness, our situation got worse. Life seemed horrible, so I wanted to go too.

It was my role to look after my mother, doing jobs before and after school , including long hours on the farm where life and death of animals was quite normal.

My first memory of  desperately wanting to die comes from just before I went up to university. I had become very anxious that something might happen to my mother and the lonely prospect of being in a world without her.

The difficulty with the suicidal impulse I that , in my experience, it is like one of those old wartime blackout curtains that we still had on our front windows in 1960. It closes out all light and therefore any sense of hope.

So while working for the Inland Revenue in Havant, near my beloved Portsmouth, I got lodgings with wonderful Bill and Jean Neal in Lymbourne Road.  I had recently been dumped by my girlfriend because she found me too depressing. I was writing a lot of poetry , including lines about this person that I wanted to kill.

The person was , of course, myself. The blackout curtain came down so I saw nothing else. I went to my doctor and he prescribed amitrytyline, better known as tryptizol. It would take a lot of explanation as to how I reached this stage, but my ex girlfriend observed when we met in Norwich that, in her words ‘You are very insecure.’ She did her best to help me but psychology is a blunt instrument where a scalpel is required. No such tool exists in that field of medicine, beyond lobotomy.

The year was 1975.  Back in 1974, the English folk singer Nick Drake had died from an overdose of tryptizol. As an aspiring folk singer myself, I knew that. The drug is a tricyclic antidepressant with sedative properties. The maximum effective dose is 150 mg per day.  It was a Friday. I collected my prescription from Boots in West Street , on my  way home from the tax office just around the corner. The tiny pills were crammed into a little brown glass bottle.

My lodgings were a short walk away. I was home in time for dinner with Bill and Jean. They always went to the British Legion Club in South Street. I went up to my little back bedroom and swallowed all the pills. In my hazy half sleep, I heard them come home that night, then nothing until Monday morning.

Unhappy to have woken up, I rang in sick and took time to recover.  A few weeks later, I returned to my doctor asking for extra pills because I was going away on holiday. Something people miss about those of us who become suicidal is that once we have decided what we are going to do, we put on an image. So I got the pills and drove home up country to the house I then owned in Winslow, where I took lots of the pills, spending another two days in a coma.

Coming out of it was like swimming up from the depths. I persuaded myself that I was going to become more than a tax man. I was going to be a great writer and folk singer. Over the years , all that hope was gradually taken from me. I went on to attempt suicide by hanging in March 2007 and another overdose in 2016 , following 7 traumatic court hearings before my victory.

Still I was unable to get at the truth, which I cannot talk about now for legal reasons. So I took an overdose of tamazapam whilst on leave from work in December 2016. There were efforts to persuade me that I am transgendered stemming from me having a book published on the subject. The final report on the matter noted that I have a ‘strong female identity.’

This led to a psychiatrist following up with the deluded paranoid diagnosis and prescription for anti psychotic drugs. I came to the conclusion that these people cannot be trusted and that the only identity I have is the one the police gave me on October 9^th 2008 when they created intriguing and life destroying records, meant to be secret, that I was a violent stalker. One cannot get much more hopeless than carrying an identity like that one. It is near impossible to earn a living that way and was expanded to incriminate my eldest son.

Life without hope is a terrible experience. If it had not been for the support of my eldest son who also depends on me for reasons I am also not allowed to mention, I would be dead. When the blackout curtain is drawn, one sees nothing but darkness, which is why I nearly succeeded in strangling myself with my tee shirt whilst in police custody back last August 25^th. Death, where is thy sting ? I would do it again. I am not allowed to say why, and no one belives me anyway, which is why I have been labelled a paranoid personality, schizophrenic and deluded. Who am I to argue. It would be kind of them to give me euthanasia instead of leaving me plotting to kill that someone who is me.  R.J Cook

Just a bunch of everyday privileged poor whites in Police State Britain March 7th 2021

‘ My first ever book signing of my first published book , at ‘Gilly Flowers’ in Winslow High Street – Posted February 17th b2021

Under The Bridge January 18th 2021

By Robert Cook

Under the bridge where the water flows past

Is a man in a bed who is free at last.

He lived in this place in his ragged clothes

When people went by they turned up their nose.

He had no TV or internet connection

He had no means to vote in the election.

Pictures in his head while he froze in the Cold

Wondering how he lived to be so old.

Down in the town he would beg for food

Eating scraps improved his mood.

His water came from the mouldering canal

This was his world, a private hell.

How did he get here, did he come by boat

How come his life just didn’t float.

It did for a while, he had a house

There he lived like a little mouse.

Lost his job at the stroke of a pen

Man in the office said he didn’t need men.

The world was changing, all re arranged

It helped you survive if you were deranged.

His wife went to work and he lost her approval

She called the police who sorted his removal.

She said he had started speaking out of turn

Not good enough now he couldn’t earn.

She had a job at the local bank

Then ran off with a very rich Yank.

She took him to court for his abuse

When truth be told he was no more use.

She copped the lot of his life time achievement

So off he walked with his bereavement

All squeezed into two battered cases,

He was just another loser in the human races.

Robert Cook January 18^th 2021

Nothing to say January 17th 2021

Toward the end of my marriage, one of my old guitar pupils came back from the army and asked me to play lead guitar in his band. I said ‘Why do you want a wrinkly old git like me in it ? ‘ He said because you know what you are doing and you’ll add character. It was January 2008 when my ex wife responded by bursting in on our practice, screeching ‘I’ve got to tell you Adam, Robert’s an alcoholic.’ I had a bottle of wine on my desk to help me relax and create lead lines over what the others were playing. I wasn’t allowed to drink. So I was seriously breaking the rules. Afterwards she insisted that I was ‘only in the band to run off with young women.’

Not surprsingly the band was short lived. Strangely, by the end of that year, my marriage long over, I met a lady who was a talented natural musician. We played together at many venues, doing traditional and writing our own stuff until 2011. Sadly, the stress of my problems with the police led me to end the relationship, but I do write the occasional song for her. Musing on my current and the nation’s predicament, I just wrote the following, while watching Martin Scorcesse’s Dylan biopic, ‘No Direction Home’ on TV. I don’t claim to be a brilliant song writer, but this is what I wrote for that old girlfriend and song writing partner. It is called ‘Nothing to Say.’

Nothing to Say By Robert Cook, January 17th 2021

Life don’t flow, doesn’t ryhme

Long road back before my time

Wish mum & dad were never there

To make a boy with golden hair.

Wish I’d stayed lost in space

Never ever shown my face.

Not a footfall on this earth

No good for me, no real worth.

Full of animals, humans too.

Put the humans in the zoo.

Wish I wasn’t one of those

Planted here where bad grows

Where liars cheats lead astray

drive the good ones far away.

Mum and dad from depression years

Parted young many tears.

Wars for who, rich folks way

Had to go, no real say.

Say hurrah for democracy

Believe all that, then U can’t see.

All the dead from long ago.

Hear the bands, all for show.

Glory, glory, vote for me

Then see things you’ll never see.

See the world on a plate

fight the people, don’t relate

Fear the police, learn the rules,

rebellion is all for fools.

Deprogramme yourself, vaccinate.

Learn to love what you hate.

Call the man if there’s trouble,

Take more pills when you’re seeing double.

Madness is so normal now

Don’t worry, don’t ask how.

Watch the news, do as told

Then they’ll let you get old.

Be careful, pass the mark

Then they’ll put you in the dark.

In the dark, in the gloom

They will lock you in the room.

Slowly dying, dying fast

all you had is in the past.

Scream for release , scream aloud

On your knees, don’t be proud.

Then in time, time will pass

There’ll be no more , no more grass.

No more sky to fly away,

No more words, nothing to say.

R.J Cook January 17th 2021

As Someone Whose Life Has Been Made Intolerable By The Lies, Misconduct And Abuses Of Fake Democratic British State, Last Attempting Suicide In A Dirty Cold Dark Police Cell On August 24th 2020, I Am Posting The Following On The Right To Die. January 10th 2021

Curr Oncol. 2011 Oct; 18(5): 206–207. doi: 10.3747/co.v18i5.923PMCID: PMC3185895PMID: 21980245

A legal right to die: responding to slippery slope and abuse arguments

D. Benatar, PhDAuthor informationCopyright and License informationDisclaimerThis article has been cited by other articles in PMC.

To be forced to continue living a life that one deems intolerable when there are doctors who are willing either to end one’s life or to assist one in ending one’s own life, is an unspeakable violation of an individual’s freedom to live—and to die—as he or she sees fit. Those who would deny patients a legal right to euthanasia or assisted suicide typically appeal to two arguments: a “slippery slope” argument, and an argument about the dangers of abuse. Both are scare tactics, the rhetorical force of which exceeds their logical strength.

Slippery slope arguments, which are regularly invoked in a variety of practical ethics contexts, make the claim that if some specific kind of action (such as euthanasia) is permitted, then society will be inexorably led (“down the slippery slope”) to permitting other actions that are morally wrong.

It is, of course, easier to assert the existence of a slippery slope than to prove that it exists. Opponents of a legal right to die thus point to the Netherlands, for example, and note how the law permitting euthanasia and doctor-assisted suicide in that country has become steadily more permissive. At first, euthanasia was permitted only for the terminally ill who requested it, but then it was permitted for the chronically ill, for those whose suffering was psychological, and for incompetent patients, including children.

It is indisputable that the Dutch laws regarding euthanasia and doctor-assisted suicide have become more permissive, but those who invoke the slippery slope argument fail to realize that those changes are insufficient to demonstrate the existence of a (noxious) slippery slope. To understand why this is the case, imagine, for example, that you are an opponent of apartheid in South Africa in the 1950s. If you are seeking to bring about legal change, through legal channels, you might realize that you have little hope of convincing the white electorate of abandoning apartheid. Thus, you might decide to begin by chipping away at the edges of the apartheid structure. You might recommend, for example, abolishing separate entrances to the post office for blacks and whites. A defender of apartheid might resist that move by pointing to the possibility of a slippery slope: “If we abolish separate entrances,” that defender might say, “we shall soon find that people of different races are permitted to marry one another, and before we know it, there will be no more apartheid.” It should be readily apparent that, even if the defender of apartheid is correct that the stated trajectory is a likely consequence of abolishing the separate entrances, that consequence would not be a noxious slippery slope.

With that scenario in mind, we can see the hidden assumption in the slippery slope argument against legalizing euthanasia: It is the assumption that the instances of euthanasia that the Netherlands now permits are morally wrong. But the problem is that very many defenders of a legal right to die would deny that those instances of euthanasia are wrong. Some of us think that the suffering that a person endures need not be the product of a terminal disease in order for it to be intolerable. We also recognize that some mental suffering is intractable and as unbearable as physical suffering. And we recognize that it is not only competent patients, but also incompetent ones who can suffer from conditions that make their lives not worth living. Accordingly, we would like to see euthanasia and assisted suicide permitted in such a wider range of cases. If, however, we cannot effect that legal change in one step, we recommend, in the first instance, a more limited liberalization of the law. Once that change has been made, people might realize that the next step and then the next are also acceptable, even if they cannot see it now.

The second argument invoked by opponents of a legal right to die is the argument that such a right will be abused and that no legal safeguards can prevent that abuse. Thus, for example, it has been said that where written voluntary consent to euthanasia is a legal requirement, that consent has not always been obtained. Similarly, it has been said that euthanasia or assisted suicide are often not reported, even in jurisdictions in which reporting is obligatory.

The problem with that argument is that citing many examples of abuse of a legal right is not sufficient to justify withholding that right. If the likelihood of abuse were thought to be grounds for withholding a right, then much more than euthanasia would have to be banned. Driving, for example, would have to be prohibited on the grounds that this right is abused and that none of the safeguards we have against such abuse are completely effective. People drive faster than they should. They drive through red traffic lights and weave through traffic, and they drive cars that are not roadworthy. Some even drive without a license or while under the influence of alcohol. Moreover, the abuse of a legal right to drive often has fatal consequences, and thus, it is not unlike euthanasia in the severity of the outcome of the abuse. (And unlike the case of euthanasia, fatalities from car accidents often involve people who were in excellent health, which makes abuse of driving worse than abuse of euthanasia.) Few opponents of a legal right to die are prepared to accept the implication that driving should be banned. Nor is it a conclusion that should be accepted. There is no reason to withhold from some people a legal right to reasonable activity merely because other people will abuse that right. The appropriate response is regulation, imperfect though that may be.

The opponents of euthanasia and assisted suicide who cite the dangers of abuse in support of their view also fail to notice that abuse is possible even when euthanasia and assisted suicide are legally prohibited. It is naïve to think that covert forms of euthanasia and assisted suicide are not occurring in places where those practices are illegal. At least some of those instances would constitute abuse if a legal right to die existed. It is hard to say how much abuse occurs in such jurisdictions, but that is partly because where euthanasia and assisted suicide are prohibited, doctors will be even less likely to admit to participating in such practices^a.

Banning alcohol consumption, prostitution, gambling, and so forth, does not result in the elimination of those practices, in either abusive or non-abusive forms. Similarly, the choice is not between euthanasia and no euthanasia, with abuse occurring only in the former. Instead the choice is between euthanasia with or without regulation. Abuse will occur in any event, and thus, on the assumption that there is nothing wrong with euthanasia in itself, we may as well legalize and regulate it.

The slippery slope and the abuse argument are both compatible with the view that there is nothing intrinsically wrong with the practices at issue. Any person could hold the view that euthanasia and assisted suicide are morally permissible, but then deny that they should be made legal on account of the slippery slope and the danger of abuse. As it happens, however, many if not most of those who advance the slippery slope and dangers of abuse arguments do think that euthanasia is immoral.

Those who think that euthanasia and assisted suicide are immoral often suggest that there are always alternatives to death for those whose lives have become intolerable. Thus, it is suggested that palliation is always a possibility, even if palliation requires sedating the patient to the point of minimal or no consciousness. What that suggestion fails to recognize, however, is that it is not always pain that renders a life not worth living. For some people, the prospect of continuing in a minimally conscious or unconscious state for the rest of their biological life is a fate worse than death. Opponents of a right to die sometimes reply that people with such views can be helped to realize that such a condition is not worse than death. However, this line of argument is dangerous precisely because it could as easily be argued that those who think that death is worse than sedation until natural death could be helped to realize that they are wrong and that they should therefore agree to euthanasia.

It is not at all unreasonable to view as undesirable continued biological life with only minimal (if any) consciousness. Nor is depression in response to such a prospect in any way irrational. To suggest that people who manifest such depression should rather be provided with psychiatric help is to pathologize an entirely reasonable response to an appalling situation.

The quality of life can fall to dismal levels. Not everyone agrees about just how bad life must be before it ceases to be worth living. However, the fact of that disagreement provides no more reason for prohibiting euthanasia than it does for requiring it. To force people to die when they think that their lives are still worth living would be an undue interference with people’s freedom. It is no less a violation of human freedom to force a continuation of life when people believe that their continued life is worse than death.

Opponents of a legal right to die are fond of saying that freedom has its limits. However, just because freedom has its limits does not mean that a right to die falls beyond those limits. When a person deems that life is no longer worth living, then taking action to prevent that person from gaining assistance to die imposes a very serious harm. Although society may restrict a person’s freedom to prevent the infliction of harm on others, it is very difficult to justify restricting a person’s freedom when that restriction will result in an immense personal harm.

Comment Religious hypocrisy is no reason to argue with Euthanasia. The corrupt British Police State is responsible for much suffering and injustice. refusing assisted suicide is just more of their inhumanity.

My life is certainly no longer worth living thanks to our ruling elite. Ludicrous lockdown is the last straw. We should not be forced to accept fake religious morality.

Too much misery has been justified in Jesus’s name through the centuries, completely trading on and justifying misery in his name. The fact that my son’s life has been ruined because of his support for me, is a tragedy.

I am now powerlesss to help him, having been officially labelled paranoid schizophrenic bi polar and deluded. That is the reality of dissent in Britain and being a male scapegoat – privilged white male indeed, all part of the great ruling class con.

R.J Cook

I wrote the following for another website many years ago, and am starting to serialise it here. First posting December 26th 2020, second posting December 27th 2020.

He who dares sins, extract from a novel by Robert Cook

Chapter One Spenterseedsky.

Pint size Sean O’Spillit took another hefty slug of Jack Daniels and scratched his little nose.  In his entire life as a four-foot tall IRA terrorist he had never been in such a fix as this one.  The entire M25 was like a car park and there was a jealous husband in the third car back from him.  He was in the outside lane, playing with his gear stick and revving his big V8 angrily.

Helped as usual by his favourite spirit, he thought very quickly.  His old IRA commander had given him driving lessons when he was just eleven.  So Sean slammed his stolen 4X4 into off road mode, selected reverse gear, let the clutch up and flattened the little old lady, along with her Nissan Micra behind him.  His cool blue Irish eyes had already spotted the Volkswagen Beetle and empty car transporter beside him in the middle lane.  Now he had just enough room, Swinging his steering wheel hard to the left, slamming into drive, and with an ear piercing squeal of rubber, he headed for the back of the Beetle.  

His little foot had to have extensions to reach all the pedals, but that was no problem.  His calf muscles were rigid as steel, foot hard down, and with a mad grin, the red headed devil was soon airborne.  He flew into space, over the car, onto the transporter and the infinite congestion of the London’s answer to getting folk to know one another.

Lucky for him there was a fleet of transporters, and he flew from one to the other.  When he had flown over fifty-three, the traffic miraculously started to move.  He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw open tarmac before him. His 4×4 landed with a jolt.  Lucky he was well strapped into his baby seat.  Its straps were extra tight, so his head did not hit the roof.  ‘Ah, ah, you English b——s’ he shouted, his face contorted with glee, ‘You’re no match for young Paddy me lad.’

Cutting across the inside lane, he managed to cause a multi vehicle pile up and a handy diversionary heap of carnage.  The jealous husband would have no chance of catching him now.  He was heading for junction seven and the sanctuary of Gatwick airport.  He was looking forward to meeting his old crew.  They would be very interested to know what he had learned about the jealous husband, from his wife.  That husband was none other than Colonel Oleg Spenterseedsky, the dangerous head of the KGB in North London.

Exactly how he had contrived to meet and woo Spenterseedsky’s beautiful cockney wife had not occurred to him yet.  For that matter, the writer can’t fathom out how either.  All this writer knows is that his reformed IRA killer has earned him a lot of money and that his gullible readers will read and believe anything he writes.

It probably went something like this.  Speneterseedsky had just come back from meeting a top civil servant that wanted to escape to go and live in Russia so that he could save on the postage for a young beautiful Russian bride.  He had evidence that the Prime Minister was just a fat homosexual who had indulged a passion for Glaswegian truck drivers in his student days- now who would believe such a thing, but I am Hack Biggins, so you will believe me, you will believe me.  And also the civil servant knew that the prime minister’s predecessor was not the father of his last baby, Theo.  No the father had been the top law lord Perry D’Vine.  Nonsense isn’t it?  Keep reading it gets worse.

So the traitor met Spenterseedsky on Hampstead Heath, near one of those nice little places called public toilets, but because they are so nice, locals call them cottages. The goods were exchanged in the crowded cottage.  By that time Spenterseedsky felt a little thirsty.  Crossing the road in a hurry to get to the pub, he was almost knocked down by a taxi.  By the style of his dress and crew cut, Spenterseedsky was obviously a foreigner.  The taxi driver thought it would be nice to give him a good old British welcome: ‘Go back ter yer own bl—din country, I’ll kill yer next time’ he roared out of his black cab window.

Spenterseedsky staggered to the pavement, lucky to still be alive.  He thought about unpacking the AK47 stowed in his brief case and firing at every Englishman in sight.  After all, he had diplomatic immunity.  But he felt pleased with himself.  What he had was dynamite, which would help destroy the bloated capitalists of awful Britain and its economic mastermind, the British Prime Minister.

He had also noticed that the taxi had stopped.  An elegant young woman was stepping out.  She was the slimmest and most curvaceous little blonde he had ever seen.  If she hadn’t been wearing the highest of high heels, she would have been barely four feet tall.  Her dress was skin tight.  He knew he had to have her and have her quick.

Chapter Two A Bundle of Rags

Spenterseedsky moved swiftly along the vomit and cigarette stub patterned pavement. He was oblivious to all around him.  Had he not been, he would have noticed that a little old lady had been watching him very closely. ‘Roll out the Barrel was playing loudly behind the big double heavy doors of the ‘Wanderer Returns’ public house. Big glass panels in the doors bore the words ‘Public Bar’.

Spenterseedsky pushed on the right hand side door.  It wouldn’t budge. ‘Other door young man’ said a little squawky voice coming from just below his left elbow.

He looked down in alarm, wondering where the voice was coming from.  He was just in time to see a bundle of old rags disappearing through the left door.  The sight of the old crone made him want to be sick.  It was obviously a woman, but so different to the elegant creature in the blue satin dress that he was pursuing.

Inside the high cream and brown painted drinking den, was a hive of activity?  It was packed with all sorts and stunk of sweat, beer and spirits.  It was a snapshot of what England was all about. The Russian spy felt so grateful to be in the land of liberty.  Communism may have fallen in his home country, but it was still a dull and restrictive place.

He remembered the old days when he had got his first posting outside the Soviet bloc. It was a five years before Glasnost.  There was a real war on then and Russian spies swarmed all over Europe looking for lovely Western girls to have sex with, and maybe pick up a few secrets in their spare time.

Life had changed.  He was thirty when the Berlin War came down and a junior in the London station.  Time had come to settle down and find a wife.  The blonde beauty in the skin tight dress was definitely his Miss Right.  His trousers could barely hide his sense of certainty.  But where was she?  There was a great crowd in front of the bar.  

He had to push his way through.  He saw the bundle of old rags just ahead of him having a job to reach high enough to take hold of a brim full glass of what looked like neat whisky.  ‘Fank yer Frankie, me old cock sparrer’ said the wrinkled old crone.  ‘S’ alwight, pleasure it is, a right pleasure ter see yer in ‘ere agen, Lilly me old darling.’  Spenterseedsky heard above the general cacophony of voices and honky tonk music.  The pianist, a treble chinned bald headed fat man of about ninety, in an old worn out suit, had moved on to another old cockney favourite.  It had excited the heavy drinkers so much that some had joined in to sing: ‘There’ll always be an England.’  Spenterseedsky rather hoped they were right because he didn’t want to go back to Russia or anywhere else.

The big Russian was very grateful that Russian intelligence had a whole department working on new scares about the west just so he and his colleagues could go on living the high life abroad.  Just as he was thinking this, it happened, a moment of the utmost enchantment.  He felt love pressing against his underpants.  There she was the blonde.  But what was she doing coming out through a door behind the bar,

The big skinhead fat man that the old crone had called Frankie was giving her a hug.  How disgusting, the Russian thought.  ‘Well if it ain’t young Alice the apple of me bl—n eye, my liddle princess, what yer doing ‘ere back in yer old dad’s bl—in pub?  Fought yer were over in gay Parise modelling them bl—in posh frocks.’  ‘Leave it out will yer pop, yer know I got fed up wi’ all that milarcky when that bloke I fell in love wiv, what designed dresses turned out ter be a right ravin’ bl—din pooftah.  They’re all bl—in pooftahs.  Ain’t gerna get no bloke wiv lead in his pencil over there tha’s fer sure, an I ain’y bl—in jokin tha’s fer sure.  Anyway, I made bl—in ten million in the last two years’

Wonderful thought Spenterseedsky.  If she wanted to see lead in a man’s pencil, he had a whole set of 9Hs in his.  All he had to do was get her on her own

‘Go on then gel, give us a hand behind the bar.  It’s a full house ternight, it is en it an all.’

‘Course I will, anyfin’ fer me old man.’ The pretty blonde beamed at him.  Spenterseedsky sensed his chance.  Glancing around him, he spotted lots of other male eyes on the pretty lady, but none so smart looking and distinguished as himself.  Just as soon as Alice turned her attention to the waiting hordes, Spenterseedsky roared out, ‘Mizz, I vud like ze double Vodka pleaze.’  He waved a big hand that was holding a twenty pound note.  He wanted her to notice that he was a rich man.

At that moment, the only woman who had noticed Oleg Spenterseedsky was the little old bundle of rags sitting by the window that was facing the bar.  No one noticed the old bundle of rags or the fact that she was talking into a very sophisticated micro sized communication system that scrambled all messages better than an egg whisk scrambled an egg.  Any moment all hell was going to break loose.

Chapter Three

Colonel Massey listened intently, whilst taking a hefty slug of Bushmills. It was alright for him, he was back in the safe house in Holland Park. It was more of a palace really, and all paid for by the taxpayer.  He and his team were, after all, highly valued public servants. He foiled terrorist plots both real and imagined.

Massey’s chauffeur had just dropped him off from a meeting with a very worried Prime Minister.  Major Lauper was staring intently at his beloved computer screens.  He could see a perfect image of the ‘Wanderer Returns’ lounge bar.

Massey was more interested in the the perfect image of the former GRU turncoat Ivana Luvituipmeski.  ‘OK O’Spillit.  Good work.  We’re moving in.  Get away from the window.  We can see Spenterseedsky.  Should be able to take him out without hitting anyone else.

At that moment  the beautiful Alice Cook decided to come out from behind the bar to collect some empty glasses. Spenterseedsky sensed his opporunity and hurried to the corner of the lounge bar after her.  He was just in time to avoid a burst of fire from a M1622LR semi–automatic rifle.  Optics shattered and boozers ran for cover.  Spenterseedsky grabbed the little blonde, pushing her to the ground ad covering her with his massive body.

The bundle of rags uttered an urgent message back to Massey, who by this time was on his second double Bushmills and smoking a cigar.  Lauper hand seen everything.  Get him back in sight.  The bundle of rags adjusted the tiny camera’s controls and pointed his head to where he thought Spenterseedsky had run to.  But there was such a commotion and so much smoke in the bar, it was impossible to see anything.  Massey took another slug before telling the bundle of rags that the SAS were coming in.  ‘Get out of there Sean, we’re taking the lot of them with armour piiecing bullets.  Get out, get out.’  Sean was on his feet like greased lightning and away through the door.  He met a swarm of black clothed balaclava wearing gunmen on his way out.  All he heard was the rattling sound of high velocity gun fire.  He heaved a sigh of relief.  Spenterseedsky was most certainly dead.  At the very least his favourite bar was almost certainly ruined.

Out in the back yard, the big Russian lifted the curvaceous blonde onto his shoulders and vaulted over the fence.  Many years ago, he had been proud to represent his country at the Olympics.  He was soon sprinting through back alleyways with his future wife literally in his hands.  When he was about a mile away, he stopped and put the sobbing girl down. ‘Stay there.  I have to make a phone call.’  The girl listened as the big man gabbled away in a foreign language through a secure mobile phone. Minutes later a big black limousine pulled up at the end of the alleyway where they were hiding.  ‘Come on’ he barked.  The girl was trembling, almost wetting herself with fear.  She followed in a trance.

It took about forty minutes, detouring along the way to make sure they weren’t being folllowed.  Alice was still shaking when she was led to the back door of the Russian Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens.  She had no idea where she was.  When she saw the place she thought she had found Mr Right at last, even though he was old enough to be her dad.  He had to be rich to live in such a huge mansion.

Frankie Cook knew he was lucky to be alive.  How the bullets missed him he would never know.  All he had suffered, from his position crouched behind the bar, was a few cuts from shattering bottles and glasses.  A black body suited man peered at him through spy holes in his mask. OK, he hadn’t paid his protection money to the swaggering East Europeans who had taken over the local gangster rackets, but this was a bit heavy.  He was surprised that the thug was speaking to him in a Scottish accent.  Maybe the Scots had taken over now.  His brother had moved to Milton Keynes and knew that the Scots heavies ran that place.

When Frankie stood up, he saw so much blood and gore he wanted to be sick.  As a soldier serving in Northern Ireland, he had seen it all.  He recalled one day when him and his mate went to clear up a shoe shop in Belfast.  A bomb blast had splattered customers and staff up against the wall.  Bits of body were hanging on shelf brackets.  Him and his mates had to pull them off and put them in bin bags. That was different.  They were paddies.  These bodies had been his regulars.  Bloody good regulars they were too.  He’d have to wait for a lot more lonely men to move into the local bed sits to have any chance of rebuilding his trade. Either that or have some more dancing girls come in to liven the place up.

Then he thought of his daughter.  She must have been killed.  He didn’t want to, but he started to cry.  

‘My Alice, me liddle Princess’ he roared, yerve killed me liddle princess.  You f—-ng b—–ds.  Frankie started hammering on the slightly built soldier’s chest until the man responded by kicking him in the nuts.  Frankie went down in tears.

Back at the safe house, Major Lauper switched to a porn site and joined his boss in a double Bushmills. ‘Lauper, how can you do that.  I mean all that blood, and you just switch it off.’ Ivana asked the man in the wheelchair.  The world weary Major just looked briefly toward the thirty something girl in her sprayed on jeans and see through blouse, before replying in a cut glass accent: ‘My dear, I have been in so many war zones, I have done my share of saving lives.  Sometimes we have to kill for the sake of national security.  Sometimes the innocent just have to die.’  Then he turned back to watching porn on the internet.

Chapter Four  Wait for the Night.

The powerful sedatives meant that Alice slept a whole twenty four hours before waking up in Oleg Spenterseedsky’s penthouse overlooking the River Thames.

She was of course used to satin sheets and sumptuous apartments. But she wondered how she had got here.  Drugs were commonplace in the modelling world and she had been seduced by rich men before. Dragging her weary and drugged body up against the pillow, she noticed that she was wearing blue satin pyjamas.

They were a perfect fit and made for a lady.  She loved satin, but how did she get into them.  The memory of what had happened in the bar came back to her slowly.  She thought it must have been a dream.  Recreationbal drugs did that to her.  Vaguely she remembered flying in to Heathrow to see her old dad.  She made a note to get across to Hampstead Heath as soon as she could.  For some reason she thought she had, but knew it must just be drug induced de ja vu. She had that feeling often.

At that moment a big man in dark suit appeared in the doorway.  He was carrying a tray.  He looked familiar.  ‘Did we er ‘ave yer know what last bl—in night?’  English accents still troubled the big Russian, but he was very familiar with all the London variations and intonations.

‘No, of course ve did not.’  He smiled and chanced his massive arm.  ‘But I vud like if it ‘ad happened very much.’

Alice didn’t need a second invitation. She wanted this man and his money, but he would have to sign a pre nuptial.  He wasn’t getting his hands on her ten million, but she was certainly going to have what he had got. She soon found out how much he had in his pocket.  He filled her up a treat and she was soon screaming in ecstasy. The wedding ceremony took place at a Russian safe house that very evening. She was now Alice Spenterseedsky and proud of it. She loved her man.

The clean up team moved quickly.  ‘The Wanderer Returns’ pub was cordoned off.  Some of the dead people had relatives in London but no one missed them.  Frankie Cook was easily persuaded to keep his gob shut and a team of builders and craftsmen moved in to rebuild the lounge bar. The British press promised to make no mention of the affair other than to explain that a gas explosion had caused an incident. None of his neighbours were surprised by the commotion.

By the time Alice turned up to visit her old dad, all was well. Frankie had been told that there was no sign of his liddle princess in the wreckage. He guessed that she must have been outside when the balloon went up. He knew she smoked the occasional joint. Thanks to the government banning smoking in public places, she must have gone out into the yard and made a run for it when she heard the shooting. He did wonder why it took so long for her to come back and see if he was alright. Never mind she was back now.

When he saw her he almost cried.  He had been told to make no mention of the incident.  Sean O’Spilit had moved into an upstairs room and taken on the new vacancy of pot man vacated. The previous pot man had been shot into four pieces courtesy of the SAS.  

It puzzled Frankie that Alice made no mention of the shooting.  She just commented on how much nicer the old bar looked and that it had obviously been redecorated.  With O’Spilit close at hand, Frankie wasn’t free to say anything.  He thought maybe the secret service had got at her too.  Alice had forgotten her strange dream and so didn’t mention that either.

‘Was dad on yer finger princes, yer ain’t gorn and bl—in tied the bl—in knot ‘ave yer? Asked the ex model’s old dad, looking horrfied.

‘Oh dad ain’t yer pleasezed. ‘es fiilfy bl—in rich’ e is an’ all, ain’t he?’ she said in her high pitched little girl voice, and beaming up at him, big blue eyes full of excitement.

The big old publican gave his offspring a big fat hug , lifting her off the pub floor, and forced a smile.  The potman was listening to every word.  Lauper knew all the details.  Sian O’Spillit just had to know what she knew.   It as going to be fun getting it out of her and putting it in her. He doubted she knew her other half was a top Russian spy.

‘Yer dear old mum would be dead pleazed an’ all if she waz ‘ere.’

Alice rubbed her eye.  ‘Led’s not talk abaht mum, it still erts.  I miss ‘er every bl—in day, I do.’

‘Where’s yer new hubby then, why dernt yer bring ‘im ter see me?’

‘I will soon az e gets back.  ‘e’s away on business, making more money an’ all, yer should see   ‘es got a bl—in penthouse, near the river, lovely it iz an’ all.’  She told him urgently.

‘Come orn inter the livin’ room Alice me love.  Seamus ‘ll look after the bar.  Are yer gonna stay the night?

‘Course I am dad, I got some overnight fings in the limo ahtside.  Got me own driver an’ all.  Iz me new hubby’s really.  Iz me room ready az always?’

Lauper may have been in a wheelchair, but that did not stop Ivana finding him most attractive.  The petite Russian raven haired killer loved hearing the major’s stories of daring do in killing fields across the world.  The tale of how he almost got blown to pieces in a middle eastern mine field was orgasmic.  

The sight of him in his chair mad it all the more real.  On Lauper’s part, he loved her stories of working as a honey trap.  They had both just come out of the bathroom when Massey gave them the news. ‘Frankie Field’s daughter has gone to see her father.  Sean says Field is going to try and set them up to spend the night together.

‘How do we know she’ll go for it?’ asked Lauper.

‘We’ve checked her records in Paris.  She likes men, real men.  Sean is definitely one of those.’ Said  Massey, with a hint of admiration for a fellow killer.

‘Yez, e’ mozt certainly iz’ added Ivana, licking her lips.

Alice struggled back into the bar pulling an expensive big suitcase on wheels.  Sean surveyed the shape of her from the corner of the bar.  She was wearing sprayed on blue denim jeans, leaving nothing to the imagination as tow what was between her slim legs.  He could see two rather nice but not ovrersize breasts filling the lacey white bra cups, clearly visible through her white chiffon blouse.  Her red painted full lips looked luscious, long shining blonde hair was tied up in a French pleat, shimmering in the spring sunlight that was showering through the pubs big front windows.  Her make up was immaculate, her jewelery twinkled and he could smell her perfume from where he was standing in the corner of the long bar. It was going to be a long day.  She looked older than her twenty years.  He could not wait for the night.

Room at the bottom, December 23rd 2029

Thanks to very corrupt, effectively criminal senior police, my son and I have had a very tough 13 plus years at the bottom of this snobbish forelock tugging Buckinghamshire town of Winslow.

Thanks to Covid,and police, I have lost my truck driving job. So after over 13 years of struggle my son and I are now at rock bottom and under constant police surveilance. I am lablled paranoid bi polar schizophrenic, violent and alcholic.

Now, after my car passed its MOT in March I had to take it back to the garage two months later because of brake problems, costing nearly £500 to repair. I was warned the car would not pass the MOT next year – the tester tellin g me that he would not like to be in a nasty accident in it..

A few weeks later the brakes failed on the way to Portsmouth. I nursed the car back to the garage to be told the body was departing from the back subframe so it was too dangerous to mend. So I lost over £500 paying for a car repair on a vehicle known, by the garage, to be dangerous while lockdow and police are bankrupting me.

So yesterday, my son and I , with rucksacks and carrier bags, walked 8 miles to Buckingham , bought shopping in Tescos then walked back, a round trip of 18 miles. In my athletics heyday I used to run 100 miles a week at 5 minutes a mile, and walk a lot, so no big deal even now I am over 70.

On the way , I saw some interesting sights including a derelict large country pub, all overgrown with a wrecked stretch limo in the undergrowth, There was mainly a shell. The pub was the ‘Folly’ once popular with motorbikers who used the twisty A413 for spead records.

They called the road the ‘death run’, with many middle aged death wish riders meeting disaster, one permanently crippled and committing suicide.

One time I saw hundreds of bikers in the large Folly car park and gardens, in summer. Derelict now after being turned down as an asylum centre, it will no doubt receive planning permisssion for its new millionaire owner to build luury accommodation. I would be hypocritical to criticise bikers as I used to get carried away by speed on my bike. One gets a false sense of security.

R.J Cook,

Living, Lying & Dying in a Police State December 15th 2020

Police State Britain Posted December 20th 2020

For me, in spite of their wider criminal activities, the most amazing thing about the British police, apart from how they managed to disillusion me – having had two cousins in the police, me being chosen by a Chief Superintendent acqaintance to work with them on the Buckingham Crime Prevention Panel in the 1990s and trusted them- is how they refused to answer my questions starting in 2008, and keep coming back to get me in jail. Why did they not explain themselves back in 2008 ? Why have they never followed procedure in my case ? Why do they go on lying about having made disclosures and investigations ? Why did they involve themselves with my doctors ?

The latest effort followed the unbelievable raid on my rather musty, untidy, research paper, guitar and amp infested, sheet music and book laden rambling remote rural home, suggesting I had been working there in what they basically meant was a brothel, for my son as a gay escort. Why did they visit neighbours asking where I was? I have never visted a brothel/escort agency. let alone worked in one. However, I would imagine something rather more exotic and perfumed with ‘staff’ dressed the part !

Apparently I had breached a restraining order by shopping myself in the persona of a person unknown with an odd name – presumably this is passed of as one of my alleged many identities- in gory written sexual details, including a picture of someone allegedly my wife, and sex video of me with men which they placed on record, but then told me did not exist – when I asked for a copy. If this is just another of my delusions then I either have an incredible imagination or flit between parallel universes without knowing it.

The police admitted watching my home for 4 months before the raid in February 2018. It is up a lane, in large overgrown neglected grounds, so they had plenty of cover.

After many hours in the police cells, while they searched my rambling home, confiscating computers, phones and other vital equipment, I was interviewed and accused of posting incriminating badly written allegations about my sex work, with typed name that wasn’t mine, of sending them to 6 sensitive parties on December 12th 2018, from Northampton. My eldest son was also interviewed on suspicion of being my pimp.

When I said I was hundreds of miles away from there on that day of allegedly posting the material, the officer, who I eventually swore, at said it must have been a different day. When I said I had all my truck tacho records, and could account for every day, he had no answer. He admitted having done no forensics or other inquiries – though I suspect he was on the receiving end of parties police had been using in hope of finding some dirt on me..

So this begs the question why did he use that excuse , backed by 6 other officers to raid my home and arrest me. Sex is, of course text book if police want to destroy reputations – they know all about it ! So He ignored my questions and I was back in Crown Court allegedly causing alarm and offence under a Blairite catch all Telcommunications Act. The officer concerned was claiming damages for alarm and distress. The judge found me not guilty, dismissing the case using her magistrates powers, so here we are again. This time the gullible NHS are backing a parnoia bi polar smear – ironic really.

I was not allowed copies of any documentation relating to this affair in 2018 when they started adding lies to my doctor and the GIC. They also lied to my lawyer and the CPS. I am not allowed to see all records held on me because, in their written words, ‘ they would upset Roberta ( me.)’

Thus we have the present crisis. The 2018 affair led to me swearing on a police answer phone because they refused to update me on the alleged investigation, and another attempt to jail me. Several months of being ignored tested my patience to the limit – but police never admit guilt and are close to totally unaccountable outside of their like minded clique and hierarchy.

Their weird and wonderful minds obviously made sex allegations, based on 2018, to my GP, passed to the GIC. Their latest attempt is the icing on the cake because they involved themselves in my health care getting me diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic delusional on the basis of over 13 years of lies, that have led me to two nearly successful suicide attempts.

Below is a copy of yet another attempt , by me, to get answers from NHS bodies. Because suicide remains possible, or the misadventure predicted by an NHS psychiatrist based on police contact, I must put this on record.

R,J Cook

Subject: Re. Roberta Jane Cook robertajane.cook <robertajane.cook@btinternet.com>To: Amanda Hawke AHawke@tavi-port.nhs.uk; nordenhouseadmin@nhs.net; gmc@gmc-uk.org;20/12/20 15:383

Dear Ms Hawke,

Trying to get information from yourselves is like seeking the proverbial blood from a stone. However, at risk of providing you, other NHS bodies and the police with more excuses to label me paranoid, I have no choice but press for more information. For the purposes of Satute of Limitations and my forthcoming indictment, I have to keep a record of your on going obfuscation.

As your Dr Laura Barone Scarone ( I am writing her name from memory and her name may be misspelt here), early on ,concluded, my gender is not the most important aspect of my life and I pity those who feel otherwise on this issue. Having visited my father in a terminal ward for 9 months,when I was aged between 9-11, hearing the death rattle of many before it was my father’s turn, and consequently growing up in a poor one parent working class family, I know there are more important issues than gender and what working class women like my mother, and pregnant unmarried schoolgirl sister, endured was no fashion parade.

Had your pre loaded so called psychiatrist Ramsay really wanted to profile me, he would have asked about this and my working life rather than taking a briefing from yourselves – as he admitted he had to me – Norden House and corrupt police. He would also have asked to see my substantial published work and taken interrest in my career and life changing moments before his ridiculous bi polar PPD diagnosis.

Above all, I am seeking evidence that Ramsay used to sustain his paranoid personality disorder ( PPD ) diagnosis which GIC clearly had concluded before my meeting with Sahota in February 2018 when she insisted on anti psychotics and me seeing Ramsay. Her body language and speech pattern on that day , was shifty and disconcerting.

If that was due to sudden source information, it is crucial you disclose – particularly if you seriously believe I am paranoid because then I am a risk to myself and others. Goodness knows how an alleged violent alcoholic anti social person like me handled truck driving, warehouse and customer care for the last 13 years – it is all in Ramsay’s report and a stark contrast to conclusions from a forensic psychiatrist Mr Maganty, a court witness who backed me in 2013..

If the GIC still refuses to explain , then it speaks for itself. If you knew at the outset, then I need to know why I wasn’t told and why two years following life changing treatment commenced without confronting this issue. Certainly if there was any evidence on my medical records at the outset, in 2016, then Ramsay, Norden House and yourselves were negligent. I tend to the conclusion that, the best one could say about the GIC is that you think all of your patients have mental health issues. My further research on this subject certainly pushes my conclusion in that direction. The GIC also seems to have some expecfation of transvestitism which they blur with transgender. Interesting.

Now, here are some simple questions for you, with possible repetition but new emphasis. I need to establish dates for, as I said, Statute of limitations and court ( that countdown cannot start until you answer, and I believe you et al are the reason my recent legal approach was dropped ) and for forthcoming Crown Court Trial.

1) What is my GIC status now. If I have been deleted, why wasn’t I told , when did it happen and why ?

2) If I have been deleted from you patient list , why have I not been informed , according to my GP’s written instructions to you ?

3) Explain how Ramsay supported his conclusions to you, using the files that he said would upset me.

4 ) Give me substantive examples of my delusions. This would include – if you have been guided by the police, as follows. :

a ) Evidence of dates, procedures, allegations, witness statements, response and investigations of alleged domestic violence, abuse, etc

b) Supply any evidence of me allegedly stalking my ex in laws, over weekend of October 4th/5th 2008 and any other dates, threatening violence to them, including threats of kidnapping and harming their children.

c) Tell me whether you were told that after West Mercia Police blocked my enhanced CRB for 71 days on the basis of malicious records, to stay with a female friend in her flat adjacent to the 9th year girls’ dorm at exclusive Woldingham School, that it was ultimately approved.

d) Supply any evidence used for supporting a PNC Criminal Marker and soft intelligence records created by my ex brother in law’s West Mercia Police force,-where he rose to second in command – placed on October 9th 2008. You must have been told because I saw a letter from the police advising my GP to contact you. This should include dates and the prior legal process of arrest, interview, charges, precise allegations etc. I assume you were told of officers numbers, location, interviews , disobeying warnings etc before the marker was placed. You are iinvolved in a very serious damaging criminal case raising questions about your methods, sources and integrity. If you can do this, you can prove that I am deluded.

e) Confirm that yourselves and Ramsay were told that the police lost two previous court cases concerning my criminal allegations – relevant because clearly you have sources stating that I am deluded on these matters, so fundamental to the PPD you have acted on. It follows that my allegations were and still are true. If I am deluded about that court case and all else, tell me where I got the 2016 court transcript from and the memories of a year’s hell, followed by 7 court hearings with the judge ranting about domestic violence and threatening me with a long jail term if I did not plead guilty. That is some delusion, and if you can prove it, then I will tap in to an amazing source of talent for fiction.

f) Relase information supplied by the police relevant to homsosexual prostitition allegations which obviously relate to Ramsay conclusion that I am more likely to die by misadventure than suicide. You were warned at the outset that I am a writer and member of the NUJ with specific interests, inluding transgender – hence my book on the subject. So don’t try to use that trick as an escape. You have nailed your colours to Ramsay,’s and the corrupt police’s mast. By the way, I don’t fancy men and am not a transvestite. So this point is most serious because your Ramsay has linked it to my possible cause of death among other things, by misadventure. Obviously this is part of Ramsay’s ‘ If Roberta saw all of the files it would upset her.’ Being patronised like that is, I must say, a true girlie experience – more powerful than wearing a dress. By the way, I remind you, the police lost the ludicrous whorehouse ruse, obviously triggered by a malicious ex partner who told me that the police had been in regular contact for a year before I ended our relationship. They also lost an attempt to jail me on the basis of me swearing at a CID officer in this case, which they tried to back with bad character based on 13 years of their lies and corruption.

As I said, I have to ask these questions for the record. The British police are instutionally corrupt and dangerous. Finally, bear in mind that without evidence or counter evidence, no person could reasonably conclude that I am deluded. However, if yourselves and Ramsay seriously believe this, then lets have answers to my questions to support your malicious and very nasty diagnosis along with the police and their malicious 13 year plus cover up. When this goes to court, in the absence of your fullsome response, I will apply for a court order for disclosure.

I would prefer to commit suicide -as I nearly did last time after 18 hours in a dirty cold police cell, on August 24th 2020,- than put up with this anymore. No doubt you will have received the police version of this event because, as a long time public servant, I was taught the mantra ‘cover yourself’.. May I remind you that I was then transferred to a mental health facility where, a panel of two doctors and a senior mental health practitioner accepted my explanation concluding that I was well enough to go free.

Since Ramsay’s diagnosis has not been revoked, the NHS still have duty of care and responsibility for consequences. I am aware that I have been put on an adult care list and will be citing Ramsay’s diagnosis for backdated care allowance, nominating my eldest son as my carer. No person could have endured all of this, including the loss of my beloved mother, without significant harm to physical and mental health – compounded by Covid lockdown. All replies must be in writing. I do not have equipment for video conference as previously suggested. It is not approprate. This, as I keep saying is very serious. I need a paper trail.

One doesn’t have to be insane to commit suicide. Such a goal is best achieved by the sane and preferable to my life of injustice, extreme insecurity, misery and social ostracism which threatens to put myself and son on the street – a prospect almost inevitable now Covid and lockdown has rendered me unemployed. The label paranoid is almost funny given the facts, raising the question that Ramsay is either an idiot or guilty of malpractice as his duty of care was and still is to me – not the police or you. This matter is no longer about my GRS. It is about your misconduct through involvement with a very corrupt police force who should have had no involvement in my health care, but as with everything else they have done, they are conforming to type and profile.

Yours Sincerely R.J Cook

British Police Institutionally Corrupt in an Institutionally Corrupt Police State December 18th 2020

robertajane.cook <robertajane.cook@btinternet.com>To: Joseph Hilton J.Hilton@oakwoodsolicitors.co.uk; Amanda Hawke AHawke@tavi-port.nhs.uk; gmc@gmc-uk.org; nordenhouseadmin@nhs.net;18/12/20 19:284Correction was necessary to my previous message, for legal reasons.

Thank you very much for your reply. I do not accept the statute of limitation argument because the matter is ongoing , with neither GIC or GMC explaining themselves. Also, if one takes February 2018, as the start point, then there are still 2 plus months to play with inside the Statute of Limitations.. There was even more time from the date of my original message to yourselves. Thus you are giving me incorrect legal opinion rather than your true reasons for refusing me representation – and are thus, either liars or incompetent.

You were informed that the malicious NHS PPD diagnosis was in May 2018, which gives even more leeway for legal action.Three years is three years, not two years and a bit. However, since the GIC have yet to explain my current status with them , why I have not been formally discharged and why,, method of diagnosing PPD. lack explanation and treatment other than to say that seeing all of the records would upset me, then we have an ongoing legal and even criminal situation – for which the Statute of Limitations countdown has not yet started. How could I possibly know a start date for NHS malpractice until I have received answers to key questions that all parties so far refuse to answer ?

In a nutshell, the police and their over 13 years of malicious misconduct – including hiding evidence and lies about domestic violence, alcoholism, and God knows what else, passed to my GP who meanwhile approved my medical and mental fitness to drive heavy trucks for many years – led to the cutting off of my GIC treatment at a crucial stage, unless I my accepted my paranoia and anti psychoric drugs. That is the essence of my claim. Refusal to recognise this and the consequences means the involved public services, notably police and NHS, are committing ongoing abuse and misconduct, meaning the Statute of Limitations has not even started.

Anyone with a claim to psychiatric or psychological qulaification, would know that the only way to verify my thoughts being delusional would be to test the evidence for or against what I am saying. They would also know why innocent people will never admit guilt, preferring death. It is the same psychological process preventing rape victims from backing off – just so you know, my opinions are based on qualifications and experience, not delusions.

This was because the police have continued their vile and despicable behaviour because they hoped, in the absence of jailing me, to label me paranoid and delusional . Their self interested perjury, misconduct in public office and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice must not be questioned because the public always trust and believe them.. They also brought malicious allegations of prostitution and my son running a brothel.They made sure these vile lies were passed to my GP and Norden House who passed them to GIC and Whiteleaf Pyschiatric Facility. Hence their conclusion that I am more likely to die by misadventure than suicide – I am 70, but curiously death caused by a combination of the stress they have caused, along with my old age, was not mentioned on the Whiteleaf report.

The police lost the prostitution and consequent verbal abuse cases too – though no doubt never informed my so called NHS carers who would have pased these lies to lawyers on both sides. I don’t expect an honest answer from you. British law. Judges and lawyers on both sides, are about money and status – not justice.

There is a prima facie case that the NHS willingly allowed their judgement to be guided by corrupt self interested police. I didn’t spell that out in initial correspondence because I needed you to do what you have done – come up with a pathetic patronising piece of pseudo legalise at the behest of aforementioned parties, thus exposing the police even more so.. After all, the police never lie or abuse anyone who isn’t black (sic ) , do they ?)

I expected your inquiries to lead you, via Norden House, to police criminal lies ( about domestic violence that never happened, demonstrably untrue events that were never investigated because of corrupt senior police officers – including my ex brother in law who stood to gain from my divorce ). with the inevitable proviso that I must not be told. This message, witrh yours will now be posted on my website, About R.J Cook page, together with adverse comments on your competency and honesty. The site is www.robertcookofnorthbucks.com . Your response will be relevant to a forthcoming Crown Court trial.. Police and their associates read my site daily. The police had their chance to leave me alone, but chose to interfere with my medical care with devastating effects, added to all of their other harm done.

Yours Sincerely R.J Cook

—— Original Message ——
From: “Joseph Hilton” <J.Hilton@oakwoodsolicitors.co.uk>
To: “robertajane.cook@btinternet.com” <robertajane.cook@btinternet.com>
Sent: Friday, 4 Dec, 20 At 11:36
Subject: Your Legal Enquiry with Oakwood Solicitors

Dear Ms Cook,

Re: Your Recent Clinical Negligence Enquiry

Thank you for your recent enquiry to Oakwood Solicitors Limited.

I have had the chance to review the information that you have provided. Unfortunately we are unable to assist you on this occasion due to the fact that Limitation is an issue, that being we have insufficient time to investigate. I would consider from the facts that you have provided e have less than a year to investigate the claim. As a result, we are unable to take the case on under a Conditional Fee Agreement (a No Win, No Fee Agreement).

If there is a material change in the evidence that you have provided to us, please do not hesitate to get in touch once again and we can review it for you.

We would recommend that you seek urgent legal advice if you are determined to find legal representation on a Conditional Fee basis. Please be aware that your claim will be subject to a three year limitation period .

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Today I learned that malicious unfounded criminal allegations by certain parties, including stalking, domestic violence and mental illness have thwarted my son and I from being able to register as a Private Limited Company. We cannot work as professionals, let property or become company directors due to police lies and corruption.

Added to the illegal unexplained PNC Criminal Marker created by corrupt Chief Constable Paul West of West Mercia Police, for reasons I cannot disclose with court action pending, that, Marker and malicious so called soft intelligence created by West Mercia Police and backed up by Thames Valley, dating as far as I know from October 4th/5th 2008 – maybe earlier- for stalking and violence threats when I was hundreds of miles away, has had life destroying effects on mine and my son’s lives.

So as a result, it transpires that my address has been referred presumably due to this police marker on the house, according to sources – all of this with allegations and corrupt diagnosis that I have a paranoid personality disorder, am deluded and with abnormal psychology, unable to get on with other people.

For the last 13 years, two police forces have refused to investigate these malicious allegations, or my counter allegations, lying to CPS , my lawyers, press and courts about investigations and spending thousands to get me jailed – lying to my lawyers via the CPS. they have conspired to protect the police in misconduct, perjury and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, which is why they lost their last two malicious prosecutions against me, again conspiring to pervert the course of justice. I know why.

An official mental health report has concluded that I compulsively take risks in life, have paranoid delusions and am more likely to die by misadventure than suicide. I am 70 plus, but they never mention old age.

Police roped my obsequious doctors in to back up their monitoring exercise – also accusing me of alcoholism even though my GP signed off on my HGV medicals that I am not alcoholic or mentally ill.

With my long shifts, I had routine drug and alcohol tests. Because of the malicious police marker dating from October 9th 2008, I was routinely and dangerously chased by marked and unmarked police cars – including into work, presumably to get me sacked-, searched and never found to be in possession of drugs, weapons or ‘in drink.; Malice from certain parties is obvious.

During my last 18 hour confinement in a dirty cold dark police cell, I felt there was no choice but suicide – found chocking myself with my tee shirt and semi conscious, around 10 pm, under a blanket after about 10 minutes of effort, trapping the shirt under my neck so that as conciousness faded, the shirt tightened under my weight. I would certainly do it again in the absence of an honest independent investigation and/or trial. Life as I and my eldest son have had it for nearly 14 years isn’t worth it.

I was transferred at 1 a.m ( 0100 hours ) to a mental hospital for another 11 hours before two doctors and a senior female mental health specialist judged me sane. That doesn’t mean I will not eventually kill myself because the police and CPS, along with local and mainstream media have made my life unbearable, also exposing me to abuse in the street, vandalism, unemployment, professional ruin and poverty.

Covid has wrecked my finances totally and homelessness is imminent unless I kill myself. I am telling the truth . Life like this just isn’t worth it. My son agrees.

I presume they got the misadventure idea from interested parties and work on my confiscated computers , a draft novel about a transsexual who wants to be murdered to banish ‘The Woman Within’ – derivative of Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis.’. A novel based on my domestic horrors, ‘Little Terrors’ was published in 2003 – along with 5 other of my books.

Free thinking and expression is not allowed in Britain , especially for one who used to be close to police circles. Only females, especially feminists are allowed to write about and question the conventional wisdom of gender and sexuality in the current social climate. That is life in a police state.

R.J Cook

Memories – WHY SUICIDE IS NOT A SIGN OF MADNESS. December 9th 2020

This is my mother at home. knitting me another jumper and watching TV in 2003.

All images copyright Appledene Photographics/RJC

My Big Sleep Will Be Soon December 3rd 2020

O sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh mine eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?

– William Shakespeare Henry IV, Part 2, Act 3, Scene 1.

Thanks to 13 years of police lies and harrassment my big sleep will come soon. They have put me into poverty, slave labour because of malicious records and poor health. I am 70 on Sunday. In spite of all that has happened, my death – if it comes soon- will be written down as either Covid or Covid related. I care only for my equally maligned eldest son. His life has been ruined because he chose to stay with me. Britain is a police state. R.J Cook

My Sex Scandal Posted November 23rd 2020

I have considered publishing the following document ,nearly 3 years old, for some time. Since the Tavistock Clinic refuse to answer my requests for information about my case, along with how and why the police involved themselves including informing them that I am mentally ill, I have decided to proceed.

The correspondence is interesting to me because, on the one hand this organisation of charlatans, lackeys and social engineers concluded that I have a secure female identity , whatever that may be. On the other hand, their assessment – aided by the police, whose involvement in my life since 2008, is intriguing – my GP was informed that I needed anti psychotic drugs. I refused and had a psychiatrist, mental health nurse and medical student threatening me with sectioning if they did not gain access to my home.

There followed three forced sessions where it was concluded in a lengthy report that I have ‘abnormal psychology,’ am suffering from paranoid personality disorder ( PPD ) and am delusional, lying that I refused a second opinion, admitted hearing voices and was more likely to die by misadventure than suicide.

I refused the drugs. The clinic still refuse to explain themselves. There is obviously much more to this. So far I have refrained from comment on the rather creepy insidious atmosphere and workings of the Tavistock Gender Identity Clinic , including my wider observations and conclusions about these deplorable manifestation of the NHS.

There are record numbers of people taking legal action against them. I made the clinic fully aware that I am a writer – obviously they bought into the police telling them that I anm deluded about this and all else I say. Equally, I suspect that they don’t beleive that I have worked as an HGV driver since the police destroyed my professional reputation in 2008 – becaause the police worked to compromise every job application myself and son made. Hence when they forced entry into my home, finding me drinking a glass of wine, after a long shift covering hundreds of miles, Dr Ramsay concluded this was evidence typical of alcoholism and PPD behaviour. Democracy indeed !

Obviously this judgement, significantly amplified by Dr C R Ramsay, has made matters much worse, forcing further confrontation with the police, especially in the absence of any explanation of what I am deluded about,. Ramsay’s report states that if I saw all of the police and NHS records about me, then I would be very upset.

R.J Cook

According to devastating malicious police records on me – I won’t mention their origins again just now or I will be arrested and locked up in the cells again- I had been abusing my mother for 10 years by the time I took this picture. My mother accompanied me on many of my work trips to Portsmouth. Obviously there is much to resolve here and justice to be done in due course. Many questions need answering and records disclosed.

U.K police corruption is a serious and life destroying issue. Britain is a very nasty police state, where the police are accounatble only to corrupt and moronic self interested elite politcians and feminists. They are bolstered by a plethora of geriatric BBC comedians of trendy persuasion in the mainstream media, along with smug self righteous ‘news’ people. We are back to the worst of Soviet times when they used to joke ‘There is no news in ‘the “Truth” ( Pravda ) and no truth in “The News” ( Isvestia ) – the two Soviet newspapers. R.J Cook

For Britain’s Corrupt Moronic Police Command & Control – October 22nd 2020

‘ One equal temper of heroic hearts, / Made Weak by time and fate, but strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’ Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’, Take heed. . R.J Cook

Plane Mad, admits the infamous R.J Cook October 3rd 2020

Holding Court at U.E.A July 2005

Unlike the first Gulf War, this war had no explicit UN authorisation. The UK House of Commons held a debate on going to war on 18 March 2003 where the government motion was approved 412 to 149. [72] The vote was a key moment in the history of the Blair administration , as the number of government MPs who rebelled against the vote was the greatest since the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846.

The above picture shows Dr Ian Gibson, New Labour MP for north Norwich where we used to have a second home. I first encountered the then young radical Dr Gibson when he was a young science lecturer at the Universsity of East Anglia. A female Iraqi chemistry student learned about chemical weaponry under his influence.

For several years, I was invited to his littel parties at the House of Commons terrace marque. Two things I recall about those parties was one time they James Bond people were filming on the adjacent River Thames. Conversation turned to Daniel Craig being too blonde to be Bond.

My second key memory was being alone with Gibson, talking about the coming Iraq War. He wore a badge with the words ‘Don’t attack Iraq.’ Playfully, I asked him why not ? This tall man, with a refined Victor Meldrew Scottish accent, leaned back, then said : ‘ Because it is a peasant economy.’ Then I said, ‘Then how can you serve under Tony Blair’. Languidly, he replied : ‘The boy is learning.’

The last time I saw Dr Gibson was at a party at the University of East Anglia in 2005. I was with two friends, returning from the bar to the dance floor with my female companion ( not my wife please note police readers ) . Suddenly I was face to face with this old liberal, walking almost arm in arm with actor Lord Tim Bentick of ‘Archers’ fame. Mockingly, the old New Labourite exclaimed rather loudly : ‘He’s here, the last radical.’ Referring to my novel ‘Man.Maid.Woman’, Lord Tim ignored the socialist psychophant, turning to me to say : ‘I read your book man. It’s brilliant. I have it by my desk. It would make a good play. It s because of people like you that I came to UEA rather than Oxford or Cambridge, with all my other friends from Harrow School. R.J Cook

Practical Matters October 3rd 2020

My late father’s dream was to build a workshop in our small garden. He was very skilled in mechanics, electronics and woodwork. He had a lot of tools. Sadly, working long low paid hours as a brick lorry driver, a stack of bricks falling on his chest and an incompetent doctor took him to an early grave.

I was 11 at the time of his death. I had a lot od skills by ths time. It was up to me to look after my mother and the house. My sister was nearly 15 and far too busy chasing men – ending up pregnant by a married man aged 16 and in the 6th form. Women are all such angels.

That married man was an Irish building worker who left his wife and 3 children for my sister. I think he was taking the piss when, during my first 3 month long vacation from uiversity, he pretended I was his younger brother just over from Ireland. My maternal grandfather was Irish and my uncle died fighting with the London Irish rifles, so Irishness is not alien to me. I also learned to drive a tractor and trailer when I was working on a farm, aged 14. So when I was offered a job driving a tractor and trailer delivering pipes to gangs of pipe layers, I had the basic skill.

However the terrain on large building sites was difficult and danegrous back in those days, when they saved money by not even shuttering up the sides of he deep trenches. So one needed to be able to weigh up the risks , without all the bullshit of risk assessment courses. Kids of my age and, above all class, had always been trown in the deep end.

It wasn’t long before Paddy Brogan, who drove the large Hymac 580, digger was turning up drunk because of lost love issues. So, one day, he said “Get up on the Hymac’ and have a go Robert.”

I had no training other than watching him through his windshield. But I learned another valuable skil by trial and error, the same way everyone else did..

When my brother in law fell out with the section foreman and walked off the job, I was told to drive a big old Fordson Major tractor with a compressor on the back. There was also a jack hammer and my job was to cut big round holes in the appropriate part of a stack of manhole rings that were stacked in a hole where the 29 inch concrete sewer pipes joined up with them. You didn’t argue. you just did it.

The year was 1971. I was paid a basic £50 a week , with £11 tax free lodging allowance because my home address was then in Norwich. Most of us were away from homme and got that extra plus overtime. It was dangerous work but well paid and worth the risk when you were from a poor family like mine. From then on, I worked all of my university vacations on ‘the buildings.’ Thus I was able to buy my mother’s hosue for her, off the landlord who was going to put up the rent and throw her out if she couldn’t pay..

Sadly. working class kids like me don’t get the chance to combine a good academic education with a practical one. I used to spend a lot of my free periods making classical guitars and fake antiques in he school woodwork room, when I was a teacher -I wasn’t a woodwork teacher, but I was a good woodworker and had good teachers. I even worked a s a’chippy’ on a Milton Keynes building site in 1973. When I watched the kids in their woodwork lessons, I noted that their use of tools was very liited due to health and safety requirements. R.J Cook

“Destruem et edificabo” – R.J Cook

See also my ‘Sexy Me Page’

The Isle of Wight Photographed in 2003 by R.J Cook who was flying out to the Pyrenees on a rock climbing assignment.

All messages, comments , advertising requests and contributions should be addressed to robertj.cook@btinternet.com The comment facility has been closed due to abuse by advertisers and spammers.

Bed Sit Girl By R.J Cook

Bed Sit Girl

Bed sit girl now must work as a hooker.

She lives in a room with a small cooker.

Her clients arrive by the light of the moon.

She hates them all and will give up soon.

All she needs is a lot more money.

Then life can be just milk & honey.

Before the plague she worked in an office.

Now this poor girl must work an orifice.

A girl must live, there’s rent to be paid.

So bed sit girl gets laid and laid.

Up the stairs they come to her creaky bed.

They use her face with her lips so red.

Her life is a dream, a hopeful past.

The future’s gone, it didn’t last.

One day there will be nothing left,

Just a corpse but she did her best.

R.J Cook September 6^th 2020

” Death” By Miss Adventure, September 2nd 2020

Through some previous posts, my readers will know how I came to labelled as a paranoid personality disordered deluded person, also psychotic and with abnormal psychology.

Dr C R Ramsay made the diagnosis on behalf of some very interesting parties, of whom I must not make further mention.

His ‘detailed’ report stated that if I saw all of the official records, they would upset me. Ramsay’s conclusions also included the sentence that ‘Roberta is more likely to die by misadventure than suicide.’

For the the last 10 years several of my computers have been seized by police. Among files there was data including draft texts for a novel entitled ‘The Woman Within.’  The idea came from the rather expensive Beaconsfield analyst who told me, in 2003, that I needed to find my ‘Woman Within.’

My concept, derived from these words, was based on Franz Kafka’s ‘Metamorphosis.’ Rather than turning into a beetle, as in Kafka’s story, I, in the story, would give way to the ‘woman within’ and put myself in harm’s way, deliberately courting dangerous places and dangerous people.  I would let the woman out of me, put her on display, taking me over and enticing men to kill her. then I would be free, even if at cost of death.

The peculiar thing here is how it all became a police and mental health issue.  But, as I said, I can say no more on the subject.  It would seem that my life has become a film script due to some very dangerous connections, far more dangerous than the killers intended to be in my novel .

This an age of extreme censorship, top down from the international ruling elite, administered by civil servants, teachers, police and captive media.  Fishing can be dangerous when there are sharks in the water.

Roberta Jane Cook

Psychosis August 29th 2020

Psychosis

The Relationship Between Violence and Psychotic Disorders With Comment by officially diagnosed violent deluded drunken psycho Roberta Jane Cook August 29th 2020

They are both common—but occur together uncommonly.

Posted Jan 19, 2014

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THE BASICS

• Find counselling to treat psychosis

Violence is extremely common, violent crimes occurring literally in the hundreds of thousands every year. Individuals assault each other impulsively, almost casually, even those whom they love. The causes of violence are, consequently, the subject of much attention—especially now, in the wake of a number of mass shootings. Every time someone commits a violent act so egregious that it comes to public notice, a dozen reasons are given for it and for all acts of violence. Poverty is blamed, or prejudice, or overcrowding. But the truth is that the causes of violence are innumerable.

Mental illness is commonly alleged to be a principal cause for violent behavior. For that reason many uninformed people are frightened of someone who is obviously disturbed emotionally. Yet mental illness, like most physical illness, tends to impair the individual’s ability to act, aggressively or in any other way. Only a few such conditions have a significant potential to precipitate a violent act. Among these is paranoid schizophrenia, which may affect the individual so that he comes to believe that people are persecuting him. He may then attack whomever he imagines his enemies to be. Certain drugs—for example, amphetamines—produce psychotic paranoid states which can be dangerous for the same reason. As everyone knows, alcoholic intoxication, because it lowers impulse control, causes some people to become violent; and if they are chronic alcoholics, they become violent over and over again.

Certain rare forms of epilepsy and other confusional states that sometimes occur as a complication of organic disease may cause the individual to strike out indiscriminately at whoever is nearby; but since these attacks are unpremeditated and uncoordinated, they do not often result in someone being injured. Occasionally, sexually deviant individuals become notorious by committing sadistic or murderous acts, but they too are unusual and represent the behavior of only a tiny fraction of those who arc sexually disturbed or deviant. There are in addition certain very dangerous, very strange, hysterical psychoses—such as amok—which stimulate the individual to sudden and usually short—lived bouts of murder, but these are exceedingly rare. And they occur mostly in islands of the South Pacific.

And there are still other people who are labeled with a psychiatric diagnosis, such as explosive personality, precisely because they are repeatedly violent irrationally and with little provocation. Such a term signifies nothing at all about them beyond the fact that they are indeed violent.  Certainly they are not psychotic, or mentally ill in any conventional sense. It is true, of course, that any psychotic or neurotic person can commit a violent act, but only because any person at all can commit such an act. The fact is that violence is an uncommon complication of mental illness.

Some attempts have been made to predict who will become violent, and who having once been violent, perhaps criminally violent, will become violent again. Not much success has been achieved. Psychiatrists, who are often charged legally with the responsibility for determining whether or not someone is dangerous, are often wrong, judging by subsequent events. What is not commonly appreciated is that these professionals are likely to exaggerate the danger rather than minimize it. They are more likely to hold patients indefinitely in a hospital on the sometimes arbitrary presumption of their dangerousness than they are to release homicidal persons into the community carelessly, as they are often accused of doing. article continues after advertisement

The indicators, such as they are, by which a person’s potential for violence is judged, are as follows:

1. A previous history of violence. The more frequent and more vicious someone’s past violent acts, the more likely he is to be violent again. Often adults who have committed crimes of violence give a long history of other similar acts, dating back to their childhood. They may have had difficulty in school because of fighting. Or they may have exhibited an odd triad of symptoms: bed-wetting, fire-setting, and cruelty to animals. Probably any act of cruelty or wanton destructiveness is a sign of a defect of personality which may manifest itself at some point in the willful injury of others.
2. Menacing behavior. Someone who threatens violence when he or she is angry, or who punches walls or breaks furniture, or who in some other way shows poor impulse control, is likely to strike out at someone when  particularly angry. Similarly, someone who nurses a grievance and constructs plans for revenge may undertake someday to consummate those plans. Threats are sometimes a prelude to an overt act. Threats can be expressed also nonverbally through the individual’s demeanor. Some people, before losing control, give warning by quarreling and shouting and by becoming agitated—in short, by appearing as if they are about to lose control.  And some people, of course, openly state their intention of committing a violent act.
3. A pattern of engaging in activities where violent encounters are likely to occur. Certain social settings undermine the usual strictures against violence. For instance, someone in a rioting mob is capable of perpetrating a violent act even though ordinarily he is in good control of himself. Similarly, a person who frequents bars constantly or who associates with drug addicts places himself in a setting where violent behavior is tacitly encouraged because it is construed as a sign of manhood. Consequently, such a person may learn to be violent. Such learning occurs also in certain families so consumed by rage that their members repeatedly attack each other physically. Merely living with such a family is an incitement to violence.

As people become violent for different reasons, they are also violent in different ways:

One man became drunk regularly and punched his wife and children when he came home. On one occasion, his wife, presumably in a spirit of self-defense, stabbed him with a kitchen knife, precipitating the need for an emergency operation in order to save his life.

Another man, after a fight with his father, went to a park where he raped the first woman he saw. Another man, when he became angry at his wife, shot a rifle out of his window at passing cars.

A woman who had had no previous history of violent or abnormal behavior became so desperate upon delivering an illegitimate child that she killed it by throwing it into an incinerator.

A 12-year-old boy kicked his younger siblings at every opportunity and finally killed one of them with a hammer.

These examples could be multiplied endlessly. The variety of violence is extraordinary. The attendant risk to others depends on the strength and the intent of the violent impulse, the circumstances under which it arises, and the response those people who are immediately present. article continues after advertisement

Treatment
The violent person is usually violent again and again; therefore proper treatment must extend past the moment of violence itself and over a period of time. His therapist—who in this case may be almost anyone, a parole officer perhaps, or even a lawyer—must accomplish with this difficult patient the basic goals of any therapy. He must establish a trusting relationship between them in which the patient can express frustration verbally instead of by striking out. Indeed, they must be able to discuss openly not only the patient’s violence but all of his, or her, behavior.

Obviously the first principle of managing someone potentially violent is to see to it, as far as possible, that he does not in fact injure anyone, for his own sake as well as for everyone else’s. Even for a psychopath, the knowledge of having harmed another human is terrible.

Consequently, if it seems that there is a real risk of someone becoming violent, the police or other legal authorities should be involved promptly, at a time when they can prevent his actions rather than punish them. Some people, rather than call the police, play the role of victim over and over. Being so passive, perhaps masochistic, they may actually provoke attacks on themselves. No one should subject himself, or herself, to repeated physical assaults—or allow others to be subjected to them. Surprisingly, some people refuse to take the dangerousness of physical attack seriously, especially if they are not themselves the victim.

An army corporal was sent for psychiatric examination after he was found choking another soldier in the bathroom of his barracks. It was the third such assault he had committed that month, each time on a different person. Each time, the attack was interrupted fortuitously by other personnel who happened to walk into the room. The only explanation the corporal gave for these attacks was that these individuals “did not deserve to live;” and so he set out to kill them. There was no particular reason why they were undeserving of life. In fact when pressed, the corporal went so far as to admit that so far, at the age of 19, he had not yet come across anyone who in his judgment deserved to live. article continues after advertisement

His life before he entered the army was marked by one violent incident after another. When he was small, he tortured arid killed small animals, then larger animals when he was older. He committed petty larceny at an early age, then graduated to armed robber and assault with a deadly weapon. He attacked members of his own family, once with a wrench. From the time he was ten, his family refused to allow him in the house, and he lived thereafter in different foster homes and then different reformatories, one after another. Finally, when he was 18 years old, a judge who found him guilty of assault gave him the choice of serving a jail sentence or of enlisting in the army. He chose to enlist.

The psychiatrist contacted the corporal’s commanding officer and asked why the corporal, who was so obviously dangerous, had not been discharged from the service following the first of these three serious assaults. “Because he’s the best gunner I have,” replied the captain unabashedly. The fact that the United States happened to be at peace at the time made no difference. Taken aback, the psychiatrist asked the captain what it would take to convince him that the corporal was potentially homicidal. “Only if he killed someone,” the captain said. “Anyone who really wants to kill someone has no trouble doing it.”

The corporal was discharged from the service on psychiatric grounds before this provocative theory could be put to the test.

Violent behavior should never be overlooked, fCommentor it is an indicator of more violence to come. However, the present attention paid to psychiatric patients, although welcome for other reasons, is not likely to work as a way of preventing  mass shootings.  A murder can take place even when someone is being observed closely, just as suicide can. (c) Fredric Neuman Excerpted from “Caring: Home Guide for the Emotionally Disturbed.” Follow Dr. Neuman’s blog at fredricneumanmd.com/blog/ or ask advice at fredricneumanmd.com/blog/ask-dr-neuman-advice-column/

Comment from an alleged psycho – Roberta Jane Cook August 29th 2020

My readers will know much of my story. I cannot say more for legal reasons. However, I will make mention again, of how I had completed over the two years living as a woman. I should have been lined up for gender reassignment surgery in February 2018, around the time the police raided my home, arresting me on suspicion of sending letters and pictures of a ‘private and personal nature’ of my ex wife, to various senior police and council people, along with alleged pictures of my ex wife and a porn video, to ex in laws, shopping myself for working as a ‘gay escort’ for my son..

After 6.5 hours in a cold dirty cell, with only one blanket, I was interviewed. The exhibits shown to me, of which I was not allowed to keep, were a badly written typed sheet with a stranger’s name on ( Obviously from my aggrieved ex partner – dumped by me- whose English was bad and tone vengeful ), and pictures of a strange woman in lingerie, and one of me laying on afreind’s bed wearing a lacey black short evening dress. My ex partner had the photo on her system and it was her dress. There was no porn video, but it was left on the record.

So when I attended my last interview at the gender identity Clinic ( GIC ), I was confronted with my regular therapist, along with a senior person. – and paid a dubious compliment about how elegant I looked . This over eager compliment made me wonder whether this process was all about superficial image- I was ushered into a room.

Here. modestly dressed little me, sat down with Dr Kirpal Sahota and Dr Paul Johnson. Dr Sahota began by telling me that she wanted me to attend Johnson’s regular therapy sesssions for those with mental and behavioural problems. This had come out of the blue. At the outset of my ‘treatment’ I had warned the GP and clinic about my issues with police and allegations of untested undefined mental illness etc.

Dr Sahota then said, softly and ingratiatingly, ‘I will recommend and forward you for gender reassignment surgery if you will agree to taking anti psychotic drugs.’

Now I have some post graduate background in psychology. I have been very intersted in gender, feminism and political correctnesss for many years. One of my many publsihed books, ‘Man, Maid,Woman’ is on the subject of transgender. I realise that most transsexuals believe that hormones and sex change surgery will solve all of their problems. It won’t.

I made my views very clear, incluidng why the police had taken it upon themselves to inform my GP that I am mentally ill and have been for years, refusing treatment. This begs the question why I was ever referred for sex change treatment, involving castrating feminising hormones, in the first place. This near on additional two year police led delay means my genitals are so withered, I will be lucky if there is anything left to create new female ones. Frighteningly our police have power to make mental health jdgements, with off the record or blatant instructions. NHS officials trust the British police, especially the higher ranks.

The police raid on my home and arrest in February 2018, obviously was used as ammunition to block my gender reassignment surgery. Curiously, Dr Sahota wrote a letter to my GP after my February 2018 interview, saying that I had a secure female identity but my issues with police and ex in laws were troubling me. She recommended me for powerful hormone injections and said I could progress to gender reassignment surgery.

.A few weeks later three men in suits backed up my drive. I had been working all night on the road for about fourteen hours. I had not been warned they were coming. One was a psychiatrist. Dr C R Ramsay, the others ; a medical student and a well built mental health nurse. All were from Aylesbury’s ‘Whiteleaf Centre.’ They had been sent by the GIC, in a chain that started with the police ‘et al ! ‘

There followed two more weekly home meetings of equal length both after my long tiring work shifts. On the second occasion, I defiantly had a glass of wine on my desk – becaue I knew that certain parties including the police and my GP had passed on allegations that I am a violent alcoholic – in spite of my GP regularly signing of on my HGV medical to the effect that I am not mentally ill or an alcoholic. This label is essential to the psycho schizophrenic label.

According to Ramsay, I talked too fast. He recorded this as ‘pressured speech’ and evidence of paranoia and psychosis, but ‘ not needing hospital yet’ rather advocating a ‘multi agency approach – police GP and Oxford Menatl Health Care ( sic ).

Dr Ramsay, having lied on the record that I would not agree to a second opinion -which should have been compulsory if I was as mad as Ramsay concluded, -declines any form of explanation..

I have spent much of the last two years trying to get information from my GP, the Police, Gender Identity Clinic and , above all, the police. They refuse. Ramsay Ramsay had concluded that I have a paranoid personality disorder but would not say what I was paranoid about – he patronised me as a woman,officially reporting that ‘seeing all of the agencies files ‘would upset Roberta’.

My situation with the police has deteriorated further. On Monday, after 14 hours in custody, I nearly succeeded in strangling myself in my dark cold dirty little cell , under the one permitted blanket with banging, shouting and screaming coming from the other cells on a day when the house was very full indeed..

Apparently I had gone blue and was semi conscious and sectioned to the Whiteleaf Centre at midnight last Monday, remaining there for another 12 hours before going in front of a panel of three, two doctors and a mental health specialist. They concluded that I was not mentally ill, or at least fit enough to be released. These are very dangerous times for me, . Roberta Jane Cook

Press Release August 22^nd 2020

Press Release August 22nd 2020

My story is about 12 years of police harassment because I wanted to know why I was given a PNC Criminal Marker on my car and soft intelligence for alleged stalking and domestic violence – which I discovered via the CRB and which the police still refuse to explain. Police admitted investigating nothing, my protests earning me a restarining order for things I had never done.

My ex brother in law, Chief Constable Simon Chesterman, involved himself in my divorce for his cash strapped family’s financial gain. He made malicious false allegations that my eldest son and I were stalking him while he had my vulnerable 20 year old son shut up in his remote Shropshire home.

My divorce from his sister was basically about her abuse manipulation and control of myself and youngest son and my decision to seek gender reassignment.  In desperation to find out why police cars, some unmarked, were chasing and searching myself and car- also I could not get a job because of them- I launched an internet and leaflet campaign which gained no information other than a conviction for harassment.

Since then, I have won two court cases against them, been raided because the police produced malicious documents suggesting I shopped myself as a ‘gay escort’ working for my son at this house, allegedly a brothel, taken to Crown Court for swearing at them, they lost their last two court cases against me – fined for lying in 2018.

Now they have blocked my gender reassignment surgery by telling my GP that I am a violent, paranoid and deluded .  I have masses of documents to back up my story.  I have spent a lot of time in police cells, spent a fortune on lawyers, been driven close to suicide -also been subject to adverse local and national publicity.  

The police have now blocked my e mails to stop me complaining, the Tavistock Gender Clinic sending a psychiatrist, medical student and big mental health nurse around with a view to having me sectioned.  Chesterman is famous for his role in the Plebgate cover up and head of the Civil & Nuclear Police/National Firearms lead.

Roberta Jane Cook August 22^nd 2020

For more on this story read ‘A Life and Death Sentence in Police State Britain’ below, and also further down ‘My Story.’

Corona The Loner

Corona a word from physics class

Now every thing comes to pass

Corona discharge from ionisation

Now petrifies this evil nation

Simple world of physics long past

Good things, good days never last

Ionised fluid turned to air, the conductor

High volts dance around the instructor

Government is the orchestrator

Police State now not sooner or later

Millions made from Summer Lockdown

Shops closed down all over town.

Corona used to be a drink

How come, that makes you think ?

Lovely fizzy fruity stuff

Tastes so nice can’t get enough

Corona now is something tricky

Strikes you down, makes you sickie

Corona came from an evil power

Spread all over, quite a shower.

Stay at home, lose your job

Live on the street, starve, die or rob

Corona sounds so very bright

Make you dance all day and night

Corona is a brand new drug

It’s on sale for every mug

Wear your mask and suffocate

Learn of fear, learn to hate.

R.J Cook  August 21st 2020

A Life & Death sentence in Police State Britain, by Robert Cook July 30th 2020

Robert Cook <robertj.cook@btopenworld.com>

To:enquiries.aylesbury.crowncourt@justice.gov.uk

Fri, 24 Jul at 15:25

Aylesbury Crown Court

For the attention of Judge Sheridan’s Office

Document Structure

1. Intro/Resume

2. Questions , Requests , Context

3. Brief History

4. Post 2016 & Conclusion

This message is with reference to the seven court hearings – March – May 2016,  involving Robert John Cook

Part One  Intro Resume

Experience of the Police and Criminal Justice system has left me in a state of serious and ongoing trauma.  This experience, lasting over 12 years, involving Judge Sheridan in a most serious manner, leads me to impugn his conduct and advisers in a way that I must allege serious criminal corruption on the part of the system.  I contacted Thames Valley Police PSD with a 40 page misconduct complaint, after my 2016 hearings with Judge Sheridan.  I was warned that they would commence further prosecution.  I have continued to complain and have been consistently ignored.

My encounter with Judge Sheridan was the result of me sending three e mailed criminal allegations reference the now Chief Constable Simon Paul Chesterman et al, six times, commencing in 2014, with decision to prosecute me for breach of a spurious restraining order, which police obviously regard as a gagging order.  The whole nightmare lasted a total of 18 months with me on police bail until found not guilty in May 2016.

Therefore, I suggest the judge reads the whole of this document and discusses it with Thames Valley’s Chief Constable soonest. The case includes, among other things, the vested interest of my ex brother in law, a corrupt former senior Thames Valley Officer, Simon Paul Chesterman, now Chief Constable of the Civil and Nuclear Police, along with high level Thames Valley Police corruption which has involved previous TVP Chief Constables and one Deputy, Paul West who went on to be Chesterman’s boss at West Mercia .

Given the close knit nature of national senior ranks and the decision taken to prosecute me – clouding and diverting the issue with malicious secret ( sic ) allegations of me being guilty of domestic violence -the current Chief Constable of TVP is obviously involved in this ongoing criminal abuse of police power.  

It is clear to me -from experience of my serious complaints against two of Chesterman’s former police forces, being ignored and turned into prosecutions against me- corrupt prosecutions are evidence of a policy of protecting senior officers regardless of justice. In Judge Sheridan’s case, it was clear he was prejudiced against me from the ‘get go’ that I was guilty of something I had never ever been legally accused of, rather than talk about the e mails which had caused me to be in court.  Very curious, and I suspect illegal.  

The very facts that my first barrister admitted being privately briefed, being told that I must be made to plead guilty, and making no useful representations on my behalf, exacerbated the situation most dreadfully. The trauma, worsened by subsequent malign attention from the police and CPS -has been terrible.  I will never recover.

Police corruption is once again a national scandal, therefore my allegations should be seen in that context if the system has any credible leadership which wants accountability and appropriate reform.

Before the judge jumps to conclusions again, -allowing previous aspersions to cloud the issues that all of my previous complaints along with this are evidence of a rambling disjointed paranoid personality disorder – be advised that I am an accomplished professional writer and member of the National Union of Journalists.

The following is around 10,000 words, a short piece in my experience. When I write, I make sure I know my subject first. I do not make mistakes.  Being encouraged to believe that I have a gender issue, and doing my best to follow through, has – In my view- – raised issues of hate crime on behalf of the police, CPS and my ex in laws, which will be mentioned again later on.

I do not purvey lies. I am still sickened by not being allowed to express my point of view in 2016. Further police harassment, labelling me as mentally ill, has made my position intolerable. The fact that the police and CPS persuaded that the court hearings be subverted into being about domestic violence emphasised that I have been given a malicious false record, without ever being confronted and charged with it, for hideous domestic violence. This carries a stigma on a par with rape.  The very fact I was dragged through seven court hearings in 2016, where Judge Sheridan repeatedly referenced this crime, without reference to reason or evidence was tantamount to rape in its own right.  

The stress of this and everything else relating to the Chestermans police and courts has left me extremely traumatised and struggling to cope with life and my responsibilities.  I am destroyed professionally, and so is my identity. I am reduced to a sense of utter worthlessness and ongoing anxiety.  It is significant that no domestic violence allegations were made during my divorce.  

Had they been, I would not have agreed such a generous settlement and would have demanded an explanation , with me counter suing because I was a victim of ongoing physical and mental abuse from a wife whose ‘coercive controlling behaviour’ was off the scale.  I did actually mention this on Form E. On one occasion, I was rehearsing in my large study, with my band, when my ex wife burst in screaming to them, ‘ I have to tell you, Robert is an alcoholic.’ Two months later, March 9^th 2008, she broke a glass full of wine, attacking me because she said I had been too slow to wish her a happy birthday.

Because of those hearings with Judge Sheridan, I accuse his court of perverting the course of justice and slander.  The continued threats of sending me to jail for a very long time, before I was ever asked to account for my e mails and respond to the malicious unfounded bad character file on the basis of which I was prejudged, was traumatising to the extent I have flash backs and from which I will never recover.  Judge Sheridan needs to explain his action with an account in law.

As a result of continuing police harassment, which has already forced me to attempt suicide for a second time,  I have to make the following request – section 2 of this document.  This request will be followed by some details of a nightmare life before and during the 12 plus years following my divorce from Chief Constable Simon Chesterman’s sister and resultant on his, along with family members, criminal interference in my life. This man is a high value police asset, who as national police lead on firearms , appears untouchable in law. As a criminal liar, he shames the already shameful British police.

From the police and CPS perspective, Chesterman has to be protected – in spite of the harm he has caused through criminal lies and perjury, to myself and my sons for his family’s personal financial gain and credibility.  Chesterman is one of the Police so called ‘Big Beasts’. 

Though I thank Judge Sheridan for his wisdom in ultimately dealing with CPS and police efforts to brazenly again intimidate and pervert the course of justice in the above referenced hearings, the matter remains unresolved with police harassment continuing, threatening my health and ultimately my life.  Therefore, I hope Judge Sheridan will read this and disclose the information I require.  

The situation has been exacerbated and my life made utterly impossible by a sequence of police harassment since I was found not guilty of six malicious trumped up charges in May 2016.  Judge Sheridan also needs to explain why he took the malicious police/CPS account as truth prejudicial to my trial. I had to work long hours as a truck driver between hearings, making my life difficult in the extreme.

It became very apparent, during my hearings with Judge Sheridan, that the CPS had gone overboard with a very thick malicious so called ‘bad character file’, which the judge banged on as he shouted. “If you do not change your plea to guilty I will send you to prison for a very long time.  The prosecution have a very powerful case, a very powerful case !  These domestic violence cases are getting worse and I intend to do something about this one. ”

Part Two Questions and Context

So, one has to ask the questions, where was this run up to trial going, why and on what basis of evidence ?  Why, during seven hearings, was there never any mention of the content of the three allegations I made against the then Deputy Chief Constable ( now Chief ) et al ?  Judge Sheridan had obviously been lied to that I had been investigated for domestic violence with evidence of guilt.  The mind boggles as to the details and due process ( sic )  He will also have been lied to that I ever pleaded guilty and was found guilty of malicious unfounded complaints and allegations against WMP and Chesterman et al.  

None of that is true, with the police blatantly refusing to investigate, putting their refusal in writing from the outset in October 2008.  The police are, quite simply self interested criminal liars, abusing power, responsibility, justice and privilege.  

They lied to Judge Sheridan, which is why the case collapsed in May 2016.  They wished to continue their abuse and corruption when they asked for more time to get a case against me, challenging Judge Sheridan’s decision. Bear in mind that TVP started the whole process against me in November 2014, announcing intended prosecution of me December 24^th 2015.  I was on Finsbury Park Station heading for the tube at the time when my solicitor phoned. I recall it well, because it was more of an ongoing traumatic experience. Intimidating me into another guilty verdict was their strategy and intention – using Judge Sheridan via false information, ‘A very Powerful Case ‘ etc.  Can you imagine how terrified the judge made me feel ?

There must be some record of all this and I want to see it.  I obtained the official court transcript but this and much else was missing.  Since I expect and need more court action, I need the documents because this is extremely serious, I am approaching 70 and am short of time.  My health has been very seriously adversely affected It is most perplexing and very odd.  I do not expect to live for very much longer and must consider my son’s future, which has been so harmed by all of this because he chose to live with me rather than his controlling violent and abusive mother. 

Why was my first barrister intimidated into accepting this appallingly dishonest account of my alleged guilt  and string of crimes I had never even been told about, along with a major amplification of an obvious Police/CPS conspiracy to pervert the course of justice on the CPS part.

You must have documents, and I am not clear what you were waiting for but never receiving – during an 18 month wait, yet still they demanded more time in May 2018 -from the CPS in May 2016, at the pre trial hearing,  I certainly witnessed the CPS outrage at Judge Sheridan’s decision and plea for more time because I could come back with further trouble, from what I could hear.  Why fear that if there was not suspicion that I have been telling the truth all along ?.

How and why did the sequence of hearings lead to Judge Sheridan shouting “These domestic Violence Cases are getting worse, and I intend to do something about it.  I am going to send the defendant to prison for a very long time if he does not change his plea to guilty.  I want to be able to sleep at night.” Unfortunately I was having the greatest difficulty sleeping at night, and still do.  The Judge’s ferocity certainly undermined my defence’s attitude to me.

I may be old, but I have always had a good memory, with a penchant for truth and justice among other things. So what was the legality of changing the direction of proceedings from breach of restraining order reference clause 3, to this vague denunciation of myself as a domestic abuser – without putting any such allegations or evidence to me making the whole process so much more traumatic and abusive toward me ?  Why were the offending e mails not mentioned until Judge Sheridan decided to shut down the trial ?  

My lawyer clearly came to the conclusion that domestic violence was the issue, so it was not worth defending me. The whole situation was insane. Of course I was not allowed to speak, made clear to me on the one occasion I attempted to, being advised by the judge angrily that to do so only ‘Through counsel, through counsel’ . Why did my counsel not listen to me ?  What had he been told during the briefings in chambers ?  

Have you any idea how this impacted on my well being, amplifying suicidal thoughts ? It is an understatement to say that this was appalling and totally terrifying situation, coming on top of the previous 8 years of police abuse, surveillance formalised by an illegal malicious PNC Criminal Marker, threats and court room hell.  I have completely lost sense of who I am, my life full of insecurity, anxiety and utter misery.  I had been informed by my solicitor that Judge Sheridan was a tyrant and that a guilty plea was my only choice because he would ensure a guilty verdict.

Why had the judge been so biased in that direction ?  What do the police and CPS have to hide ? After further malicious prosecution, which will be mentioned later on in this document, I was warned – at High Wycombe- to plead guilty by my defence and prosecution lawyer ( OWN )because if I went to Crown Court, I would face Judge Sheridan again, and he would waste no time listening to me because of all the past records.  So you see, it did not end in 2016.  The judge, on the basis of his past experience with me, would advise a guilty  verdict and jail me for a substantial period of time.  I was so traumatised that I had a car accident.

So, as said these warnings were reiterated regarding my return to Crown Court in 2018, which I shall come to in due course.  It may be pertinent to point out that I expect the relevant, now three police forces, to persist in their criminal lies, including lies about investigation and domestic violence. I am afraid, I have a good grasp of events and no choice but to challenge the restraining order and persist in my criminal allegations against the police and members of the Chesterman family.  I fully expect the police to arrest and charge me again because they are corrupt and big beasts et al with careers at risk. It is that simple.

Obviously my 2016 counsel had been corrupted by a false malicious bad character file and was eventually removed in favour of the vastly more intelligent Mr Swain, who then took briefing from me.  It took him very little time to get to the heart of the matter, with it soon becoming clear that the prosecution had no case and were once again perverting the course of justice.  

The intention had been to corrupt and use Judge Sheridan to bully me into a guilty plea without regard to truth, simply to protect the reputation of the criminal liar Chesterman et al and corrupt police.  Had they had a case against my allegations, then they would have used it.  A very serious situation. Bear in mind that the case in truth boils down to the abuse, exploitation and manipulation- with high level police connivance – of my youngest vulnerable son Edward who is no doubt very ill, assuming he is still alive. Judge Sheridan has been made a part of this. He appeared very compliant and highly charged up by what the police and CPS had told him.  

By trade I am a professional journalist / writer, and not at all happy about my 12 plus years of hell and what it has done to my sons life chances.  I have to be able to face court or whatever other injustice the system throws at me. Being now labelled paranoid schizophrenic with abnormal psychology , candidate for a ‘multi agency approach ‘ and delusional is rather the last straw in this epic tale.  

Nothing surprises me about this country any more.  Even if I were a mass murderer it would not alter the truth of the allegations made by me against Chesterman et al, that he perverted the course of justice, was and still is guilty of misconduct in public office and conspired to pervert the course of justice. He has never been investigated- whatever lies you have been told.  If you think you have evidence please show me, because they won’t show me and have admitted, in writing, never investigating me.. My allegations are based on fact, and a mass of additional evidence sent to me by West Midlands CPS in 2012.

Were it not for concern for my sons privacy, I would have gone straight to the press in May 2016.  But it really was still not good enough to be found not guilty on six charges made ludicrously out of six honest e mails that should have been the basis of an investigation, not a cover up ultimately involving Judge Sheridan- a verdict the police clearly still do not accept, as ongoing harassment demonstrates . After all the trauma I had to date, I must say that I never expected another four years of police harassment up until now – I repeat, with a terrible toll on my health.

I really do not know how I have managed to cope and continue work as a lorry driver, working over 50 hours for a six day week, particularly during my hearings with Judge Sheridan. Being secretly accused of domestic violence over 20 years, including against my mother, was a vile allegation – I found this out in 2012, thanks to a good senior person in West Midlands CPS.

I want to know how and why these allegations came to overwhelm the 2016 hearings and why I had still not been openly accused or investigated for them – indeed these were issues implied by me accusing Chesterman of perjury, misconduct in public office, and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice along with members of his family.  

These are most serious allegations and I am repeating them now because they are founded on facts.  So why do the police continue to ignore my complaints, even threatening to prosecute me again when I repeated them after the 2016 not guilty verdict, choosing to have me investigated for mental illness to add to lies of keeping me subject to ongoing investigation. Therefore I accuse them of ongoing and expensive efforts to pervert the course of justice in my case. Judge previously advised me to go for a judicial review.  I don’t know how to do this and could not afford it because the police and Chesterman lies have kept me on the edge of bankruptcy for the last 12 plus years. So I need answers.

The police are obviously desperate to label and discard me. Clearly the Police and CPS had gone overboard again with their efforts to pervert the course of justice since this whole business began in 2008. On the subject of my time spent as an HGV driver, a more challenging and responsible job than most people imagine, it is relevant that the GP Roger Dickson of Norden House signed off on my HGV medical for the DVLA for several years, ticking the boxes that I am not mentally ill or alcoholic- I have copies.

At the same time, although his surgery approved me for gender reassignment, he responded to a police letter – shown to me, for copying, by Dr Ramasamy- where they alleged I am mentally ill and making vile allegations against my ex wife.  This led to Dickson informing the gender clinic that I was alcoholic and should not receive hormone treatment because my liver must be damaged – this in spite of scans and blood tests over several years due to years of being hypo thyroid with raised SHBG.  

Consultant Leighton Seal of the GIC copied me into the correspondence reference five ‘interesting letters’ he received from Dickson.  In short, the police involved themselves negatively in my health care.  Why ? This was followed in 2018, with visits from the psychiatrist Dr C R Ramsay from Whiteleaf Centre, along with a medical student and mental health nurse with a view to hospitalising me and aforementioned mental health diagnosis.  The GMC and DVLA have already been made aware of my concerns in this respect.  Dickson is guilty of misconduct whichever way one looks at it.

In relation to Judge Sheridan’s hearings with me, there is also need for files and contact notes as to how this dubious and possibly illegal strategy was sanctioned, also how this was accepted as a legal and proper response to me sending those three e mails six times – also since they were only sent six times because the police were ducking them, how does that become legitimate for the courts to accept that as cause to allege six offences ?  I know that Judge Sheridan ultimately asked the CPS the same question at the pre trial hearing, but how did it go from the original allegations to domestic violence and the six separate charges ?  Why not a long awaited police investigation, as requested by me ?  

So the big questions are, why was a case about me breaching restraining order by complaining about the Chesterman et al conspiracy to brazenly pervert the course of justice, misconduct in public office and perjury, turned into one about domestic violence.? Why and how was that legally possible, especially since it was never explained to me ?  So for justice sake, I must see the files and briefings regarding this, with the explanation how and why and the legality.  

Therefore I am requesting full detailed copies of that information concerning  allegations of domestic violence and other withheld ‘bad character’ and mental health malicious information passed to Judge Sheridan. Please note, my freedom of information request for court records and much else has revealed nothing of importance.  It was redacted, as were medical files disclosed to me.  It is important to note that I have never been accused of domestic violence by police or courts, nor have I ever been subject to any investigation. Giving me a PNC Criminal Marker in 2008, based on lies and an admission of no investigation is very serious misconduct.

However, it would follow that Judge Sheridan was shown material which is why he became distracted from the matter of my e emails- for which I was allegedly being arraigned- which were sent to Thames Valley in November 2014, and which they refused to investigate, though they will no doubt have lied to the courts to the contrary.  I want all of the information please.

Part 3 Supporting History, amplifying seriousness of this very criminal situation involving Judge Sheridan , Aylsbury Crown Court, CPS, high level police corruption and criminality.

Material constructed and sent by the CPS to Judge Sheridan was clearly so powerful, albeit lies, that my first barrister quit because I would not plead guilty to something I had never been accused of, investigated or charged with. But my barrister had clearly been given misinformation ( lies ) and so clearly not believing a word that I had said to him. I take a very strong view that female lies of domestic violence are very nasty and need dealing with very harshly.  My ex wife was – possibly still is – a senior education officer with Bucks County.  She had a role as Head of Governor and Young Peoples Services.  Before that she was a manager at Norden House Surgery.  Interestingly, she was in this senior position while I had been approved by Bucks as Edward’s home tutor due to his school difficulties.

She had all the time and contacts to brief significant people had she and other family members been experiencing domestic violence at my hands.  In her statement, she says the violence began in 1988, her decision to stay with me being due to wanting to protect my late mother.  That was a 20 year period, well documented should the need arise – there will be some reference to my background as a postscript.  

Interestingly the only people she told about my alleged violence were her cash strapped high living family, notably senior police officer brother Simon Chesterman . Chesterman then told ‘imaginative tales of stalking’ to his police force and boss. This was to enforce a PNC Criminal Marker because he feared Kieran might meet his brother who was being held at Chesterman’s remote home for the purposes of presenting a dependent for additional divorce payment benefit.  That brother could not be allowed to leave.  

Please note, the police confronted me with absolutely nothing before creating the secret PNC Criminal Marker and files on Ocober 9^th 2008. I have never lived in West Mercia, and they did not interview me about stalking or harassment before I lost patience, then distributed a leaflet and was arrested in September 2010. At the time, I was working nights, 12 hour shifts sorting heavy freight, developing a double hernia as a consequence. Police harassment that had so harmed mine and eldest son’s lives, security and prospects.

A PNC Criminal Marker is for the purposes of denying the recipients freedom of the road.  The categories and procedures to obtain and enforce this are notably, firearms, violence, drugs,and sex offences.  I was thus labelled along with my son Kieran because the Chestermans feared my son Edward might leave – collected and driven away by me, paranoia indeed, but not mine.  West Mercia Police ignored my complaints in October 2008, the Police Authority being told by Paul West that these were matters of Simon Chesterman’s private life.  People have been seriously injured and shot in PNC Marker related chases, they are that serious.

It is fair to assume that my original barrister in 2016, had also been party to a closed session with the judge et al, from which I was excluded. It became apparent through conversation with my new barrister that the CPS had made efforts to mislead the judge into believing I had been convicted of making false malicious unfounded allegations against the then WMP ACC Simon Chesterman.  

The judge would also have been misinformed that I with my son Kieran  had harassed and stalked the Chesterman family over the weekend of October 4^th/5th 2008, lies backed by Simon Chesterman’s family and Sergeant Rees, along with proven lies that they ever investigated, damning and ruinous lies that I had ever stalked or threatened them with violence. Chesterman roped in his young daughters , and Sergeant Rees of Ludlow Police Station to back up these allegations, according to information revealed to me by the head of West Midlands CPS in 2012.  There may also have been lies that my son Kieran and I were living on a camp site somewhere in my ex brother in law’s police domain of West Mercia.  There is no evidence to support this, unless they faked it !

During my seven hearings with Judge Sheridan,  I constantly considered suicide because I felt I could not change plea, nor could I win or cope with what was going on in an obviously corrupt system designed to protect the police from consequences of misconduct.  

At no time was their mention of the three e mails where I made very serious criminal allegations against Chesterman and his family, that were sent by me, six times because – true to form – the police refused to investigate. Why ?  And why do they still ignore my complaint and request, preferring to inform NHS staff that I am mentally ill, with a history of violence and abuse?  Pity I was not allowed to speak in 2016, because obviously the police never give up.  No relevant information was invited by the court in 2016, being dismissed as satellite, which means the hearing had been corrupted to domestic violence behind my back, giving me no chance of defence, which had also been the case in 2011.

Those e mails were based on new information disclosed to me by the Head of West Midlands CPS after I had been taken back to court for asking police to prevent my ex wife from continuing to contact my home address in 2012.  Local Inspector Emma Garside actually advised myself and Kieran to lie, returning my ex wife’s persistent postal items as ‘not known at this address.’  

We had orders not to contact my ex wife and did not want to, let alone lie.  Garside then forwarded my comments to West Mercia Police PSD who sent two officers to arrest me.  Briefed that I am an alcoholic – I was just home in the morning from a 12 hour night shift at the time, still I was breath tested.  Obviously the WMP CID DS Chatting had been briefed to find more dirt, probably recording me drunk anyway.

I was arrested, locked in cells, home ransacked, property confiscated, lawyer quitting because DS Chatting of WMP told her my son and I were violent and dangerous, telling my then partner that she was brave to have anything to do with us.  That lawyer also told me that Chesterman had said he ‘regretted getting involved.’  He admitted his involvement in one of his statements to court.  Interestingly the Chesterman’s lying stalking statements contradicted each other and were taken on different dates. Chesterman was even invited to make a second statement.

So, without defence, I was prosecuted and convicted for messaging police that they would not stop my ex wife’s messages due to status of her police brother. Utterly incredible and vile.

Through that series of hearings, consequently West Midlands CPS disclosed information, informing me that it was not relevant to the current case but may be ‘useful in future.’ The information, as well as the previously withheld statements, included 1500 pages of documents, including TVP monitoring e mails, one of which revealed a senior WMP officer comparing me to his 5 year old child. Thus, I became aware that the by then Deputy Chief Constable of West Mercia Simon Chesterman, had lied in October 2008 that my eldest son and I had been stalking and terrifying his family at their remote Shropshire Home over the weekend of October 4th/5th 2008.  

Up until December 2012, before legislation changed, ‘fear of violence’ was necessary to trigger and enforce harassment legislation – although not without following proper process, including warnings and investigation – serious details ignored by Chesterman and his boss/close friend and mentor Chief Constable Paul West who had championed his appointment. I also became aware that Simon Chesterman had repeated his stalking allegations in December 2008, requesting enhanced security.  The question WHY? Must be asked and answered.  On what basis of investigation or evidence ?  Corrupt West Mercia Police, influenced by West and Chesterman, have lied and withheld evidence since day one in October 2008.

As a result of the malicious October 4^th/5th 2008 allegations Chesterman made against myself and son Kieran, his former boss and close friend at Thames Valley Police and by that time boss at West Mercia- the man who appointed him- Paul West, without evidence or investigation placed a PNC Criminal Marker on my car, with attached malicious false records of so called soft intelligence. The date given to me by the CRB in May 2009, was that the marker and records were made on October 9^th 2008. This was 5 days after the alleged stalking event finished and 3 days after my first complaint to West Mercia Police, and TVP.  My complaints also led to the Police Authority informing me that they could take no action because ‘these are matters relating to Mr Chesterman’s private life ( sic ).

The judge will know the purpose of PNC Criminal Markers, how damning and dangerous such markers and records are, they also contaminated my eldest son, destroying his hopes of a legal career. The Chesterman motives, involving abuse and manipulation of my youngest vulnerable son Edward and quest for financial gain during my divorce from his sister are easily proven.

Chesterman, a senior anti terrorist officer went on record as saying he did not want his allegations investigated. West Mercia Police admitted in writing they hadn’t done this.  I only found out about the marker in May 2009, spending over a year trying to get to the bottom of the situation, which involved among other things dangerous police car -sometimes unmarked – chases and searches. It once happened on my way to work, with me chased into the works car park, car and body searched in front of colleagues. It was midnight.

As a matter of fact, it was the CRB ( later confirmed in writing by DCS Mike Tighe of TVP PSD ) who alerted me to the problem being a PNC Marker when my friend, a senior house mistress and year head at exclusive Woldingham Girls School, wanted my son Kieran and I to stay in her flat, next to the 9^th year girls dorms – an unlocked landing away. This mistress and myself were close friends, writing and performing songs together, until the stress of the 2011 hearings forced me to end the relationship.

Eventually, after complaining over the 71 days delay approving my enhanced CRB, I got clearance because the senior police knew I had become aware of the problem and that they were lying on Chesterman and West’s’ behalf. I think it is relevant that soon after, West Mercia Police Authority declined to renew West’s contract.

Had I been questioned in October 2008, regarding stalking allegations, then I would have been able to prove I was hundreds of miles away – I can still prove this. I had witnesses. I could say much more, Suffice it to say, that none of these allegations were made during my divorce.  I gave my ex wife nearly £250,000 all told but that was not enough, due to the family’s financial problems which were made known to me in 2007 when I was told to sell up and retire to live with them and putting my youngest son in a home because of his OCD – my ex wife’s family have a history of mental illness – mother in an old peoples’ home, Kieran in a bed sit and go live with them in Shropshire.  

I was told to stop writing books and driving lorries to enjoy a ‘golden retirement.’. My son Edward was in receipt of around £9,000 annual benefit because the Chestermans had him labelled retarded and unfit for work.  He frequently referenced suicide in his last years at the marital home, hence my seeking outside help, which my ex wife cancelled much to my alarm in 2007.

Because West Mercia refused to investigate my original complaints in October2008 -triggered because the Chestermans dictated that Kieran, my late mother and I could never see my youngest adult son Edward again, this and related horrors killed my mother. So I went on to complain via the internet, mildly at first, then cracking up because my eldest son and I could not get jobs after CRB checks and faced homelessness and the police would not explain or disclose anything. This was rather similar to how I was pushed to the limit again, by the police in 2018 – which I will mention in due course.

The substantial file of 2012 handed to me by the Head of West Midlands CPS who told me they did not want to prosecute me, but were under pressure from the police, explained all of that, leading to my well founded three allegations against Chesterman, which are still being covered up with ongoing lies that they have ‘all been investigated’.

The last I heard of my abused youngest son was in court, 2012, where the CPS said he was ‘too ill to speak to police.’  It is clear from the 2012 file, his brother and I were being blamed, and Simon Chesterman put in words, along with his and family’s criminal lies, that this youngest son was ‘vulnerable to manipulation and control.’  The questions ‘By who  and why? needs asking and answering.

Edward was being used to claim more money from me, and had been a source of serious argument for some years, with my ex wife who cancelled the outside help I had called in agreeing with her family that Edward needed medication and institutional care and had inherited his Uncle Peter Chesterman’s illness which saw Peter incarcerated in a mental hospital for his whole adult life, where he died in 1977. I believe the issue was of a sexual nature, developing into other issues.

There is much evidence to support my case – at all hearings so far since 2011 have blocked me from speaking, with me originally told by my lawyer in 2011 that I was dealing with better people than myself, that I was mad, and no one would believe me. ( I was vulnerable and still mourning my mother, who I had cared for since my former soldier and lorry driver father’s death when I was 11. )

This was in spite of the fact that my my ex wife admitted in writing that she hit me on four occasions that she could remember. It was in fact far worse than that over the years. She also hit my son Edward on a number of occasions, as well as my late mother. Her last attack on me involved her breaking a wine glass and cornering me with it. She was angry and drunk. The date was March 9^th 2008.  She was angry because I had been too slow wishing her a happy birthday.

In 2003, I was told , by my ex wife, that I could not be alone with my sons or talk to them without her presence. This was in spite of me being Edward’s Bucks County Council approved and monitored home tutor for 2.5 years before spending £22,000 of my own money being ordered by my ex wife to send him to private school, where bullying led him to negotiate a suicide contract for my ex wife to help him kill himself if he stopped being able to cope with all the bullying and humiliation he was experiencing at that school.  

Perhaps you can understand now, why the police and Chestermans do not want to come into the open about domestic violence and mental health issues.

After more rows, I withdrew Edward from that school, then my wife had him shut in his room with cling wrapped sandwiches, a bottle to pee in, me ordered to keep away or I would not have a family, her coming home from work to wash and take him to the toilet. On one occasion she commented on the size of his penis !  Peculiar noises came from that bathroom while they were alone together.

Our final row was about this perverted behaviour, when Edward was 20. I was not home when she left the house with him on March 16^th 2008, in spite of the malicious police press release Judge Sheridan will have seen, as printed by Trinity Mirror and passed to the local Johnston Press Buckingham Advertiser, leading to many abusive incidents, vandalism and threats to my secluded property. In 2010 my Woldingham School friend was lucky not to have been killed by a brick thrown through our front window.  Police refused to investigate.

My ex wife has mental health problems and a record for lying and violence.  If anything has happened to Edward, I will hold the police, courts and Norden House Surgery responsible because they agreed with my ex wife to withdraw the support I had obtained for Edward’s severe OCD and suicide threats and refused to take note of my complaints and concern – ruthlessly prosecuting me and labelling me insane instead. It is almost funny.. Rather than help deal with Edward’s problems, my ex wife then forced me to go to an analyst friend of an old psychology boss of hers who introduced me as a writer.  

He asked me what books I had written, I said 60 books published including the novel ‘Man, Maid.Woman’.  He concluded that I had a female brain and needed to find ‘The Woman Within.’  I was at a very low ebb and had to consider this. An expert witness – a forensic psychiatrist called to support the CPS in 2012, ended up supporting me, with the conclusion in his 21 page report that I am not a liar or suffering from any known mental illness, nor am I a violent personality. You will not have been shown that, but I have copies, requesting it be sent to police and my GP.  Both bodies deny having received it !

I endured a a lot of verbal abuse and violence from my ex wife and she was destroying my sense of masculinity as well as my youngest son, with knock on effects for the whole family, including my late mother who she frequently hit.  As the saying goes ‘A drowning man will clutch at straws.’

I was working on several writing contracts, playing lead guitar with a band and teaching music at the time, but struggling to concentrate and cope. This pushed me in to suicidal depression and hanging myself from a door handle in March 2007. I then sought outside help for myself, though my ex wife intervened to cover herself.  Much more could be said.  I was being blocked in 2016, in your court and feeling very suicidal, as I am now – for good reason.

The whole affair severely traumatised me, leading me to take an overdose of 10mcg Temazapam during a week off from my truck driving job – obviously I have been professionally ruined and am lucky to have this work and skill to fall back on, but it does not resolve serious deeper and wider issues. So on December 19th 2016, the police and ambulance being called – with PC Ian Carter effectively and unfortunately saving my life, considering what came next- I was taken to Milton Keynes Hospital..  

Police always fall back on ‘lack of evidence’ to cover themselves when ‘no evidence is actually the case. Mental illness is another favourite when all else fails, as I know from 2012 hearings and most recently. As a paid up member of the National Union of Journalists , I am fascinated, as a victim, I am terrified and still traumatised by the capability of our ‘justice system’ to destroy mine and other innocent lives.

 History Post 2016 and Conclusion

I very much hope that the court agent or agents have read this far.  It is a very serious matter and is not going to go away until I die.  The 2016 hearings involved suppression of evidence, intimidation, CPS and police lies – covering for my abusive ex wife, exploitation of my youngest son, misconduct by police, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and perjury.  The issue of my six e mails,- the same three sent six times – was never mentioned.

Vague reference was made to me being a cause of domestic violence were made frequently in an effort to intimidate and shame me into a guilty plea. My first barrister refused to inquire about anything because he had been briefed by the CPS who had also briefed and criminally misinformed the judge. I was lectured rather than questioned by an irate judge because of this.  Consequently, because I could not, and still cannot give way to any more intimidation., the CPS could not bring a case file on the basis of domestic violence because I had never been responsible for any.

The corrupt police and CPS blocked my complaints by bringing a malicious domestic violence case based on alleged breach of my rather dubious restraining order, designed to stop me doing things I have never done or thought of doing, based on the original Chesterman lies which led to the trigger event of the PNC Criminal Marker.

It is incredible that this should be the official response to complaints originally made in 2008, and for which I then had absolute evidence to support my allegations. It beggars belief that the so called ‘victim’ of my complaints, who also lied over Plebgate, has been promoted to Chief Constable of the Civil and Nuclear Police.

And so to post 2016.  So with all of this in mind, it was inevitable that the police and CPS would come back at me. They were full of righteous indignation, with certain senior police elements concerned that their lies might ultimately be exposed for the evil and malicious forces that they were – and still are .

I returned to truck driving after the court hearings of 2016.  It was difficult.  My partner at the time, I discovered, had been approached by police. So when I decided to end the relationship in early 2017, telling her I had decided that I was transgendered, she became very hostile.  An accident in fog and ice conditions, in the South West, for which I was not blamed, led me to take time off driving to complete a book I had been working on.

It was clear to me that the peak of trauma in 2016 raised questions about my concentration.  Crime is the fastest growing genre, so the novel revolved around the murder of a transsexual prostitute – transsexuals tend toward prostitution due to ostracism making other work hard to find. The NHS police and courts seem to have concluded that evidence of this novel research is actually my life story, presumably justifying psychiatrists Ramsay’s conclusion that I am more likely to die from misadventure than Suicide – how about old age compounded by corrupt police and corrupt ex in law generated stress ? I returned to truck driving the following June.

On a day off in February 2018, I was awoken by my son who informed me that there were seven police officers on my drive – the house is up a remote lane- and they appeared to be smashing something against the door.  As I awoke, I could hear rapid banging and shouting.

Still somewhat dazed and shocked, I stumbled to the noisy front door to let them in.  They erupted into the hall like Champagne bubbles uncorked and going every where.  I was accosted by the lead officer, one Acting Detective Constable Bellamy, who took hold, informing me that I was under arrest.  Shocked, I asked why.  With symptoms of pressured speech as the psychiatrists call it, he rattled out ‘For revenge porn.  You sent images and a video, of a personal and private nature to your ex wife, her boss, her brother, and his boss.’  Unaware of any sexual images or videos of my ex wife, I was shocked and puzzled.  Bellamy and a female officer, ushered me from the premises, informing me that I would be read my rights at Aylesbury Police Station.

In the custody suite, I was taken through the usual process, escorted to the cells where I was left in a dirty cold cell with one blanket for approximately 6.5 hours. I later learned that my son Kieran had also been brought to Aylesbury, once the search of my home and confiscation of my debit card, digital tacho graph card, driving licence, and HGV Certificate of Professional Competence, two lap tops and two I phones had been achieved.

Kieran was interviewed and taken back home before my interview.  During the search he had been detained in the kitchen by a Scottish plain clothes officer.  He heard the man say to a colleague that ‘these sort of things normally go on in industrial units. There was also talk of police over time tricks.

When it was my turn to go for interview, along with OWN’s duty solicitor, I was confronted with some peculiar so called evidence and allegations.

Interestingly myself and solicitor were told we could not have copies of this so called evidence.

Key to understanding this were letters sent with the offending material, all typed including the name of the alleged sender, one Oliver Lazar.  The gist of the text was that the writer, for no apparent reason, was informing the recipients that Robert Cook was working from home for his aspergeric son Kieran, as a ‘gay escort.’  

Transsexuals never define themselves as gay, but the police alleged I sent them as revenge on Kieran, though they could not explain why I would shop myself or want revenge on Kieran.  One would have thought police command and control knew that transsexuals are sensitive enough to know that transsexuals never call themselves gay, so here is the hate crime again ! I was accused of being sender and author !!!! Evidence has never been needed for the police to harass me !!!

The attached material was a picture of a strange women in just lingerie, and of myself laying on a bed in a completely different location.’ Though the police entered all of this on official documents, they admitted that there was no video – which begs the question why they said there was one in the first place – malice, guesswork , corruption, stupidity, intimidation perhaps ?  I was told that I sent the letters and attachments as revenge upon my son, with whom, the police suggested, I had fallen out. Asked, by me, when and where they were sent from, I was told : ‘The postmark was December 12^th 2017, Northampton.’

When I told them I could prove that I was driving a truck a very long way away, with a second driver, they said it must have been another day.  I said I had records and diary entries for every day, as well as the tacho records downloaded by my employer.  I received no reply.

When asked if they had done forensics on the offending material, they said no. The material was clearly the work of my aggrieved ex partner Lucille Fletcher, a stalker, but police refused to investigate, having made contact with her about me, by her admission, in 2014.  It transpired that they had been watching my home for the previous 12 months in the hope of discovering evidence of a brothel.

As a writer, I could never have made this up, hence the police falling back on the old mental illness label, which begs the question – if true – why they ever prosecuted me in the first place ?  The 2018 arrest was vengeful and clearly opportunistic, with them either utterly stupid or corrupt in trying to pin those communications on me, using the restraining order as a way in to hopefully find evidence that I was a sex worker. That would have suited them as the police hierarchy presumably know that what I have been saying about Chesterman et al, has been true all along.  Their response has been the old shoot the messenger routine.  Of course we also have the further issue of the need to avoid looking at Chesterman in the public interest ( sic ).

Time passed, as the police hid from me, still with vital property of mine.  At last I was granted a second interview, but Bellamy spent one hour with my lawyer briefing against me, so it was pointless. Clearly the briefing was the same old bad character and mental illness routine.  The idea that I would have sent those absurd images, along with barely literate covering letter obviously from my half Greek ex partner, was absurd, but the police thought it worth a chance.  Why ?

By May, I had heard nothing more. Bellamy was never there.  I left various messages, gradually losing patience and temper.  So I was taken to court for harassment, having refused a caution for causing Bellamy alarm and distress.  His colleague PC Grainger even had the audacity to tell me, once they had set me up with a court summons,  ‘This job is going nowhere, when do you want your property back ? ‘  I had the usual threats of a long jail sentence if I did not plead guilty.

When the matter came to Crown Court, the judge said she listened to recordings in reverse order, coming to the conclusion that I was simply venting, having begun by just asking for an update.  Reverting to her powers as a stipendiary magistrate , the charge was changed.  I was given a conditional discharge and the CPS offered no evidence for the original charge.

One could go on to discuss the police’s involvement in my medical treatment and how they engineered a mental health diagnosis to shut me up – which along with their ongoing investigation and monitoring to keep the Chestermans safe ( sic ) is extant.  But more of that can be saved for later court proceedings.  I have said enough.  As my old GP told me back in 2008 when all of this kicked off,  ‘This would be enough to drive anyone mad.’  He also quoted his father, also a doctor and wartime army officer, telling his then young son ‘If the Nazis had invaded there would have been no shortage of concentration camp guards.’

To my knowledge the police and all concerned parties are avoiding scrutiny, including press, by arguing that the 2018, along with all the other cases, are ongoing because Kieran and I present an ongoing threat to the well being of my youngest son and all the Chestermans.  The mental health slur is the last straw and subject of separate action in relation to Norden House Surgery, and the Gender Identity Clinic ( GIC ).

I look forward to hearing from you.  A no reply will be taken as a reply to these most urgent issues and questions. I am certainly well equipped to answer any questions, but I will not talk to the police again because they twist, edit and ignore all that does not suit their purpose of ‘fitting me up.’  The purpose of the restraining order was to shut down my complaints, the malicious stalking allegations were intended to discredit.  Isolate and destroy myself and my son.  

The 2016 case was based on a diversion, more lies, no evidence and a refusal to address my complaints up to that day.  It was a criminal Police/CPS conspiracy to pervert the course of justice for the sake of protecting Chief Constable Simon Paul Chesterman et al, including senior officers of TVP and WMP along with his family who involved themselves in my divorce, including the abuse and exploitation of my youngest son Edward John Cook.  

They did far worse than my discrediting them with internet and leaflet publications.  Under Chesterman and his close friend Paul West’s corrupt abuse of power, they put vile evil criminal records on the Police National Computer in October/December 2008, up dating them thereafter, and ultimately informing me in writing in October 2008, that they had investigated nothing.  

I do not understand how you expect me to leave these dreadful matters alone, now compounded by the pathetic mental health slur.  In 2016, I had the evidence, the CPS had only lies and a corrupt Nazi like will to persecute me. Please note, I expressed no adverse opinion of my ex wife, ex brother in law or any of his family until I discovered the PNC Criminal Marker and the false malicious records, and after a year of trying to get the police and IPCC ( who the police blocked in 2008 with lies of an ongoing investigation, even though they eventually admitted in writing – 2010- that they never investigated anything }.

After a lot of pressure, I accepted the view that I might be transgendered, complying with an obligation to dress and live as a female for two years (whatever that might mean in this enlightened age !!)  The lead on my case wrote to my GP advising that I have ‘ a secure female identity’ and should proceed to GRS ( Gender Reassignment Surgery ).  This was around the time my ex brother in law was being promoted and stepping into his bosses shoes as Chief Constable of the Civil and Nuclear Police.  My GP, who had been contacted by the police, with adverse mental health allegations, responded with more alarming messages.  This was to such an extent that the GIC concluded that my treatment could not proceed unless I accepted anti psychotic drugs.  Hence my earlier reference to a psychiatrist being imposed on me, and his conclusions.  I refused.  

As with the police in general, the GIC refused to disclose the information received to change their minds. Dr C R Ramsay wrote that seeing all of the files on me would be upsetting.  Absolutely incredible.

Thus, I think it reasonable to suggest that there is a hate crime in my case, along with all the rest of these disgusting life threatening allegations and abuse of the Criminal Justice System.  Hence, I need answers, in and /or out of court.

Apologies for some repetition in various parts of this document, it is for legal reasons in order to avoid any time wasting through misunderstanding or failed connections regarding the overall structure of this document.

I thank you for your kind attention.

R. J. Cook July 23rd^th 2020

Post Script  Career extracts achievements.

I am aware of aspersions concerning my mental health and behaviour dating from 1988.  That was the year I was elected to Winslow Town Council, serving for the next 16 years, becoming Planning Chairman, Recreation Committee Member, Chairman of the North Bucks Town and Parish Council Planning Consortium, Consultant to the Richardson Milton Keynes Expansion Panel, Minor Authorities School Governor with responsibility for Building Management and Special Needs Education, Member of Winslow Adult Education Centre, School teacher, College lecturer, journalist, author, and advertising copy editor for Thomson Free Newspapers and Ambassador for Luton Corporation. I was also recommended by a CS to be a member of the Buckingham & District Crime Prevention Panel, which I served for four years.

I returned to Winslow in September 1979, to take up a teaching post at the Grange School, Aylesbury. From then on, I never did less than two jobs at any one time, aiming towards financial independence.  I moved to a larger house in deep countryside in 1993, buying additional land in 1996 for my son’s benefit and safety. By 1996, I took early retirement from teaching to focus on writing, cabinet making and private music teaching.  In spite of my divorce stress and, at the time inexplicable police harassment, I had I researched and had published four books 2008-10 along with a CD, lyrics and music by me. Regarding the latter, I returned to BBC Radio Solent for a programme featuring myself and other musicians. My last book was on the subject of Brutalist architecture, co authored with Dr Celia Clark of Portsmouth University’s architectural Dept, with a foreword by Tom Dykoff, architectural correspondent of ‘The Times.’

This is relevant because the police were and still are purveying and recording a very nasty and pernicious account of myself which has been taken as truth, and clearly influencing Judge Sheridan’s prejudiced and very abusive attitude to me.  The root of this problem is my ex brother in law Chief Constable Simon Paul Chesterman who has never been called to account for his criminal misconduct along with others.

Judge Sheridan deliberately avoided a golden opportunity to bring the truth into the open IN 2016.  Instead he added to my ongoing trauma, which the establishment system has the further cheek to write off as me being a paranoid personality disordered schizophrenic obsessed with harming the person of Chesterman, police and family who initiated my nightmare for financial gain.  It is an outrage and I am surprised I have survived this long.  It is obvious that my transgender concerns have been added to this criminally corrupt picture as another sign of mental illness, thus reinforcing the hate crime already mentioned. Interferring with my GRS is a serious matter which the police clearly did, according to the letter I saw and five others mentioned by Leighton Seal of the GIC.  Inevitably this has further traumatised me.

My list of published articles and books is rather long. I have done a lot more, but that seems enough to disprove some of the vile aspersions.  

My working life began at age 13, on a farm because my widowed mother needed the money.  I was a keen sportsman, representing my county, club and both of my universities in Cross Country and Athletics.  I have worked, among other places, for the Inland Revenue, Nitrate Corporation of Chile, construction industry – spending all of my university vacations on large dangerous sites -earning enough money to buy my mother her house in 1971 – and spent the last 12 years in warehousing and logistics because the police destroyed my professional reputation.  

I have always thought work a good thing, though the world of truck driving can be very tough, dangerous and demanding.  In that context. I must say that truck driving gives me a powerful truck and valuable cargo.  So with that power comes much responsibility.  If I make a serious mistake, then I will face the full weight of the law- worse still if I do it on purpose, no person will cover for me.  The same should be true of the police, but it appears from my experience and in many other cases, not to be so.

Interesting Times , Air Gun Shot Through My Front Window July 28th 2020

I am sitting here waiting for the police to call. Earlier today I heard a loud bang. My large house, paid for by my years of very hard work, much of it dangerous, sits at the end of a country lane. I was working on my new book, with the television on in the background.

The bang seemed far away. It was several hours before I saw that one of my front double glazing units had been shot out.

I only noticed because I had seen a deer in my garden had come from my little fields and woodland. I wanted a better view and picture. So I called the police, but as with a robbery to my outbuildings last year, they maybe don’t want to know. The police have good reason to dislike me for exposing their corruption. I may have to publish a new document to prove and updae this. Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, misconduct in public office and perjury are key issues here. Child abuse is another issue.

Robert Cook.

Dead Germans July 12th 2020

The State, with all its moralising and contradictions can drive anyone mad.  Conditioning is everything.  We are animals, designed for routine and responsibility.

Take those designed in goals away from someone – worse still if you remove them from large groups – then you have a problem that moralising from an elite hypocritical point of view won’t solve.

There is a rampage led by white feminists and their male equivalents ( I am not allowed to use the word manginas, and there is no other ) advancing the BLM cause there. Berln has an underground station named Moherstrasse, named after the Moors who were Arabs invading Europe in the cause of Islam back in the 12^th century.  

They were not black, they just had a different corrupt version of Jesus to the Roman Catholic one used by Europe’s oppressive rising kingdoms.  They were white, not asylum seekers or refugees.

However, such is the arrogance and stupidity of white liberals, especially Germany’s CDU and Merkel , the station name is deemed racists. Moherstrasse literally means ‘Dark Street’  So is it a surprise that we have the following story extracted from the New York Times.

CALW, Germany — As Germany emerged from its coronavirus lockdown in May, police commandos pulled up outside a rural property owned by a sergeant major in the special forces, the country’s most highly trained and secretive military unit.

They brought a digger.

The sergeant major’s nickname was Little Sheep. He was suspected of being a neo-Nazi. Buried in the garden, the police found two kilograms of PETN plastic explosives, a detonator, a fuse, an AK-47, a silencer, two knives, a crossbow and thousands of rounds of ammunition, much of it believed to have been stolen from the German military.

They also found an SS songbook, 14 editions of a magazine for former members of the Waffen SS and a host of other Nazi memorabilia.

“He had a plan,” said Eva Högl, Germany’s parliamentary commissioner for the armed forces. “And he is not the only one.”

I spent a lot of my childhood in 1950s London, bomb sites were playgrounds.  My Aunt Irene, with whom we often stayed, was German. Once, visiting us, she took offence at the World War one soldier’s helmet I gave my German cousin to wear as we relived the war, with him on the side of the baddies ( sic).  Before I woke up next morning, that spiked helmet was in the bin, where she put it.  Taken from the battlefield, where my great grandfather had been engaged killing Germans, it would be a valuable antique now.  It represented one dead German.

The States of Europe have their ways of defining insanity and its causes.  They are smug people.  I was in Higher education with those who created this so called neo liberal consensus.  They never had the brains to be scientists, but they have the brains to manipulate science, scientists and history.

The Hohenzolern Saxe Coburg Goethe’s were at the top of the tree when France conned them in to an internecine war over empire.  That family included Britain’s Royal family, cunningly persuaded to change their name to that of an apparently innocent castle’s name.  

Windsor Castle’s vile oppressive history is a story on its own.  Low class whites have always been slaves.  I am no fan of Hitler, but he represented the blind moral outrage – worse than the mustard gas that blinded him during a rich man’s war that awarded him two Iron Crosses before throwing him and his working class contemporaries on the scrap heap.  

The fact that Hitler blamed all Jews for the greed crimes of the German Jewish banking minority – check out the Usury Laws 1513 to understand Jews monopoly of finance – is no better or worse than the current luvvie media condemnation of all whites as racist.

I am no expert on Germans.  I have worked with many, speak the language, visiting a few times, first time back in 1965.  England, as I said, has a German Royal Family which profited from Empire, using and abusing its own underclass to that purpose.  The Anglo Saxons were Germans, filling the space left in Britain left by the decadent Romans when their German tribal mercenaries turned on them. The part we know as England was called Angleland, the language Anglish, until the Norman French, also Germanic mixed it up with French.  

Saxon German became English. So German is also an easy language to learn today if you are not a moron and can actually speak English in the first place – a disappearing ability in ‘dis is de multi culture bitch, better be live dat or de in de ditch’ world England has become ( Scotland under its Jimmy Clitheroe look alike is something else, and long live Iron Brew mixed with hair laquer, ‘great bevvy Jimmy, awch hae the noo‘ )

That is life, and not something for upper middle class pseudo professors. feminists, manginas and opportunistic politicians to judge if they really want peace – which they do not.  Another dead ( white ) German is grist to the mill.  

I dreamt about Max Weber, the German sociologists last night.  I dreamt of his anguish – with 11 years depression- that humans would spoil the developing bureaucracies he expected to save humanity – German writer Kafka saw worse to come.  Who cares about ‘One Dead German’ ?  Who cares about dead Germans who are white.  All the posh and aspiring Brits and low level moron gangsters want from Germany is cars – because they can’t build them without Germany.  Long live dead Germans, long live dead Germany.  Robert Cook

Burscough Revisited July 10th 2020

I Used To Believe In Britain May 30th 2020

Congratulations, a man among political minions, Russia needs stability. The West, in the light of Soros et al, Brexit, BLM, Ludicrous Lockdown, and Fake Democracy, needs to start learning, cut the arrogance and watch out for Old Groper Biden. Robert Cook July 6th 2020

Imagining Tony Blair as the rock star he always wanted to be.

Dis me song in de line o’duty
I’m phoney Bliar lookin’ snooty
Listen up to de true liar
Am gonna set de world on fire

Phoney Bliar rocks again
Phoney Tony I’m insane
Wid me on lead, Boy Bush on bass
We blast de planet into space

Phoney Tony playin’ de lead
Me band we call ‘Total Greed’.
‘Human Rights’ now number one.
Foolin’ de people, havi’n fun

Freed Bosnia Kosovo as well
Turned Middle East into hell
Open de dorrs for refugee
We de band set you free

Freed for de rich not for you
Phoney Tony’s still brand ‘New’
Me not bad, me not good
Me just king o’ de ‘hood’.

War Crimes here, war crimes there
All 4 U , I don’t care
Course I’d do it all ag’ en
Boy Bush and me, we real men

Any chords will do for me,
Phoney Bliar, I’m still free
My guitar hardly used
Not like u not abused

Distortion pedal is full on
Just like me, it’s a con
Never get me Phoney Blair
‘Rock Star’ see my mental stare.

Robert Cook June 30th 2020

Writer of Wrongs a novel by Robert Cook Posted June 24th 2020

Author’s Note Police Morons Stole a lot of my computers wrecking them, downloading my material. One day, in 2008,during my divorce from a top cop’s sister, BT phoned me to ask if it was me who had sent around 300,000 e mails from my account in a couple of hours. Obviously only some sort of intelligence agency which had dumped software could do that. I know there was only one top cop who had been in my house a few weeks before. Paranoia is a label the corrupt like to use as a way of shuting people down.

I suspect this work, an extract here, gave them the profile idea that I would die by misadventure. Their tiny nasty minds work on prejudice. My ex wife, whose brother is a corrupt senipr cop, used to get up early, while I was asleep, to read and download my material. The only way to get her to read any of my work was to tell her not to, or make her think it was hidden.

Robert Cook

Prologue

The doctor knew exactly where to strike the blow.  A human brain was basically a box of neurones , the skull was just a nut shell.  Use a lump hammer, hit hard. Lucky the victim was wearing a hat, it would reduce any spray. Step back, avoid any mess,or fine specks of incriminating blood. The doctor would burn the killing clothes in the garden incinerator just to be on the safe side. The police were thick, previous close contact made that very clear.

The victim fell as planned, twitched a bit, gurgled, moaned and died.  The doctor liked watching death.  Weeks of stalking paid off. The killer had the grave ready in the undergrowth.  It was only shallow, but the body was meant to be discovered, after rotting away for a while. Shame to bury such a nice dress. There were lots of leaves on the ground beneath the trees. The discovery, with all the news, should be a warning to others not to be bad people.

The meeting had been arranged on a Swinging website.  The doctor asked for discretion, being assured it was safe.  No one came before their evening meal. Dog walkers never came at all after four in the afternoon.  Most of them were women and pensioners, having no idea about the night shift. Friday night was best for the killing because the police had other things to do.  The doctor would not be disturbed.

So everything was in place. Then there was an upset with the car coming into the parking area.  The doctor had parked on the other side of the fields, in a pot holed little lane.  Time to run. Dark clothes and balaclava had been a must. The doctor had checked this place out for weeks.  No one came here walking dogs at this time.  The light was going down.  October was coming.  The really weird folk came later.  They had  wives back home, dirty secrets, dirty ways.  They should all be killed.  God wanted that.

I:  2000  Gloria

Paul was a very nice young man. She met him in the charity shop where she worked. Well he was not young exactly, but young looking, slim,not very tall, about five feet and a bit with a thick mop of longish blonde hair, fine features, a soft jaw and piercing big blue eyes.  

He seemed nervous, his eyes flitting all over the place, but always alighting back toward the large range of second hand ladies clothes and shoes.  She noticed his rather small delicate hands and long finger nails.

In that moment she wished the Captain had not prevented them from having a child.  If only, then this one could have been her boy.  Perhaps he was looking for lodgings.  That would be nice.

Gloria Raiment had been without her husband for five years when she had to give up the manor in Hampshire.  It was not just the cost of running the rambling old place that made her leave. There were just too many memories of her late husband Raymond.

When she was young the twenty year age gap between her and the Captain did not seem to matter.  As his secretary while he was seconded to Whitehall, he had swept her off her feet.

Captain Raiment had been 39, then just a Lieutenant Commander. His uniform was of high enough rank to impress young Gloria.  

A Woldingham School education had sufficed to get her a civil service job. Surrey was serene, with nearby Caterham just exciting enough with its little olde worlde cinema. Good old‘Wolditz’was what she affectionately called her alma mater.  

Those were the days before every Tom Dick and Jenny went to what was now crudely called‘uni.’ A levels, with a reference from Wolditz was then a passport to the top of the Civil Service secretarial cum PA tree.  The 1960s were, however, the start of a time for some changes .  

Her husband was a hero during those last days of Empire. The future of the world depended on men like him. Her world was real, not like the drug fuelled fantasies and decline of so called Swinging Britain.  Gloria would have none of that.

Raysebubs as Gloria came to call her beloved, was seduced one spring day in her boss’s office.  His passion had overwhelmed him and her, especially at the sight of her petticoats stockings and suspenders. Men were such silly fetishists, she thought while his lumpy hands probed under her clothing. 

Why clothes did that to a man, she had no idea. Still she had nothing to complain about when he took her virginity so masterfully.  This was a man who knew how to make love to a woman.  She was besotted.

Admittedly Gloria was taken aback when he warned her about not wanting children.  At the time it didn’t seem to matter. She had happily gone with him when he was posted back to Portsmouth, and on to taking the contraceptive pill.  Condoms dulled the pleasure and could easily break Ray told her. No problem.  Gloria was in love. Being so young the thought of children seemed too much of a responsibility.  Maybe later he might change his mind.

There had been years of foreign travel, with several of them spent in Gibraltar. Life with the Captain had been as if she were Royalty. Such wonderful times, beautiful dresses and more. Banquets and cocktail parties were the norm. The Captain never minded young officers flirting with her. There were times, toward the end, with his prostrate problems, when she had been tempted.

Now it was all behind her. No need for all the expensive clothes, fine lingerie or fancy shoes.  Nor did she feel the need to wear much in the way of jewellery.  It had to be kept of course, all part of her illustrious history,  But she determined never to wear any of it again.  She had Debbie the brown poodle, and some very practical clothing.  Her figure had gone to seed anyway.  Fine food and wine was more fun than dressing up like a mannequin.

An old school friend Frieda Milroy used to visit back at the manor, reminding Gloria that she would be foolish to stay there alone.  ‘Come up to Milton Keynes, it is the centre of the country, more so than in town ( meaning London ) .  You can get a nice little flat for a song at the moment, but they won’t half go up in price, so it will be an investment for you.  Alec and I will look after you.’  

Alec was a retired solicitor.  Commuting into town until he was 65, by then he had made enough money for a lavish retirement.  His hobby was gardening, with a big shed for his tools and a long boat on the Grand Union Canal.

Gloria’s parents were long dead.  She was an only child just like her Raysebubs, so being close to her friend was the only solution to relieving bleak loneliness.  

During the long years with Raysebubs , he had decided everything.  As a girl she loved her pony and poodle.  Raysebubs did not like animals.  

After he had gone she craved company.  Now in her sixties, making friends was challenging.  Her husband had always taken the lead, deciding who they mixed with.  ‘National Security you know’ he used to say.  ‘Never know what people are up to, or who might be trying to get in with us.’‘Positive vetting is frightfully important in our field of life.’

‘Of course darling’ She had agreed many times. She wondered if her husband was taking matters too far with all his national security business as he grew older. Dementia was a big risk at his age.  He was still going on about it after he retired and they were alone in the manor.

All that was behind her now. There would be no more cloak and dagger stuff.  Still the unarmed combat Raysebubs had taught her might come in handy if the worst happened. Not that Gloria could imagine anything happening in such a bright glittering place as Milton Keynes.  Anyway her flat was not too near the centre.  It was in a nice re developed office block, in a pleasant suburb that had once been a thriving town until the expanding city gobbled it up.

II :  2003  Paula

Today Gloria was going to take ‘Debbie’ for a walk in the countryside.  Paula had been doing that duty after she moved in, but now Gloria was alone again, missing her younger companion almost as much as she did the Captain, perhaps even more so. They had so much more to talk about, woman to woman, mother to daughter.  Paula’s leaving came as such a painful surprise.

Luckily Gloria had been advised by her painter and decorator, a smiling rotund grey haired white man, that there was a special ‘dogging site’ nearby.

“It is specially created by the City Council for people like you to walk their dogs.  They don’t like folk walking their animals in the street because of all the mess.  They encourage people to drive out to the countryside.”

“Is it very far.  Not too keen on long drives at my age. Never really liked driving anyway, not too good at it.  My late husband usually drove me about.”

“No. Only a couple of miles away.  Lots of room for parking.  I often go there at night, after work to take my Fido for a walk.”

If Gloria had been a woman of the wider world she might have spotted her painter man was not smiling, he was smirking.  She could never have imagined that Fido was local parlance for ‘Fucking in dirty orifices.’  He was most detailed in his directions.  Really rather simple.  Just a short drive along the main road, a couple of lefts on roundabouts and she was there in the wooded haven the locals called ‘The Bottle Dump’ which was a reference to the area’s gypsy history.  

When Paula moved in, Gloria told her all about the dogging site, what a charming little spot it was, wondering if she might help her out by taking ‘Debbie’ there each day. Then Gloria could spend a little more time working in the charity shop.”I’ll pay for your petrol of course.”

“No need. The exercise will do me good’ Paula responded very keenly.

Paula had been delightful.  Rather young looking for 45, but  always  keen on exercise. She worked from home as a freelance journalist she had told Gloria. So much of her time was her own.

IV :  1984  Simeboy

Simon Rich, the young probationary policeman, joined the police in Southern England in 1984. When this unctuous boy first inquired at his local police station, about becoming a police officer, he was asked what he would do if he saw his mother shoplifting.  He answered without hesitation: “I would throw the book at her.”it was obvious that the boy lacked high principles or sentiment.  The interview panle liked the cut of his jib.   

When he got back home to his parents expensively renovated farmhouse on the Cornish moorlands, Rich told his mother Gillykins all about it.  

“Well done Rich my boy, you are going straight to the top.” So proudly had spoken his besotted bulbous beaming bulging menopausal mother, not realising her son would ever misuse his police powers to have anyone jailed for the sake of his career or family. Now the whole family could move back ‘up country’ as the Cornish referred to anywhere north of Plymouth.

Simon Rich’s tranquillised gaunt old looking father Matthew looked up vacantly from a specially adapted armchair, toward his glowing glorious son. He was the family’s future.  His daughter Nicola had been married off to some young office boy, now training to be a teacher.  

Nicola soon won a place at Imperial College, escaping the horrors of nursing training for a more professional approach to her beloved biology.  That was a load off Matthew and Gillykins’s mind.  The young couple had gone to London, coming home to Cornwall every summer.  Gillykins realised there was no more need for husband Paul Nicola must get rid of him.  Up country Nicola would be close by.  Her daughter’s divorce could not come soon enough as far as ‘Gillykins’ was concerned.

Simeboy’s Matthew Rich had never recovered from the murder of his youngest daughter Mary when she was only six years old, beaten over the head with a brick.  That on top of what happened to his brother cracked him up for good.  So they retired down to his wife’s craggy barren homeland of Cornwall, and life with her in- bred relations.

All those child murders on their estate had terrified the nation. Who on earth could have been responsible, what sort of animal was he ? Then tragedy followed them to Cornwall when Simeboy’s girlfriend was found dead at the bottom of that old mine shaft.  By the time they found her body there were only rags, bones, hair and teeth left.  That is why mother Gillykins was excited that her special son was going to join the fight against evil criminals.

Matthew’s only comfort was Nicola, his eldest child. Nicola had been a quiet, secretive and strange little girl. She was his first born, already two years old before sister Mary came in to their perfect domestic world. As she grew up, it became clear that she had inherited her father’s love of science, though he wished she had preferred Physics.

The dead daughter had been named after Matthew’s devout sister Mary. Matthew’s family were extreme in their Catholicism.  His sister Mary was a man hating South London spinster school teacher.  

When Nicola left home, her father missed her, but went along with Gillykins rush to marry her off at 17, cutting their expenses, giving her more time for her son Simon. This decision made the move to Cornwall so much easier.

Simon Rich never really knew his murdered sister, but heard all about the tragedy. He was not tall, though full of muscle. Only 19 when he decided to join the Thames Valley Police, he already had a testosterone powered receding hairline.  This particular boy wonder’s countenance was oily, and plagued with zits. Girls loved his lizard like qualities.

His mother boasted that on first arriving back in Cornwall, people mistook her 14 year old son for mid twenties.  “He is so mature in every way” said proud Gillykins to the hunch backed stooping old lady village shopkeeper.  “Oh e’ do be.  Credit to yee Gilly, just like your old dad, Willy.  Shame what happened to that fellow, only a boy really. Like your Simon, when he went off abroad.  Life was ‘ard back in them days.”

A fellow of stocky body fit from playing local youth rugby until a twisted knee cost him a cartilage, forcing a change to his chosen sport, Simeboy knew how to tell tall stories.  That particular talent was going to help him big time in a new and scurrilous career.

Simon Rich was highly sexed and rather too ambitious for the public good. This would be another advantage toward his rapid advancement.

After training school, Simon Rich was posted to an inner city police station in Oxford.  This was the year of Arthur Scargill, when the Coal miners strike reached a violent peak.  Coppers were sent to the picket line and behaved like an army out to conquer, primed with the offer of overtime hours galore.

This meant leaving only skeleton forces everywhere else.  The Met were the real bully boys, bullying other officers in the billets to get the best beds, easily recognised by the white shirts. In the other forces, only Inspector and above wore white shirts.  The Met set the standard for the new police state.

Simon Rich was one of that skeleton staff remaining at his Oxford police station.  Female officers also stayed local.

They caught Rich’s lecherous eye.  He might have only recently married, coming up from Cornwall in that summer of discontent, but ‘Simeboy’as his mummy liked to call her little hero, was going to continue sowing his wild oats as he had always done since his first time when just 17.

Local girls back home in Cornwall were easily impressed by tough talking wounded rugby players.  That’s how Simeboy charmed 14 year old Molly, when they first met in the Penzance‘Wimpy Bar’.

She was soon bedded down with‘would be hero’ Rich, in one of the many empty rooms in the three star Penzance hotel her parents owned.

But Molly was just for practice.  Molly’s end was terrible, her so young.  But Gillykins was relieved that Paul was not going to marry her.  He didn’t take long to find another, though the proud mother still thought Kathy the young artist was beneath him.  

They married in Newlyn Church. Kathy wore stockings and suspenders for hygiene and economic reasons. If she got a ladder she didn’t have to buy a whole new pair of stockings.  Her sensible reasons didn’t matter, they turned Simon on which was the main thing.  

Here up in Oxford, his new police job, Rich – as Simeboy became known among his tough talking colleagues during his early police career – attracted the attention of an equally sex mad voyeuristic middle aged portly Sergeant Rees.  

Within the first week of Rich’s police service, the short fat sergeant was standing waiting and panting alongside him, for a particularly pretty young blonde WPC to ride back into the station yard on her police issue ladies bicycle.

Rich had no qualms, enjoying his sergeant’s little game of looking up cycling female cops’ skirts to see if they were wearing stockings and suspenders. He had heard that to get on in the policing game, a man needed a sponsor and a woman needed something else.

Though Rich’s shift was over, hanging around for an extra hour had been well worth it for the sight of the young earnest and vulnerable young blonde pedalling in on a delightful sunny day.

So there they were, Rich and the sergeant he was sucking up to.  Sucking up would be the key to Paul Rich’s success.

Already Rich was aiming for promotion where he knew how he would get more pay for less work- and more sex.  In police jargon, it was all about command and control.

IV : 1957 –1966  Cynthia and Big Girl

‘Me go talk to my friends in the garden’ said the serious little girl to her mother Gill Rich.

The dumpy little woman looked up from the vegetables she was preparing on the chopping board and through the window toward the immaculate lawn and the shrubs beyond. For some time her eight year old daughter’s behaviour had worried this woman. The psychiatrist warned there would be long term consequences from what had happened a year ago.  The little girl would never properly recover from such terrible trauma and tragedy. The imaginary friend was obviously a substitute for the missing sister.

There was obviously nobody in the garden on this particular hot summer morning. But her daughter Nicola was making persistent references to her friends Cynthia and Big Girl who lived behind the Azaelia bush.  

Gillian Rich, known to her husband and friends as Gillykins, told her husband about her worry. She didn’t like to mention the matter of her husband’s family’s history of mental illness, especially his brother who had been shut up in a mental hospital since 1947.

Her husband was also a bit odd and so was his entire family. One visit to the gloomy house in Camberwell had been enough for her, with all the crucifixes and religious prints hanging from stark white walls. She had been in such a rush to escape from Cornwall knowing nothing about them really until it was too late. Her future sister in law Mary was tall and thin, like Frank.  She wore a long black coat as black as her very black hair, except during the brief summer months, preferring to be indoors.  

Mary deplored make up, telling Gillykins how badly it would ruin her skin, also that it was only for Jezebels and prostitutes, not God’s thing at all.

When the tall dark stranger, Matthew Rich, knocked on her’ s and  mother’s cottage door to take up temporary lodging, in the spring of 1957, Gill fell in love with what she thought he could do for her.

He was in Cornwall to take part in secret sea trials of a new weapon, just off the Penwith peninsula. Gill and her mother of course only knew he was working with ships. They were not interested in what he did or how he did it.

Ships were commonplace in Cornwall and men’s work was their business as long as they earned enough to provide for their families.  After all of her humiliations, money was all that mattered to this young woman. The tall dark stranger had that ‘moneyed look.’

Then only seventeen, Gill wanted a husband who could provide for her in a way that mother had been unable to. The new lodger talked of his good job with the admiralty. He was there because  they had contacted her mother through an agency they used to get staff temporary lodgings.

Dirt poor because her mother had been abandoned by her new husband for the RAF, and his mistress in Worthing – after a disturbing wedding night in 1936 – grandmother, mother and child depended on income from odd jobs and supplemented by lodgers. It was the only way they could pay all their bills.

Though Gill passed for the grammar school, her mother insisted she leave at 15 to work in a Penzance newsagents. The little family needed every penny. Granny Chrissy was still alive, bedridden in the back room. Matthew was her escape from the grey Cornish windswept and rainy backwater that only saw life when the emmets (Cornish name for tourists, meaning ant) arrived, clogging up every road in summer time.

The tall thin lodger from the Admiralty arrived by taxi from Penzance Station. It was early summer, but the rain was driving, as often was the case down on the Penwith Peninsula. Grey was the colour of Cornwall. Old Bert from the village was his obsequious taxi driver. That taxi was a rumbling old black well polished Austin 10 built long before the war, but well maintained at Bert’s little garage and petrol station.

Fawning and crawling was the way with the locals when they met city folk.  Best way to get a good tip.  The lodger handed over handsomely,  Old Bert – having deposited a heavy suitcase and plump brown brief case on the stone step, in front of a tiny green painted front door designed for past generations of gnome like stunted Cornish tin miners – doffed his cap, exposing his shining dome.  “Thank e’ Sir.  Very kind o’ e.”

Gill saw him coming up the path, rushing to open the sticky old door.  It always swelled with the damp. Heaving it back, wide open, the heat from the little fire rushing past her legs as the cold came in, she was beaming a smile.  “Oh hello. You are Mr err Ri..”  “Yes that’s right said the long faced tall thin man wearing an expensive mac, Gill noticed important details.  His shoes looked expensive too, well polished.  His thick head of hair was protected by a trilby hat, sodden from the downpour.

“Well, come in please.  Let me take your bags.”  she cooed, sounding like a posh pigeon talking her own version of English.  She was a sleek cat of a woman, with busy eyes, and not the sort Matthew had expected in this neck of the woods. Her well fitting A line dress and carefully applied make up was surely not normal. Perhaps she was expecting a boyfriend, he wondered. The perfume teased his nostrils. He could smell hairspray, which he liked.

Matthew smiled awkwardly.  He had always been shy of women.  His parents never liked him seeing them. So he never did. There were none in the Home Guard, and none in the army out in Malaya. Nor were there any as pretty as this young woman at the Admiralty Surface Weapons Establishment where he worked nowadays.

“No, no, they are very heavy.”

“Cornish girls are strong me ‘ansome’” said a gruff sort of female voice approaching from the door dividing kitchen from front room in this rather dark drab little low ceilinged Cornish granite cottage.

Matthew jumped in surprise. The plump little woman in a blue floral dress scuttled in to the room.  He had not expected to see the likes of little Dorothy Pearce.  But there she was, looking just over four foot tall, so a good six inches shorter than the young woman who turned out to be the daughter.  That daughter did not hide her annoyance about her mother’s intrusion.  “No need to bother you dear.  You have things to do in the kitchen. Is granny sleeping all right after her little fall ?   Mr Rich will need some supper.”

“O gusson with you.  Granny is spark out.  Gave her some of her pills.”

“Now me ‘ansome.  Did you have a good journey? Be careful you don’t bang yer ‘ead.  We be little folk down ‘ere.  Little houses dwon ‘ere. Them trains can be very slow.  They tell me the steamers have had their day.  Better when them diesels come in.  Not that I ever go on the trains much. St Just is as fur as I go now.  You know these parts do you ?  Young Gill, take the young man’s bags up to his room.  I will make him some tea.”  “Sit down me ‘ansome.  Gill take the nice man’s macintosh. Rains a lot down ‘ere .” Matthew smiled, handing the young woman his coat.  Politely he told the pair of them that his journey had been very good.  

He thought about telling them how much he preferred steam engines , from an engineer’s point of view. He almost mentioned the great Cornish mining engineer and steam pioneer Richard Trevithick. Looking at the pair of them, in the cluttered front room, he saw no signs suggesting that steam engines and trains could possibly interest them. So he didn’t bother.  The girl had politely and carefully taken his mac.  He then made way to the little two seater sofa that faced a small television set in the corner of the room.  “Ere, let me move me lace making out o’ yer way.;  Matthew studied a fat little cushion with pins, thread and tiny fancy sticks  “ Oh that’s what it is.  You are a lace maker.”

“Yes, but don’t be bothering with that, just one o’ me ways o’ gettin’ a few bob.”

Gill was soon back , nipping down the little staircase. Smiling into the room, she said sweetly, cocking her head to one side,  “Mother, leave Mr Rich to me.  I will see he gets all he needs.  Off to bed now.  You have had a long day.”  Gill was getting desperate to be rid of her mother, who had not eaten yet, let alone made food for the guest.  

Matthew studied the girl, wondering what she might look like if her brown hair was released from the rather stern looking French Pleat.  He liked a girl with high cheekbones, thinking them out of place among the Celtic population.  Obviously she had genes from the outside world in her history, which was no bad thing.  Maybe there was a shipwrecked sailor somewhere in her genetic past.  She certainly dressed rather well for a girl from a backwater.  Perhaps she had a job in town.  Her voice and mannerisms suggested some reasonable level of education which he liked. Though she looked rather young, in spite of the make up.  He guessed she had learned more than a little about life outside of school.  That excited and frightened him.  

Dorothy cut in : ‘That’s all right.  I want to watch ‘Take Your Pick’ if you don’t mind.  Do you watch that Mr Rich ? I like Mr Michael Miles. The Quiz Inquisitor he calls himself.  Dunno what that means, but I like him an’ ‘is show.  He is a very nice man. Looks a bit like you me ‘ansome.’  You both have nice black hair, and the Brylcreem  makes it shine.  All the young RAF boys used it,  Very nice I think.”

“Oh do Call me Matt, please.”

“Well I am not sure about that.  I don’t want you callin’ me Dorothy.  You are not family, me dear.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”

“Mind you, I wouldn’t mind if you were family.  You look a real gent in that blazer and those flannels. Well ironed.  Where’s your wife ?  She back home, where do you live ?  I think they said Portsmouth.”

“Yes, that is so. Portsmouth, near there.’  Then he added, as if ashamed of himself; ‘ I don’t have a wife.”

“You do talk nice, have to say that. Come on sit down ‘ere on the sofa. Gill will sort out a bit o’ food for us.  We yokels down here in Pendeen don’t hear that sort o’ talk me dear..  Not posh like you. You got posh parents ‘ave e; me ‘ansome ?”  

By now in his late thirties, he had given up hope of ever finding a wife, let alone any girl as pretty as Gilly.  In spite of his vast intellect beautiful women scared him. He may have been tall dark and handsome, but had no gift for small talk. He never realised how handsome he was. This tiny Audrey Hepburn look alike left him tongue tied and helpless.

Matthew had grown up with his domineering controlling mother and sister, both powerful forceful characters. His father was very stern police sergeant , but obviously afraid of his wife. Life at home before the war offered Matthew little pleasure outside the house beyond helping his dad on the allotment. Before the war he enjoyed his job working for the GPO and studying electrical engineering at evening college.  He liked technical things.  He knew life was short and wanted to have interesting things to do.  But he never thought of fun.  The word had no meaning or hope for him.  

One day, just before he was old enough for the army, he had been working on the family allotment.  On his way home he ran for a tram.  A laughing old conductor rang the bell so he couldn’t catch it.  A few moments later the tram was hit by what Londoners laughingly called a ‘doodle bug’ .  It was a flying bomb.  Engine used to cut out and down it came.  Blew the tram with its nasty old conductor and all the passengers to smithereens.

“ No wife!  A ‘ansome young fellow like you.  You’re not one o’ them gigolos, or the other sort I hope.”

“Goodness me no,” He sounded shocked, flushing with embarrassment, brushing imaginary dust off his smart creased grey flannels.

“Well mebee you’ll find a wife down here in Kernow.”

“Kernow ! Where’s that ? “

“ ‘ere me ‘ansome.  Kernow’s what we locals call Cornwall.  You could be one of us.

Gilly did not realise just how strange her new in laws were. Her father in law was a South London police sergeant. He and his wife migrated down from Scotland and were very dour. They brought their Catholic religion with them, taking it all very seriously. Matthew mentioned he had a brother who was away working. His name was Peter and he was two years younger. He also had a sister Mary.

Little Nicola Jane was born two years after the her parents wedding. Home was a pleasant semi detached house in a little town called Havant just outside Portsmouth. There were lovely woods close by and lots of new houses being built for the city overspill.  Matthew had a job with the navy, all very hush hush.  He was something of a boffin, high intelligent f…………..

Talking Police and paranoia – June 6th 2020

Amusingly West Mercia Police, in September 2010 offered me me advice on appeals against their 2008 cover up. They took until 2010 to respond to my complaints against their Deputy Chief Constable Simon Chesterman., having forced me into the way of prosecution  by not following procedure in 2008, not investigating my complaint, ignoring me for two years, and driving me to despair.  

The police are continuing in the same vein, with three further spurious prosecutions, more arrests, more lies and fabricated evidence, leading up to a corrupt incompetent DR C R Ramsay endorsing mental health allegations to protect the police from prosecution and justice. Amony others making false allegations against me were Chesterman’s sister, DC Carron Chesterman and Sergeant Rees, all of West Mercia Police Robert Cook

There are 7 documents below, received by me in September 2010, two days after I was arrested for writing negatively on the internet about West Mercia Police – then called West Mercia Constabulary – and Chesterman et al, along with distributing a leaflet which included a picture of my ex brother in law, then ACC Simon Chesterman who was then their third in command.  He was still my brother in law at the time of my first complaint dated October 9th 2008.. Chesterman was later promoted to Deputy Chief Constable and overturned the report that had concluded three officers should face disciplinary proceedings for lying in the Plebgate Affair.

I continued to complain for the next two years before receiving these documents.  The WMP sent them after I had been arrested, detained in Aylesbury police cells for 12 hours, and my home searched- along with confiscation of property.  My eldest son Kieran was also arrested, being accused of writing and helping distribute the leaflet around Chesterman’s home village.  West Mercia Police, their police authority and the IPCC had repeatedly ignored me for two years until, in desperation I created and distributed the leaflet.  It was inferred that the picture I had taken of Chesterman depicted him as if he were impersonating Adolph Hitler.

I never ever mentioned Hitler in any of my correspondence up until September, and did not make that connection in the leaflet.  West Mercia Police did.  Nor did I ever accuse Chesterman or his wife of dogging and swinging.  His eldest daughter’s ex boyfriend Craig Shell did, contacting me as a journalist and the Daily Mail. I did not believe him and told him his material was fake.  I also informed WMP, copying them into all of his correspondence to me. Craig Shell attempted to hang himself at the start of my trial in Birmingham in May 2011.  

He had been accused of sending an inappropriate e mail to an under aged female who contacted him on the internet, according to what a WMP Detective Sergeant told me.  The same police officer informed me that Shell succeeded in hanging himself the following December.  He left a wife and child.

I pleaded guilty to causing the Chestermans alarm and distress, being given a restraining order not to contact any of them or to make malicious unfounded allegations. I had never done either of those things. My lawyer told me that the Chestermans were better people than me, that no jury would believe me, so I would go to a tough Birmingham jail for a very long time.  

The case was heard in Birmingham because I had allegedly committed offences in West Mercia, where I never lived. A better understanding of WMP’s duplicity and evasiveness will be gathered from reading my complaints which they refused to answer.  There is so much to say about this, but here the main thing is to note my key reference to a PNC Criminal Marker being placed on my car along with so called soft intelligence records on October 9th 2008.  I found out about it in 2009 after being chased by countless police cars.  The records ruined myself and Kieran professionally, leaving us struggling to pay bills.  It was not removed until I was charged in December 2010.  I found out via the Criminal Records Bureau, later confirmed by Chief Inspector Tighe of Thames Valley Police.

To this day, West Mercia Police – who only replied to me in September 2008 because they knew I had been arrested following the leaflet- refuse to explain why I was on the receiving end of a ruinous PNC Criminal marker. They do, however, admit that they never investigated anything before or after creating it. These markers are made for people suspected of violence, sex, drugs and arms offences.  They are very serious, with police chases in the past having led to serious accidents and suspects being shot.

I was dragged back to Birmingham Crown Court in 2012, following my request that the police stop my ex wife from persistently contacting my home address.  They refused, so I said that was because of my ex brother in law’s police status.  

Two WMP CID officers travelled down from West Mercia, over 200 miles, to arrest me for breach of restraining order .  I was again locked in police cells prior to interview.  In the subsequent Birmingham Crown Court hearings, West Midlands CPS released previously withheld records, including a 1700 page file of police monitoring activities against me, along with statements alleging that my son Kieran and I had been stalking the Chestermans at their remote Shropshire home over the weekend of October 4^th/5th 2008.

It also transpired that another mid ranking WMP Officer Sergeant Rees from Ludlow police station, had lied that he found Kieran and I on a nearby campsite to Chesterman’s home. The PNC Marker was created on October 9^th 2008. He alleged threats and fear of violence, as did his family in their statements, adding that he did not want anything investigated .

Because of this new information, I made allegations of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, misconduct in public office and perjury by Chesterman and other members of his family in November 2014.  I was arrested, held on bail for a year, endured 7 terrifying court hearings, again pushed close to bankruptcy.  I was charged with breach of restraining order.  

My first barrister quit because in the absence of evidence to refute my allegations, the judge quite improperly turned the case into one of domestic violence, threatening to jail me if I did not plead guilty.  I got a new barrister.

I have never been violent to anyone. the police have never interviewed me regarding domestic violence allegations, but my ex wife admitted to police that she hit me on four occasions she could remember, once attacking me with a broken wine glass. Clearly the police and CPS had lied to the judge with the intention to pervert the course of justice and cover for institutional police corruption. My new barrister won the case under my advice.  

Two years later, the police came back with allegations that I had breached my restraining order by sending letters, a sex video of myself which they later said di not exist and fake sexual images to my ex brother in law, ex wife, their bosses and others, signing with a false name and accusing myself of being a gay escort.  

They confiscated vital equipment.  They admitted that they had done no forensics to see if I had handled the offending material, only that they had watched my house for three months because I allegedly had told them that escorts were working there for Kieran. They refused to investigate the ex partner who had clearly fabricated material and had been stalking me.

Three months later I asked for an update as the police were causing me alarm distress and had nobbled my lawyer again.  I was ignored twice, so I left another message using swear words.  I was arrested for harassment.  I refused a caution and so ended up in Crown Court defending myself because I have run out of money.  I won. Around this time, a TVP officer, PC Grainger rang to tell me ‘This job’s going nowhere. When do you want you property returned.’

So in 2018, the police, from Reading Police Station, advised my GP that I am mentally ill, presumably because the Chestermans say I am, and a psychiatrist came round, with a heavy weight male nurse and medical student.  After three meetings, following on me having done long lorry driving night shifts,

I was judged to have a paranoid personality disorder, needing a multi agency approach to my condition. Consider the wisdom of a psychiatrist telling someone he thinks paranoid, that they must not see what is written about them ! It beggars belief. I am also allegedly an alcoholic because my ex wife told the GP I am.  That GP , who has gone on record backing this opinion, regularly signed me off during HGV medicals as having no mental health issues or alcoholism.  

Neither the police or anyone in the NHS have responded to my questions on these matters. There are motives behind all of this, and more information on this site. According to the psychiatrists report. I must not see their records as it would upset me. And I am ‘more likely to die by misadventure than suicide.’  I am 70 in 6 months, but there is no mention of old age combined with stress and possible homelessness because of them, as a potential cause of death.  I have written information that the police have done their best to block job applications by me- and inevitably Kieran, a brilliant graduate who’s potential legal career has been destroyed by all this.

My in laws motives are money and revenge because I am politically their opposite. It should be a salutary lesson to any open minded reader, that the police are corrupt, act as one body, look after their own, and abuse their power.  I do not think they are racist.  They will abuse anyone if they can get away with it, again and again.  

They are institutionally corrupt.  In my case, WMP’s Chief Constable Paul West who was Chestermans friend from their TVP days abused his position to create the marker, based on lies that I was terrifying his family over the weekend of October 4^th/5th 2008, when Kieran and I could have proven we were hundreds of miles away. West did not do his job properly, committing a crime in the process of not doing it.  He perverted the course of justice.  I was, with Kieran and around 200 miles away at the time of the alleged stalking offence- which I never knew I had allegedly committed during the 2 years of complaining to West Mercia Police. Nor was I ever made aware of domestic violence allegations through the police, or during my divorce hearings. I almost died of an overdoes in the wake of my 2016 hearings, having to be taken to hospital. The stress and despair has been appalling. The police have been terrifying and always bullying – and sneering.

But as WMP admitted in the documents below, they did not investigate any allegations against me, just going to the most extreme measures, ruining mine and Kieran’s lives, leading to such stress that I began with mild exposes on the internet, finally cracking and producing the leaflet.  

At the time of Chesterman’s allegations, which he seems to have repeated and exaggerated to get enhanced security in December 2008, my youngest vulnerable son was shut up in Chesterman’s house, and my ex wife was later to claim extra money to care for him.  Neither myself or Kieran has seen him since early 2008.  Kieran, my mother ( who died because of all of this ) and I were told in 2008 that we could never see Edward again. He was 20 at the time but never allowed to speak for himself. At the 2012-13 hearings I was told that Edward was too ill to speak to the police.

Given the state Edward was in when my ex wife cancelled his NHS care, I accuse the NHS and police of criminal negligence, holding them reponsible for any harm done. My ex wife was saying I needed help, while she had Edward shut in his bedroom all day – in just underpants with play station, bottle of water, cling wrapped sandwiches, with no one allowed to see him until his mother came home ( this was still going on until she took him away aged 20 ) we cannot be sure he is still alive.  He frequently talked of suicide, even producing a contract for his mother to sign to help him do it. When she came home from work, even when he was 20, my ex wife was taking Edward to the toilet and washing him.

During this current Covid19 and related riots, the police will play the ‘hero’ card.  The reality is that they are a corrupt self serving wasteful organisation, worse than the U.S which has a much better system of accountability. The real problem is with senior, command and control ranks, who only promote those like themselves.  Even the CC of The Police College came to this conclusion. He also lamented that lower ranks had no operational freedom – perfect targets for scapegoating. It is an old boy game. It is not a system conducive to justice or efficiency.

In my case, the British Police are clearly using my restraining order as a gagging order with the intention of perverting the course of justice to protect themselves. Robert Cook

My Difficult Life June 3rd 2020

Climate Change A Painting by Robert Cook June 1st 2020

Edward and the Police Chief May 31st 2020

I am begining this story with some photos of my youngest son Edward, at home- who I have not seen since 2008. His brother has been criminalised by the Chestermans and their police cronies because he wanted to see his very vulnerable brother during my divorce.

His mother signed a contract with Edward, agreeing to help Edward commit suicide if his life got any worse. i will publish a copy of that contract later today. No doubt I will be arrested again for talking about this on the web because Edward’s uncle is lying Deputy Chief Constable Simon Chesterman and this vile story has gone on for the last 12 plus years, with two police forces connected to my ex brother in law making regular efforts to have me jailed on the basis of lies which they will not explain, now having me diagnosed by a corrupt psychiatrist Dr C R Ramsay, as having a paranoid personality disorder. I wonder if he was new to malractice when he was sent tp see me, following police allegations that I am mentaly ill.

A rather rambling unedited account of my history with the Chestermans is also on this site. More will follow later, though I am likely to be arrested and the site closed down in police state Britain, the police are judge and jury. They withold, fabricate and corrupt evidnece given to lawyers and their CPS lackeys.

As in 2008-10, the police refuse to answer any of my questions, especially the reason why they placed a dammning PNC Criminl Marker on my car on October 9th 2008, leading to countless car chases, searches and criminalisation. Nor will they explain what it is they have to say about me being a wife, mother and child abuser, that all goes on the secret bad character file for the judge and lawyers eyes only and for the purposes of perverting the course of justice. They feel very confident becauae they have two trusted sources in my ex brother in law Depiuty Chief Constable Simon Chesterman and his police officer wife, because , as Brian Paddick wrote in his police memoirs, ‘Two police witnesses count for the truth against whatever a member of the public has to say.’

Robert Cook

The Painter On His Way To Work

Van Gogh himself shared the sense of idyllic happiness that the painting expresses. He could indeed very well be the painter on the canvas.

“Painter on His Way to Work” also shows some of Van Gogh’s characteristic deep visible brush strokes, especially in the depiction of the cobbles on which the artist travels. These are golden in the rays of the sun, and lead the artist on to the next great things.

Destroyed during World War II

The painting is believed to have been destroyed by fire after an air raid during the second world war. At the time it was situated in the Kaiser-Friedrich Museum of Magdeburg, Germany.

“IN MY DAY- Revolution- the road to where we are now.” May 18th 2020

In my day, as old folk in England, used to say, some of us were hard working and privileged enough to go to universities. There were also some excellent polytechnics.

This was before the evil money grabbing Margaret Thatcher and her political Mafia decided they would help their rich voting base with cronies like Lord Hanson ( see ‘Bucks Bricks’ by Robert Cook ) and media friends asset strip British Industry, and privatise the best of private sector.  

Universities were renamed by the new invading vulgar dumbed down masses as ‘unis’.  There were lots of courses with short words, like PR, to keep the masses off the dole queues, with new student loans, more burdens for the masses, more profit for the banks. The masses fell for it, like lemmings off a cliff.

It was the 1980s, boom time for the City of London and death of the country’s coal, iron and steel industries. Shipbuilding was already dead, farming was being strangled by the EU and the motor industry was in terminal decline.  The State airline and wonderfully comprehensive National Bus Company were flogged off cheap making billionaires out of the likes of Brian and Anne Souter ( Stagecoach ) and the Cowie family ( Arriva ).  The railways were flogged off a bit later by John Major ( Disaster ) who will only be remembered for his affair with sleek cabinet member Edwina Currie and dull wife Norma.

Not to worry, this was the age of high technology – hi tech as they called it back then. Back in the dark days of world war two, there was a fast direct railway line between Oxford and Cambridge, linking the top two universities. The boffins from both elite centres met half way along at a town called Bletchley where there was a big estate commandeered for secret war work.  It was called ‘Bletchley Park’.  Here they helped Alan Turing build a giant computer called Collosus and crack the Enigma Code  used by German High Command.

Alas the only code that really matters in this country is the secret money one used by the rich elite who run it. A millionaire crook and road builder, among other things, called Ernest Marples, was the Minister of Transport who hired his friend Dr Beeching , to close the key Oxford Cambridge line. Beeching argued, so he was sacked.  It was left to Labour’s self important over promoted prototype feminist Minister of Transport Barbara Castle, to sign the closure order to kill the line.  She couldn’t even drive a car.  It was the year work started on building Milton Keynes, through which area the old Oxford Cambridge line made junction with the West Coast mainline at Bletchley.

The point of the story so far is arguing that politicians have been bad for this country and are getting no better.  The police are a vile corrupt disgusting excuse for law and order, promoted on TV for driving dangerously in TV documentaries, chasing low class desperadoes, speeding drivers and recipients of Tony Blair’s PNC Criminal Marker.  

Thanks to my lying corrupt ex brother in law,a toadying Deputy Chief Constable, I am a recipient of such a marker, thus knowing what it is like to have these repulsive bully boys in hot pursuit of me.  We can thank Thatcher and Blair for turning the police into storm troopers for the rich, powerful and their own self interests.

At the time of writing, I am aware that the British police are looking for a lorry driver reported for sex assault because he gratefully kissed a 70 year old woman on the cheek for controlling traffic whilst he manoeuvred his truck away from a low bridge.  Apparently he raped her by kissing her on the cheek.  Brave boys our cops.  Weirdo blokes watch the high speed police chases and want to be one of them, weirdo women have always had a thing about men in uniform it’s the damsel in distress and guardians of safe spaces thing.  Another sort of woman wants to be one of the boys too.  She wants her own truncheon.

More to come. Robert Cook

New World Orders May 15th 2020

New World War by Robert Cook

A British Government Committee has said that girls should be encouraged to play boys’ games so that they can have a better chance of jobs in the top professions.  At the moment the best that the best can hope for is teaching and other caring professions.  Compared to the law, these are poorly paid.

I was a teacher so I know the last statement is true, even if the rest is rubbish.  

The home I grew up in was what the snobbish British would call ‘poor working class.’  I find it hard to write the truth about my childhood.  My ex soldier, truck driving dad was poorly paid. When a stack of bricks fell on his chest, his upper middle class doctor told him he had bruised ribs and sent him back to work, driving a big truck.  

British trucks didn’t have power steering in the early 1960s. The effort of driving, especially on rough building sites, worked a broken rib into his lung.  The lung had to be removed and an infection- they didn’t call it MRSA in those days, did the rest of the job of killing him.

I was eleven when he died. Had he known he had had a life threatening accident, he might have reported it.  He was just another piece of British working class rubbish who had been lucky enough to survive wounds in World War Two.  He grew up on the mean streets of Islington North London in the 1920s.  You wouldn’t recognise that area now.  Many of the working classes fled its bomb sites after World War Two.  

By the 1960s, most had been pushed out, into tower blocks by high rents. The upper middle classes moved in.  New Labour’s Tony Blair had a pad there. This Oxford educated public school boy had a brief spell as a barrister before moving into the manipulative upper middle class domain of British politics- that world is little better in the U.S.A.

Blair was a leading light in Britain’s New Labour political revolution.  Leaving aside the mess they have made of the British Economy and their contribution to the ‘New World War’ an ongoing process that has not just taken place on the battlefields of Eastern Europe, Afghanistan and Middle East- their most serious work is in the field of social engineering.

British universities were very elitist in my day.  Still I managed to gain access to the predominantly upper middle class University of East Anglia and a London University College.  Why mention that?  I feel it necessary to demonstrate that I know what I am talking about and that I am not motivated by failure or sour grapes.  I never write about things that I have not experienced or taken the time to research.  Politicians are not bothered by such details.  They either convert prejudices into law or rely on posh researchers to find and distort facts to fit their controlling and self interested desires.

New Labour’s expense fiddling Dr Ian Gibson was a radical young lecturer at UEA when I was there.  I have met him at several social gatherings, at the House of Commons and at UEA.  On those occasions, he was always surrounded by sycophantic l well to do UEA alumina.  After a few such events, he began avoiding me.  Once, in 2005, he boomed out: ‘He’s here, the last radical.’ On another occasion, he shouted: ‘For God’s sake don’t argue with me.’  His best response to me was when I asked him how he could support a leader who was about to join the U.S.A in an insane attack on Iraq.  In his languid way, he tossed back his head and replied, ‘Oh the boy is learning.’

It’s people like Gibson who make up Government Committees with so called experts like corrupt power mad senior police officers.  Gibson used to chair one. Thus it is no surprise that the Women and Work Commission have reported: ‘Often, without thinking about it, young girls can use role play at being teachers, for example, while boys might choose builders.  This segregation is ingrained in our culture and has had significant implications for the career choices that young men and women make and in the longer term for their future earnings.

‘Challenging these outdated ideas about jobs for girls is the key to breaking down the gender segregation in the workplace and changing our culture for future generations.’

Their concern is based on a 23 per cent pay gap between men and women.  The government blames this on ‘expectations and stereotypes ingrained in our culture.  Equality Guru Harriet Harman, Lord Longford’s niece, set up the committee. The closest she got to the working classes was to marry a trade union official.  It is joked that he sometimes calls himself Jack Harman so that important folk know who he is.

Harman’s pedigree is aristocratic and she went to the elitist St Paul’s School before university and training as a barrister. It is the greatest irony of New Labour that they endlessly preach the necessity of equality, but very few are ever going to be equal to them, unless they a re born into it.  They don’t need to do joined up thinking because the British population are subjected to an appalling actuation system dominated by female teachers and prone to alienating boys.  Britain has to major ills, in my opinion :  Snobbery and deference.  That is why lockdown has worked here for so long and so much better than the government expected.  Thank feminism and manginas for that.

It’s interesting that the New Labour Government has a majority of upper middle class trained lawyers and that they have passed an incredible number of new laws to keep their former colleagues- and relatives in the case of Blair- busy.  This has had no discernible effect on dealing with the sort of things British people thought of as serious crime before New Labour came to power- you would be lucky to get the cops round if you house was burgled or a member of your family subjected to non sexual assault.  When I was attacked outside a Miklton Keynes pub in 2011, I was told I asked for it and that my attacker had a good job.  When I was robbed of £2,500 equipment and had criminal damage to my property in 2019, they sent around to PCSOs who told me that there was nothing they could do.  When an aggrieved expartner sent anonymous letters to several key members of police and Bucks County Council, the accused me of sending them.  The letters and images of strangers, along with a video they later admitted did not exist, alleged that I was working for my son as a gay escort from my home which was apparently a brothel. I was raided and locked up for 7 hours while my house was searched and vital tech equipment, phones and driving documents were confiscated.  

When. 3 months later,  I swore at the officer who led the 7 person raid, I ended up in Aylesbury Crown Court, once again getting several hearings and jail threats if I did not plead guilty to causing that officer alarm and distress.  Britain’s masses are taught how not to think. Thus the government’s previous report on how the top professions, even journalism, are dominated by the upper and upper middle classes.  Britain’s police are very dangerous and crucial evidence that we live in a highly sophisticated police state.  The police officer who killed innocent -caught on several cameras- Ian Tomlinson got away with it.  When a student protester dropped a fire extinguisher  off a roof, with it landing 300 yards from a group of police officers, he got 3 years.

The feminist ranting and hysteria is a smokescreen for serious social engineering which protects the class structure – which was established by the Normans in the wake of 1066. Having a friend or relative in a key job is at least as important as qualifications.

It would not be in Harman’s interest to recognise findings by her governments Department for Children, Schools and families.  This report shows that boys are falling behind in basic English and maths by the age of five.  The results came from teacher and nursery observations in England of 230,000 children. Thirty per cent of boys had trouble reciting the alphabet compared to 23% of girls.  Perhaps doing what comes naturally, 74% o five year old girls had no trouble writing a simple shopping list compared to 54% of boys. Seventy eight per cent of girls could hold a pencil compared to 62% of boys.  Twenty six per cent of boys could not write their own names, compared to 15% of girls.  If

British people ever start thinking about the governments lies and contradictions or their miserable lives, they can’t do anything about it and turn to drink, drugs or comfort eating, consumerism and debt.

I can’t believe Harman ever worked on any building site.  I had too, during my total 20 weeks a year university vacations, during every year of study. I am not heavily built, but as a serious schoolboy athlete, I was used to hard physical effort and lifted weights. Even so, at the age of 19, I found it very hard work lifting up a nine inch glazed sewer pipe and throwing it onto my shoulder.  The site was peopled mainly by Irishmen.  

None of my colleagues knew I was a student.  My sister’s husband is an Irish building worker.  He told the section foreman that I was his brother in law.  Being Irish was an important way into the job.  It was well paid and dangerous. I ended up laying 29 inch sewer pipes in 17 foot trenches.  Heavy clay was stacked up by the massive digger along the line of the trench and there was no shuttering to stop it collapsing.  Health and safety did not exist.  When a Euclid earth mover thundered by, empty, a great lump of clay came down from the heaps above us.  It nearly hit me on my young head and I suggested to the ganger, Cassidy, that we should be wearing helmets.  He and our other colleague laughed.

Health and safety on the buildings have improved, but it is still dangerous- especially as so many desperate and obliging East Europeans have moved in to take on the role of cheap labour that the Irish used to fill.  The industry is also prone to serious down turns- as at present.  For lots of reasons, I cannot imagine many girls playing at building pipe lines in their back garden.  

With so many serious problems at every level of our education system, it is sinister to know that Harriet Harman wants infants to ‘think’ about what they are playing and its consequences for the world of future employment. Honest psychologists will concur with me that if the linguistic area of the brain is not fed by the age of 7, it will never develop.  

Therefore, there is no evidence that infants can do constructive social and economically orientated thinking by the age of five.  What they will do will be closely associated with animal instinct and what comes naturally.  There is every reason to believe that boys are inclined to copy their fathers role model and girls their mother.  The importance of natural role models is ignored in favour of social engineering.

The connection is not widely made between this fact and the numbers of feral youth and unmarried working class mothers.  The upper and upper middle ruling class have no worries about this.  They have their nannies and public schools.

I was, influenced by my father’s occupation at the local brick works. By the time I was eight, I was digging holes in dad’s potato patch, extracting surface clay, shaping it into little bricks and baking them in the sunshine.  Then I stacked them on the back of my soap box cart and drove around- my friend was the truck’s engine- delivering bricks into peoples front gardens.  

Machines and trucks fascinated me.  Meanwhile my brighter sister played with dolls in a  dolls pram.  When my father died, she became very interested in boys.  Her and her friend became fixated with two young building workers who came to build a bungalow in the paddock opposite our houses.  My sister was 14 at the time and at grammar school.  She quickly lost interest in her studies and became pregnant in the sixth form- by the Irish building worker.  He was married to someone else at the time, with two young children and another on the way..  

My mother was beside herself with worry.  A bright girl, she was the fifth child of her family. Her mother died in an Islington slum, two weeks after giving birth in 1924. My mother’s Irish Irish father could not cope with a baby and she was sent to her maternal grandparents home in Winslow, Bucks.  

Winslow was and still is a snob ridden place with a defined social hierarchy.

These days farming is pretty dead and it is a combination of ossified forelock tugging yokels, pretentious commuters and old order grandees.

None of what I have observed and written ever comes into the calculations when our rulers bond in their committees to utter patronising rubbish about what we should and should not do.   The issue of gender role differences, what comes naturally and what goes wrong, has fascinated me ever since I did teacher training. I was indoctrinated into the mission of fighting sexism and racism in London schools.  I recall a pretentious female teacher  colleague telling a meeting that her friends said she should have been black  because she was a woman and knew what it was like to suffer.  

When I focussed on writing, I wrote the meticulously researched novel ‘Man, Maid, Woman’ ( by R.J Cook.).  It is about a young man. It is about a young man deluded by society, and its abuses, into changing sex.   I got the prospect of turning it into a film, but my ideas had moved on.  Therefore I started a new project on the same subject.

The vicissitudes of researching the death of a transsexual in modern Britain would make a book in itself. Hopefully I will find a publisher for the whole story, but once again, our friends in the upper and upper middle class, female dominated world of publishing might make that a little difficult.  It is a point worth noting that only 3% of the British population goes into book shops and the average novel sells around 2000 copies.  

If publishers were car makers, with such poor sales, then they would realise they were building the wrong cars and few people would be drivers. Thus if publishers publicised the right books then there would not be such high levels of illiteracy in Britain- particularly in respect of boys. A few years ago a pathetic attempt, redolent of British snobbery, was made to produce books that  barely literate adults could use to improve their minds. A select band of established authors, like posh Joanna Trollope, were contracted at great expense, to produce patronising and dumbed down books. The social remoteness of these authors guaranteed that the project didn’t work, but the authors got even richer.

The deliberately overlooked reality of life in modern Britain is that pay gaps between men and women are massively distorted by the fact that top professions, officers posts in the military, business and banking are dominated by the upper and upper middle classes.  These roles are often filled by men, married to social equals who have no pressing need to join the labour market.  The reality in Britain is that most people, regardless of sex, face lives in horrible boring jobs on the minimum wage, too poor to buy a house in a market out to exploit their weaknesses.  It is a moot point as to whether the alternative of life without hope of improvement, and living on the dole, would be better or worse. Life for the lower orders now as ever is locked out, as well as in lockdown.  Robert Cook

Notes from a Small ( Minded and Big Mouthed ) Island. Posted May 12th 2020

I am currently reading this book and will be quoting and commenting on it very soon. Robert Cook

How the NHS helped kill My Hard Working Mother by Robert Cook February 10^th 2009

The following story was originally published on my ScribD site in 2009, before the police took legal action to shut it down. My late mother and father were married on VE Day. He was still in the army and a Dunkirk veteran who rarely mentioned the war. He joined the army during the poverty stricken depressed 1930s. His native London was soon to be blitzed .

How the NHS helped kill My Hard Working Mother by Robert Cook February 10^th 2009

My mother died in August 2008.  Due to family problems leading to my wife preventing her or my other son from seeing my youngest son, she became depressed and stopped eating.  The details are sub judice for now.  However, because she wasn’t eating she became run down and caught pneumonia.  She was 83 and nearly died twice in the ambulance.

It was the first time I had ever been in Milton Keynes Hospital and I was impressed by the staff’s initial efforts to save my beloved mother’s life.  However, it was an insight into what appalling problems an emergency unit designed to cope with 16,500 patients a year has when it comes to dealing with 65,000 a year.

This is in a world where New Labour’s Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, gets away with fraudulently claiming £116,000 expenses for a second home in London that she doesn’t have- she lodges with her sister.  Crime has always been easy for the elite.  ‘It’s the rich what gets the pleasure and the poor what gets the blame’ as the song goes.

Inevitably, as an OAP, who’s life at the bottom of the pile- and having done her bit making munitions during the war, followed by a succession of low paid jobs before losing her ex wartime soldier husband in an industrial accident, in 1962, struggling on a pittance to bring two kids up- she was low priority for one of the few beds that were expected to become vacant in the next ten hours.

To add insult to this injury, we had to pay for car parking.  While waiting in the busy resuscitation room, I overheard what sounded like a couple of foreign accents.  Immediately I fumed at how our overburdened NHS can’t cope with the natives, let alone all the foreigners.  As a journalist, I have been taught to be nosy.

It didn’t take long to discover that the screaming patient was a Portuguese drug addict with his equally spaced out girlfriend.  The whole unit was teeming with avoidable situations, were Britain really a civilised country.

When my poor frightened mother eventually got allocated a bed, it was in a mixed sex ward.  She was given antibiotics and kept there for three weeks.  During this period, surrounded by some alarming sights- including a 90-year-old skeletal woman who kept calling out for her long lost daughter- my mother developed chronic diarrhoea.  This did not seem to worry the doctors and she was sent home without any advice to me, about her condition.

Over the next three weeks her condition deteriorated.  Some weeks later, the GP appeared having only just been notified that she was suspected of having cancer of the ovaries.  He did his best, but it was many weeks and cancelled appointments before she got to visit Stoke Mandeville.  Here she was told that she hadn’t got cancer of the ovaries.

She was then told that she might have cancer of the bowel.  More time passed before she received notice of an appointment at High Wycombe hospital for a scan.in a few weeks. Transport was not going to be provided.  A few days before the scan was due, my mother got a letter to say the appointment was cancelled.  By this time her diarrhoea was a serious problem.

The terrible family circumstances that saw my eldest son evicted from the house his mother owned and he had largely paid for had meant that my son had to do his finals late.  I couldn’t leave my mother alone and she wanted to see him through his exams.  At least the NHS had provided a wheel chair.

I had to rent rooms in Norwich for all three of us.  During the next three days my mother’s bowel problem worsened.  She couldn’t control herself.  It was a humiliating experience for her.  On the way home, I realised that she was dying, rather than just falling asleep.  Thus I drove straight to the surgery.

From here she was admitted to Stoke Mandeville.  It took a long time before she was allocated a bed on a mixed sex ward.  As soon as she was in the bed, the screens were pulled around her and various drips attached to her emaciated body. Machines were whisked in behind the curtains and they started monitoring her heart rate.  My eldest son and I were asked to wait in the corridor.  

While I was waiting there, a strange emaciated angry eyed young man walked towards us.  He was fixing my gaze and I carried on staring back at him.  I realise that I should have looked away, but he seemed threatening. Then a young dirty looking fellow came up close to ask what I was staring at.  I said nothing.  He said that he knew who I was.  Next moment he handed me a £20 note.  He said: ‘Here’s the money, now get out of here.’  He added that he wanted no more to do with me..

As I looked at his barely covered arms, I saw lots of scars, like pin pricks, and drew my own conclusions.  After several attempts to return his money and hearing more angry words from him to the effect that I didn’t scare him and that I should just take the money, I let him go.  

He walked into my mother’s ward and climbed onto a vacant bed.  It was obviously his bed because members of staff paid no attention to what he was doing.  Once I was sure he was no longer looking at me, but casting his angry eyes in the direction of my mother’s curtained bed, I handed the £20 note to a busy nurse.  She seemed nonplussed by what I told her and in a hurry to be elsewhere.

Then I returned my attention to worrying about what was happening to my mother.

I could hear a man speaking to her in foreign accent.  His tone fell little short of shouting at her.  My mother was barely conscious.  The interchange lasted for some time before I asked a nurse what on earth was going on.  He was repeatedly asking her how long she had had problems controlling her bowels.  I complained to a nurse that everyone in the ward could hear of my mother’s embarrassing problem.  My complaint had no effect.

After a very long wait, my son and I were allowed to go and see my mother.  She was skin and bones and not really with it.  We stayed as long as we were allowed.  We went home satisfied that my mother was just de hydrated.  Because of all the stress that my mother, eldest son and myself had suffered, we decided to leave her in peace to recover in hospital the next day.  I spoke to her on the phone and she sounded OK.

It was a Saturday. I spoke to a member off staff who assured me there was no reason to worry.  Early the next Sunday morning we were telephoned and told that she had surprised them by dying.

On the death certificate, it was written that she had died of c difficile.  An explanation followed that she had caught this bug in Milton Keynes dirty hospital

As far as the NHS is concerned this is a normal situation.  This is due to heavy workload, poor cleaning standards and the wide variety of unwashed individuals who go freely in and out. C difficle actually causes more deaths than MRSA.  Like the latter, it is so normal now that it is taken for granted.  It is especially likely to kill the elderly.  The system doesn’t care.  Like so many of the horrible things about living in Britain today, it is normal and gets shrugged of by all.

Obviously I am still struggling to come to terms with the tragedy and so much of the background circumstances.  She died heartbroken that my wife had not allowed her to see my nearly 21 year old son.  My last thought on the subject for now is, why does the Inland Revenue have the audacity to chase me for the slightest shortfall in my income taxes?  This insult is not just about appalling services run by self-serving bureaucrats.  It is the context of overpaid- Jaqui Smith; the incompetent Home Secretary earns £300,000 before she starts fiddling her expenses- deceitful, lying and incompetent politicians.

A Winslow Boy By Robert Cook

‘Winslow Plus’ Part One ‘Boxes’ by R.J Cook with Charles Close

Copyright R.J Cook and Charles Close May 2019

An old painting of Sheep Street Winslow by Robert Cook.

Introduction.

The burial of local historian Norman Alfred Saving May 2019, St Laurence Church.  My hard working exploited loving late mother was married at this church on VE Day 1945. She is now buried here with my father who died in 1962. The burial ground is a history book for those of us who know the town and its past.

Before saying anything else, I do not profess to be a local historian.  I write what I feel and what I think. As a former local reporter and senior town councillor, I made many bad decisions and enemies. For the sake of community and history, I originally joined the council to save the town’s new burial ground site which councillors wanted to sell off for development.

That may have been right to do, but my lack of vision was to freeze the town in its past, which I romanticised . Now I understand no one can stop decay, new growth and change.

One should be concerned only to help improve on what is and what was. We are at best links in a chain. Memories and history are places to go if we want the past to remain with us.

While I was writing this little booklet my old local history guide and mentor Norman Saving died, aged 83. On April 26th this year I visited his widow Ann who had been our next door neighbour from 1958 until we moved in 1993.

It was a moving experience once again, standing in front of ‘Penny Cottage’; which was in very close proximity to my old family home. So many memories came flooding back.

The Saving family’s history in Winslow goes back to the 16^th century and Norman was a man with many memories, an instinct for local history and a man I often argued with but always respected. Without his wisdom and knowledge my first book on the town would never have happened. Norman was a wonderful sceptic who knew more than he, and many on the Town Council ever realised or appreciated.

When I was working on my original ‘The Book of Winslow’ I spent much time talking and walking the boundaries and back ways of the tiny town with Norman. He warned me never to trust the memories of the old folk. In spite of our differences, Norman and I shared a distrust of authorities and self serving unccountable remote careerist bureaucracy.

The day before Norman’s funeral. my property was robbed by travellers.  The police told me there was nothing they could do about it. I lost over £1000 worth of property and can expect more of the same regardless of all the taxes I pay. The police have other priorities for their computerised PC remote careerist bureaucracy.  

That is the world I must now live in until it is my turn to go.  In the meantime, who knows what is coming next in a very perplexing and uncertain world.

Like my mentor Norman Saving, I have always been one of the awkward squad, not an easy way to be. As Shakespeare put it: ‘To be or not to be, that is the question, whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles.’

Ann Saving at ‘Penny Cottage’ closing her gate in April 2019.  Her and Norman were both assaulted and robbed on this path, after being followed home from the post office on pension day.  The robbers were not pursued, so not caught.  My old house and birthplace is on the right of ‘Penny Cottage.’  When I was a poor boy, few folk could afford to go away on holiday.  So when asked where they were going, they never said Margate, they said Ourgate! We never locked our doors because we had nothing worth stealing.

Chapter One Innocence

Robert Cook standing, with Michael Sellar on sledge during the very deep snow of January 1962, Tennis Lane Winslow

I remember looking up out from my green framed pushchair toward Winslow’s grandly named High Street, for the first memorable time, realising that I existed.  The year must have been 1954, the springtime sun shining, but weather was cold enough for me to be wearing what was called a siren suit, after Prime Minister’s Churchill’s predilection for the one piece he wore ready to take cover when the air raid siren went off.

It was a bewildering defining moment. I have been confused ever since, trying to make sense of things, often going against the grain of allegedly normal life.

Seeing things, hearing smelling life for the first time was an overwhelming experience.  I was just over three years old.

As time passed, the little North Bucks market town of Winslow made stronger and more vivid impressions on me.  I began to make out the detail inside the vast chamber of Hawley’s grocery shop- now ‘One Stop’.

The front of the tall building was covered in ivy. The bricks were thus out of sight, so it looked as if the whole building had grown out of the soil. Within this joyous big cave, there was a strong aroma of tea.  

This pleasantness escaped from big plywood tea chests when the silver foil membrane had been cut open so that tea could be scooped up, put into blue paper bags, then weighed out by the ounce on the big white painted scales set upon the high wooden counter. Cheese was also personally measured, cut with cheese wire, weighed, then wrapped in greaseproof paper for sale.

All about the place, on its wooden floor, men and women wearing white coats with long aprons were noisily moving boxes, packets, bottles and tins. They had a rival from a similar enterprise, the Co-op, on the market square, but Hawley’s had class.  

Young Peter Hawley had been an RAF bomber pilot, cut down in his prime, but not forgotten in the churchyard.  Bob Holmes, meantime rose to be the cheeky chappie who managed the Co-op. When I was pre school, he gave me sweets for reciting naughty ditties taught to me by my sisters girl friends in the street.

Busily Hawley’s customers, mainly women, but also some crusty old farmers from surrounding villages, wearing dirty coats coarse shirts and baggy dusty old chord trousers held up by lengths of string or braces, their battered moth eaten hats and caps askew, waddled in for supplies, here and at Midgeley’s ironmongers across the market square. Smokers were commonplace amongst them. Tipped cigarettes were for wimps. The cancer link was then unknown.

These people came and went. Most were bulbous women in drab coats, green, black, brown or blue. Dresses were cheap and worn way below knees, fat varicose veined legs covered by thick stockings. Head scarves were worn like turbans. They were hiding piles of hair in curlers. Honest sweat was the natural odour without gender bias in summer, the season of flies and rural fragrances from the fields.

These were the days long before the boom in hairdressers,  Home perms were about as exotic as it got for most people. Ladies with perfume and make up on were scarce and better off in money matters.

There was a lot of head nodding and talking between these mainly plump red faced women. They had much to say to each other, ‘ooing and ahhing’ faces moving in judgement laughter or shock, depending on the gossip.

Of course I didn’t realise what gossip was, only that these people knew each other and liked talking. At my age then, I knew very few words, so the sound was a song like blur. They might just as well have been birds chattering.

Next shop for us was the Co-op butchers, a pokey little place at the top of the street, on the other side from Hawley’s.  There were no zebra crossings in those days, but traffic was not so heavy as now.

A lot of the floor was covered with saw dust, Men with steel choppers were hacking at bones covered in animal flesh on bloodstained benches. The bespectacled man in charge was Bert Goodman, a man I later learned, while working for him, was too fond of beer.

Half sides of pigs hung head down from hooks stuck into them, attached to sturdy chrome plated steel rails connected to the ceiling.

The lumps of meat being hacked at were not obviously once live creatures, but these half sides of pork were such remnants. They looked like the animals that paddled about in the mud in the little paddock opposite our tiny house, number 21 Sheep Street. They represented the difference between life and death.

Of course I didn’t then know what meat was. I remember seeing it all, looking back I understand. But I was still on baby food, not interested in what grown ups ate.  Didn’t even know the bigger people were grown ups, didn’t know I would become one. As far as I knew Winslow and me would always be the same.

On the way to the butchers we had passed the post office to collect the family allowance.  By this time I learned that I was a boy and girls were different. They were so mysteriously different that when my sister, who was three years older than me, had her weekly wash in our tin bath, in front of the living room fire- we had no running hot water, so it was all boiled once a week in kettle and sacepans on the gas stove- I had to be kept out of the way.  

In contrast, when it was my turn to be bathed, anyone was allowed into the room, including neighbours. Girls’ clothes were different too, so many clothes, colours. patterns and elaborate.  I wondered why.

So it was slightly disturbing when a curly haired lady behind the high wooden post office counter, who I later knew as Doreen Tofield, looked down at me in my little pale blue hooded siren suit, asking in a singing warbling sort of voice: ‘Is it a little girl, she is so pretty, she must be.’  At the time, all my blonde curls were peeking out from under my hood, like the halo of a saint, a picture of proverbial innocence.

Chapter Two ‘A Country Bumpkin.’

The author and angst ridden thinker Robert Cook, summer 1964, Sheep Street back garden. This garden had been my playgound, a wonderland full of imaginary cowboys and indians, Germans, World War battles, space stations and so much more.  I buried toys in that garden to keep them safe. Obviously I was very insecure.  That garden seemed such a very big place back then. A year used to be such a long time when I was a child. My favourite day was Christmas. After my father died, my mother did her best to keep the presents and happiness going. Cold made it warmer somehow as we clustered together.

My family background is eccentric. Winslow was, and still is, the English class system in microcosm. Mother was from the comfortably off Walker and Cripps building families.  Her Great Uncle Harry Cripps was the County Highways engineer who drew up plans for council houses and by passes in the twenties and thirties..

His big house in then posh Buckingham Road, where he lived with wife Ruby, was called ‘Gubblesgore’. The garden was so big it was sold off for housing in recent years. I remember Harry’s childless fur coat wearing widow, Aunt Ruby parking her black Ford Pilot car outside our house to deliver strawberries.

Mother’s father was a wandering Southern Irishman, coming to town during the harsh post World War One years to work, as many Irish did, to hated England, for employment as a groom at one of the big houses during the 1920s. So much for the luck of the Irish.  

World Trade Depression followed soon after him. So off he went for menial work in North London. He is buried with his wife in Finchley Cemetery.  

My mother was his fifth born- Catholics take the bible too seriously- with my maternal grandmother dying from what they used to call milk fever two weeks later. The year was 1924.  So she was brought back to her Winslow grandparents to be raised.

The woman she had thought was her mother died fourteen years later.  Then my mother was sent out to work as a cleaner for the post master’s wife.  War came in 1939 to broaden her horizons.   

The RAF moved into Winslow Hall in Sheep Steet, commanding local airfields as HQ to 92 OTU ( Operational Training Unit). Mother got a cleaning job there. RAF bomber crew survivor Sergeant Dickie Dyson married local girl Mavis Byford. Her father was on the ship that fired the last shot in World War One.  Dickie told me: ‘When I was based at RAF Little Horwood, the CO told us that the Bell Hotel was for officers only.  Phil and Bill Neal, who owned it replied to this with a message, we decide who drinks at The Bell. ‘  One has to ask what working people thought they were fighting for?

The local airfield was built on flat farmland between Little Horwood and Great Horwood Roads. So arrived with the RAF, 17 year old Bill, the love of my mother’s life who came up to speak to the woman he called ‘blondie’ on Winslow Market Square.  Being from the North East, my late mother had trouble understanding him.

She had just washed and was drying her long blonde hair by the town’s main pump. He was a rear gunner on a bomber.  Aircrew had a one in three chance of dying, So it wasn’t long before she was alone again. Crews were training.  

Their first sorties, out on Wellington bombers, were propaganda leaflet raids. Night training was dangerous.  My mother saw two Wellingtons collide over the North Marston Granborough sky. She told me that all the little pieces of aeroplane were like stardust floating down to earth.

The worst disaster killed many just behind the High Street.  The young pilot lost his bearings during night training, thinking the High Street was the airfield runway.  Only young Sergeant Harrington survived.

Soon after this happened, mother left her cleaning job at RAF HQ, Winslow Hall, to work as a lathe operator at the Firs bomb making factory in Whitchurch, a place affectionately known as Churchill’s Toy Shop.  My free thinking mother did not like Churchill, referring to him as a war monger. No doubt the death of her brother with the London Irish Rifles coloured her judgement, along with the loss of her sweetheart.

She met my military police man father when he was on guard duty at the gate outside her workplace . Edward John Cook the first had been a regular soldier wounded at Dunkirk in 1940.  He was a hard man from the grim back streets of Islington North London, close to where my mother had been born. Transferred to the Military Police, he trained Alsatian dogs.  

So it was his ambition to own an Alsatian of his own. That’s how dad came home from work one March Saturday, his birthday in 1957, unleashing the starving beast one of his dog breeding workmates sold him cheap.  ‘Prince of Winslow’ was five months old and had been returned to the breeder as untrainable.  

Dad thought he could tame him, nearly losing an arm in the process. His threats to have ‘Prince ‘ put down roused me to one of my few moments of rebellion.  ‘Prince’ was left alone with a truly Royal life style, reposing like the Sphinx on our back room dinner table, removing himself only for long walks, meat eating and tea drinking from a bowl. ‘Prince’ became my very best friend. As with my mother and father, I have never stopped missing him.  

I have never liked hard men, but discovered dad’s softer self while sitting at the bottom of his painful death bed, he talking about his life.  I was only eleven years old, before they took him away to hospital to die.

I stayed home from school in the January winter of 1962 to be with him. The house was very cold, we lived on National Assistance, family allowance and the pittance my mother earned as the ‘lollipop lady’ seeing kids safely into the school at the top of the hill in Sheep Street.

A stack of bricks had fallen on my father.  The rather condescending ex Royal Navy Doctor Rudd told him he had bruised ribs rather than a broken rib sticking into and ripping one of his lungs.  Removing the lung did not stop the infection that killed him.  

As an ex NCO, my father had the utmost faith and trust in the officer class even though he did not believe in God.  He was very English and knew his place, so in that sense he suited Winslow more than I ever did.

Father had used to cycle over ten miles to Bletchley brick works and back every day in all weathers- it was such a privilege to be a man back then, nearly killed fighting for his country, then finally killed by his job.

Though we could not afford the cost, the electric fire was on all that winter time. Our house was draughty, so a lot of the heat went out the doors and windows.  

I sat close to the fire, listening so intently to my father’s stories, that one day the heat started scorching my blue jumper. If he had not smelt the burning I would have caught alight as I was too cold to notice.

As a child, we were so poor, we slept under piles of old coats, with bricks heated before the open fire, to warm the bed. Going ‘wooding’ in local fields eked out the coal. March winds were a bonanza in this respect.  Coal came to town via the railway.

Here the wagons were unloaded into the Co-op coalyard, then delivered in sacks by Les Rowe from an ex army red blood coloured Bedford OW lorry.

Coalmen wore black leather bibs, carrying the coal on their strong backs, coal dust painting them and clothes black too.  

But that is me getting ahead of my story.

Father is long gone, so young when he died and just another working man.  

Soon I will be gone too. Dad once said to me that Winslow was a very boring place, you could never buy what you wanted and everything was knee deep in cow shit. Lucky for him he was a lorry driver with the London Brick Company.  So he travelled in his lorry, to places where he could get what he wanted.  Luckily for him he had a house rented at a peppercorn rent from my mother’s property owning Uncle Tom Walker.

It was a pretty basic place but better than most had, on the sunny side of town and a welcome escape from the bomb sites and hovels of North London where my parents spent the first three years of married life , also where my sister was born in 1947. My father used to taunt me that mother, him and my sister were cockneys, while I was just a country bumpkin.

My mother often said that the best thing about the war was bringing new blood to Winslow.

Chapter Three  ‘ A Religious Ruler ’

Royal British Legion Remberance Day Parade entering High Street in 1956. Approaching his death when I was 10, father told me that those who had really experienced the carnage of World War never celebrated or talked about it. I learned from his short life and death, the importance of scepticism {Author’s Collection}

Before I started school my best friend was the publican Frank Warner’s son Tony Warner. He had an older brother Brian who I never really knew. The pub was and still is called ‘The Nag’s Head’. There I sampled, thanks to Tony, my first cigarettes, though we never really knew how to smoke. It was popular with working men, very different from today.

Forever in mischief, I believe Tony fell from a tree in the fields that became Elmfields Estate behind the street, went off to hospital, his parents quit the pub for the council houses so I was left alone. There were other children around me when I started school, but they were tough council house boys, alien to over protected me. So it came to pass that I never played football as they did down the council house estates. ‘Give me the child until he is seven, and I will give you the man’ said the Jesuits.

Of course there were the nicer softer girls, but they were even more alien to me. According to my sister, boys were made of slugs and snails and puppy dog’s tails, while girls were made of sugar and spice and all things nice.

One Sunday Tony and I were playing in the street when he started shouting and banging on the wooden gates of the Curtiss’s home, former Black Horse pub (which closed by order of Lord of The Manor McQuoradale in 1924 because he didn’t like the noise so near his stately Winslow Hall) , next to ‘Penny Cottage’ in Sheep Street. Here, Peter Curtiss had a side yard full of cars for sale. Tony’s behaviour annoyed him.

So I was amazed and amused when a bucket of water slowly appeared above the gates, tipped and drenched little Tony who went screaming, shaking himself and running back to the ‘Nag’s Head.’

Another Sunday, a young rather elegant young lady called Joyce Hawkins trotted down to us on her stately high heels and in her Sunday best frock, asking if we would like to come to her parent’s house and watch television.

We both said a delighted ‘Yes please.’ She instructed us to go home and wash our hands first. It was the first time I ever saw such magic, rather concerned that all the little people in the box might escape and cause me harm.

By the time I met Tony again he had found Jesus, via the nurses in hospital. My parents, in spite of mother’s Christian upbringing- her grandfather Walker earned the nickname ‘Pius Walker’, his house on the market square being called ‘Perseverance House’ – were at best agnostic. So I would have none of this.

As a pre school child, and until my father’s terminal accident when I was 10, our only holidays were going back to my parent’s birth place and relatives in North London. It was an area then with many bomb sites, poverty and slums.  Unfortunately, even as a young child I was too questioning.

My father was one of the first, if not the first cockney to set up home in Winslow.  He was an outsider, who as a regular soldier aged 21, survived wounding at the fiasco of Dunkirk- after which Churchill sacked his commander Gort because Gort refused to fight to and kill the last man.

I could read before I went to school. So I read a poster on the Post Office wall while my mother was signing her family allowance book. It featured a mushroom cloud with something about the H Bomb. There were also stacks of pamphlets advertising careers in the army and navy,

When I went next door to my aunt Flo Cripps’s house I asked what an H bomb was, I learned the worst. That is when she told me about the Americans bombing Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

She told me that a local man named Bamsey had been a prisoner of war with the Japanese. When he came back home he was a bag of bones, so the Japanese deserved the nuclear bomb.  

So having survived two years of infant classes behind the iron school railings, with all the hard knocks of being bullied by the bigger boys, knocked over onto the hard playground many times, I made it into Standard One, the first junior class hosted by the feared Miss ‘Polly Parrot’ Green.

Miss ‘Polly Parrot’ Green as sketched by me during one of her lessons in 1957. Those were the days of ink wells and wooden desks with hinged lids and little spaces for our stuff. I never understood why I won so many art competitions while I was at secondary school though my teacher Mrs Taylor was inspirational in many ways- yet again I am ahead of my story.

The Christian religion was then the backbone of Winslow’s social order.  Locally Lord Addington ranted about the dangers of the 1870 State Education Act, emphasising the need for bible teaching to be its mainstay.

So it came to pass that we sang ‘All things bright and beautiful all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful. The Lord God made them all, the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, God made them high or lowly and ordered their state.’

The impact of two world wars made many ordinary people doubt the love and power of God for good.  Other more earthly powers had been seen at work, captured and recorded on film and tape for future generations. The power of science had been revealed awesomely.  The days of religious propoganda and simplistic explanations for life and death on earth were in doubt.  

When my infant class teacher. Miss Cole, told us about dying and going to heaven, I wondered why I could not just get into an aeroplane like the Comet IV jet airliner and be flown there right away.

However, rural people were slow to change. The majority deferred to their betters , always voting Tory, crediting Churchill for defeating Hitler rather than wondering why Hitler came to power in the first place.

And so it still was when I entered Standard One.  Polly Green was one of God’s finest warriors. So, one day in the autumn of 1957, Polly was sat high on her perch, in front of her old stately wooden desk, her hard leather wrinkled face topped by a pile of grey curls to rival Marge Simpson.

That morning, after playtime, Miss Green was telling our class about how the Bible was written. Maybe I was the only one listening.  I noticed the girls always acted like angels, never noisy, looking pretty, ribbons in their hair. She was talking about ancient parchments and tablets being dug up in what she called, in softening respectful tones, ‘The Holy Land.’

As she spoke imperiously ex cathedra like The Pope , her beady brown eyes squinted and scanned the young subjects.  Thin unpainted lips were pursed while she shared the secrets of the holy book, a grim black bulging copy of which lay under her gnarled 70 plus year old left hand.. I listened very carefully while she told us how all of this wisdom was excavated 2000 years earlier, then turned into a book telling us all about our creation and about what is right and wrong.

When she had finished, I cautiously raised my tiny young hand. A runnel of tension curled excitingly in my stomach.  She looked down like a bewigged old judge out of touch with my lowly reality.  ‘What do you want Cook. No you cannot go to the toilet. You should have done at play time.’  ‘No miss, please miss, I want to ask a question.’

‘Question, question, I never said anyone could ask questions. I am telling you the word of God. There are no questions.’ she squawked. Her old unmade up face was going red.  What you saw with this tiny woman was what you got.  That is why I liked her, and she fascinated me.  I still feel the same about her.  She was inspirational.

‘But miss, I don’t understand.  ‘When I was young’ – I felt very old after being shut in this horrible Victorian style building for two years; the Sheep Street National School opened in 1903 and Miss Green looked as if she had worked their since day one.  ‘Young, young, what do you mean. Do you think you are more than a little boy?’ Then with an evil smirk, she leaned back in her high chair, deciding to give me enough rope to hang myself, I suspect.  This gargoyle of a woman was her own truth.

Undeterred, I followed my childish logic. ‘I used to bury my toys in the garden. I used to read Noddy books.  I believed in Noddy.  Does that mean that if I buried my Noddy books in the garden, then there was a big nuclear war, and in 2000 years time the survivors dug up my Noddy books that they would believe in Noddy.?’

Polly was parrot by nickname and a bird by nature.  She swept down from her perch, her red cardigan flapping open, baggy blue cotton dress billowing behind her, beak of a nose pink with blood pressure, sensible shoes making her sure of foot.

To me she was more vulture than parrot.  It was not as if I had not been warned by my sister and her friends who had passed through her wrinkled grasp before me.

So like a vulture she swept me up from my little wooden seat, claws on my skinny shoulders and flew me out of the room. ‘Stand there, don’t move you horrible little boy.  I will see to you later.’ Bare legs trembling, fighting back tears, I stood like a guard at Windsor Castle.

‘Polly’s classroom door opened into the school’s only corridor. Its walls were gloss cream painted brick, no plaster, no faking niceness. Just past the headmaster’s door, on the end wall, a big clock tick tocked.

Always a nervous child, I had yet to master the skill of reading time. Standing there, legs quaking wondering what I had done and what punishment to expect, time stood still for me.

Then at last I heard the bell ring, I heard the scraping of little chairs over the rough splintery unvarnished parquet floor, squawked commands, then the door flung open. Children scuttled past me, girls first as always. Then for long moments time stopped once more.

At last out came ‘Polly Parrot’ beady evil eyes looking me up and down, twelve inch ruler in hand.  Not a word was spoken, Swiftly she bent down, aiming the springy wood at my little bare legs. There were scabs on my knees from where big boys had pushed me over for laughs so many times.

My long grey socks were down around my ankles, making my calves a softer target. I looked at the pile of grey curls, smelt her well soaped body, then felt the sting as she slashed at my legs in her biblical frenzy.  Still not a word was spoken. Up she got, turned on her sensible flat heeled shoes, scuttling back into her cave.  

I was too surprised to cry. So many years later, I am grateful for that valuable lesson she gave me.  There would be many more lessons and teachers, but that was more than six of the best.  She was very religious ruler.

Chapter Four Fun in those Days

Les Brazier outside the Bell Garage in Sheep Street 1963.

I always dreaded being old.  My father was 41 when he died in great pain.  Mother said he was over the moon when I was born on a cold winter’s day in December 1950.  

Every birthday she told me the same story of how, in the early hours of December 6^th, he skated on frozen ground his way up Sheep Street, High Street, Avenue and Park Road to rouse Nurse Rolfe, a distant relation on her side of the family.  

The street lights went out at midnight in those days so he did it all in the dark.  Traffic was scarce and we poor folk had no telephones.

Born during the so called ‘hour of the wolf ‘ in the upstairs front room of number 21, apparently I refused to breath and Doctor Murphy had to be called urgently.  

A bowl of cold water and smack on the bottom did the trick. So I have been here ever since, though it has been touch and go. As with all of us, my time will soon come.  ‘All things are bounded and temporal as one of Winslow’s old vicars, Rev H. I. I. Denny said long ago.  ( see ‘The Book of Winslow by Robert Cook ).

Relieved to hear me crying for the first of many times, there was celebration, though dad would soon be back behind the wheel of his old lorry.

My passion for cars and trucks came from my dad’s work as a lorry driver and truck mechanic, skills learned during life in the army. I grew up with the smell of diesel and petrol, riding in my father’s brick lorry along with the rest of the family at weekends and in school holidays.

My school boy sketch of my dad’s brick lorry waiting to pick us up for a summer time excursion into the ever expanding house building sites of South Bucks in the 1950s. We never knew until the night before where we were going.  The most exciting place was Hayes in Middlesex, close to Heathrow Airport.  If dad had enough spare miles he would park by the airport’s boundary fence so I could watch the airliners landing and taking off. That was when I saw the world’s first jet airliner, the DH Comet.

I admired my father’s trade so much, I could not wait to grow up and drive a brick lorry of my own. He had built me a soap box cart complete with braking system when I was about 8 years old. So in my mind it was a brick lorry.  That was when I decided I wanted more carts and to build my own.  They would be a fleet with numbers on.

When dad was building his chicken houses and chicken runs in the garden, he dug down to get some sand to mix cement, passing through clay.  He explained it all too me. So when he had finished, I dug holes, dug out the clay, made cubes which I left to bake in the sun. (Read my book ‘Bucks Bricks’.}

Then I loaded them on my cart, got a neighbour’s boy to push me into town delivering my bricks in people’s front gardens. My father soon closed my brickyard down because he and mother kept tripping over all the little holes in the garden.

The Bell Garage at the top of Sheep Street, just before the High Street was another wonderful place for me.  The proprietor was Les Brazier, a farmer’s son who loved engines more than farming.  There were all sorts of cars there, filling up with petrol or being mended.

I interviewed Les in 2000.  He told me:  ‘I bought the Bell Garage in 1952. At one time it had been run by the Bell Hotel.  I bought it off Peter Curtiss who carried on working for me.  I remember we had an old Hillman Minx down the side of the garage.  Peter said we ought to start it up so we could sell it.  We got a battery and turned it over.  No good, so we poured some petrol down the air cleaner.  All of a sudden it backfired, caught the can of petrol alight that was in Peter’s hand.  He threw it in the road right in front of a man riding his bike.  Lucky it didn’t hit him, but we did get it started.

‘We were right on the main road which was often busy.  Mr Wigley- a prominent auctioneer and land agent- senior used to drive across the Market Square to get petrol.  We’d stand there directing him.  He was very deaf and would sit in the middle of the road in this old Austin 10.  By the time he’d got it in gear there was something coming, so we’d shout ‘Stop’ and he’d say ‘You said go’.

‘He’d ring up a night or two later and say ‘Mr Brazier, would you come over, the car’s in the rose bushes. ‘ He’d had one too many.  We’d go over to Steeple Claydon and we’d get it out.  We had some fun in those days.  Cars were still pretty basic.  There was no unleaded petrol.  You were mostly taking the heads off the engines and replacing the valves.  Not many cars did more than 40 mph.’

There was no breath testing in the good old days and few road accidents to my knowledge. I remember a BBC personality living locally, I think his name was McDonald Bailey, killed with his wife driving home to Winslow in about 1957, near Shipton. He lost control of his Austin car at the top of No’rs Hill. But with increasing traffic there was worse to come.

Winslow had its own police station in Station Road, run by Sergeant Barringham. He had one grim black police car for himself and driver. The rest of his large team rode bicycles.

The worst crime I recall back then was when the local school was burgled, the thief taking a stop watch and starting gun, God knows what for. The magistrates court adjoined the police station, overseen by Captain Micklem.  When the session was over he would adjourn to the Bell. Micklem had a tin leg.

Interviewing local deli owner Maurice Newman for the Aylesbury Plus newspaper, back in the 1980s, Maurice told me that local Tory stalwart Captain Micklem was his CO in wartime Oxford, beds and Bucks light infantry.  I said ‘Oh yes, he was a war hero, lost his leg.’  

Maurice laughed. ‘He lost his leg fooling around with a rifle, drunk in the barracks one night, shot himself.’  Obviously I found that hard to believe, but who knows, as a local top cop once said to me!  There is no doubt the Micklems were prominent, and all families have their troubles.

Those were the days when the fledgling TV advertisements promoted drinking with ditties like ‘Guiness, Guiness gives you strength.’  The town had nine pubs in the 1950s, counting some members of the local constabulary among their regulars.

Getting ahead of my story again, I recall serving drinks to Barringham’s successor, then staggering Sergeant Gilchrist, at a local dance in 1971.  He was in the company of equally inebriated Dr Patrick Murphy. As a matter of interest, the good doctor had served in the merchant marine on the Russian convoys during World War Two.

When Doctor Murphy wanted lunchtime relaxation he had a problem.  There were no secretaries or answer phone at Norden House.  He explained to me, during an interview for the ‘Aylesbury Plus’ newspaper: ‘I would ring up Mr Carpenter- a retired chimney sweep- at Winslow Telephone Exchange and maybe say: “Mr C, I’m off to the Folly for half an hour.  Let me know if any urgent calls come in.”  He would often reply: “I suggest the Shoulder of Mutton, doctor, most of your friends are there.” ‘

Chapter Five Just the Ticket

• M Cain started his bus company with his brother and uncle in the early 1920s but was forced out of London when London buses were nationalised into London Transport.  Here is one of Red Rover’s ex London Transport buses in Winslow High Street, being driven by Mr Howlett, the man who founded Acclaim Travel with his wife Grace Durham who can be seen chatting with him in this late 1950s picture ( Grace Durham. The Red Rover Story by Robert Cook )

The word omnibus means for all. The word was shortened to bus, but buses have never been for all.  Buses were intended for the workers. Railway trains also used to be affordable for the lower orders, even if they had to travel third class.

These days the nationalised railways have been given back, rather than sold to private capitalists by the locally admired Tory Government. Ticket prices have soared for the commuter market from dormitory towns, better off locals driving their BMWs at break neck speed to Milton Keynes and Aylesbury stations for well paid jobs in other town and Londons.  

These high paid folk have pushed house prices through the roof while council houses have been sold off at a song, then re sold at vast profit.

I made my loathing for Thatcher clear during my time teaching in a Tory dominated school in Aylesbury and in my work as a journalist for the Aylesbury Plus.

I was the Winslow reporter and Junius columnist ridiculing and exposing the incompetence and corrosive political correctness of Bucks County Councils Education service- a service so awful that I had to expose Chief Education Officer Steven Sharpe for sending his 12 plus failure daughter to school out of County in Oxfordshire’s comprehensive system.  

He told the reporter I sent to photograph and interview him, ‘My wife decides these things.’  That sounds rather like local MP John Bercow’s lame excuse for saying the anti Brexit sticker was on his car for being his wife’s car, even though it was in the House of Commons car park.

I first encountered Labour Parliamentary candidate Bob Maxwell when his glamorous entourage visited my uncle and aunt’s house in 1959.  They ran the Labour Party Committee rooms at 23 Sheep Street.  Maxwell shocked the well to do by winning the seat against Tory grandee Sir Frank Markham in 1964.  

Class is not just a Winslow thing.  It is a British thing. Feminism, anti racism and diversity are smokescreens.  Thatcherism killed old Labour. Now, with Brexit, the country is supposedly confused. That is nonsense. Our elite are just trying to fool us into thinking a deal where we stay in the union with no MEPs to represent and cause upset is actually Brexit.  Believe that you will believe anything.

We hear too much about diversity in Britain, a euphemism for fragmentation. Two twentieth century world wars accelerated technology, though the profits have not been shared with the ordinary fold who did and still do the fighting.  

Winslow Station, (sketched by the author), on Thomas Brassey’s 1851 old Oxford to Cambridge line, crucial during World War Two, derelict in 1985 abandoned after being used as a workshop in the 1970s.  

The line was closed by order of Minister of Transport Oxbridge graduate Barbara Castle, a lady who knew so little about transport that she could not even drive a car- see ‘The Richard Crossman Diaries’.  Castle mentored Jack Straw, another Labour high flyer.

It amazes me how Dr Beeching gets the blame for closing the line in 1967, the year they started building Milton Keynes.  That is politicians for you.  When I interviewed the last chairman of British Rail, Sir John Reid, for a magazine, he told me that Prime Minister John Major was clueless about railways, just wanting to privatise something like his heroine millionaire’s wife Thatcher, and British Rail was one of the few things left to do that with.

In its heyday Winslow’s station connected the town to the West Coast mainline, East Anglia, Oxford, and Banbury.  Castle ended all that- not Beeching.

Epilogue Hope and Illusions

R J Saunders shop in Winslow High Street. 1956. Reg was also a part time fireman.  Conveniently for him, they built the new fire station opposite this building, which was his home and shop. The new fire station featured an old air raid siren on top to alert the crew who might be at home or work all over the little town. Saunders sold my dad his bicycle, which I still have.  Best of all, he sold Dinky Toys and Hornby railways. Bert Small the barber was next door. I hated the barbers so mum always bribed me with a Dinky toy to get my hair cut. The money for the toy usually came froma  rebate when the gas man counted the money in our gas meter.

Two twentieth century world wars were all about empires and greed of the interbred European ruling elites.  While lecturing in political history at Aylesbury College of Further Education in the early 1980s, many students didn’t like hearing this and complained. A lot were feminist social worker types, improving career prospects doing evening A level classes. Too bad, the truth always hurts and the comfortable and ignorant do not like it.

On the plus side, for all the mass slaughter and misery, science, technology and manufacturing moved forward apace.  

Televison was first broadcast in 1936.  Twenty years later H Shaped TV aerials popped up on chimney pots all over town.

My Uncle Charlie Cripps next door to us had more money because he had already had the first of his terrible accidents on a building site. So we used to go next door, sitting on his sofa to see the world through the little screen front of the big Pye television set that had cost him a lot of money.  

Bricklayer, Uncle Charlie loved his television, especially Tommy Cooper’s show, always keeping up to date.  Leaving school unable to read and write, he had a sad life.  I recall him telling me how good an impressionist Tommy Cooper was.  He said:  ‘When he puts on a policeman’s helmet, he looks just like a policeman.’  Charlie painted water colours.

The black and white 405 line system of 1956 was not so clear as you can imagine if you were not there.  But it was better than the old static images of the so called magic lantern given to me by the Lambournes on the opposite side of Sheep Street- along with my first grown up brass bedstead bed, because they were getting rid of stiff before moving to the council houses. Winslow was a self supporting community in those days.

We got our own TV set in 1957, installed by a team led by ex field promoted army officer and radio expert Arthur Adkins, uncle to one of my best ever friends Steven- we went off to university together after being club and county athletes together. Steven was a runner of world class potential, but that is another story. He was also my rival in many ways, as we were aspiring intellectuals. He once told me how much he enjoyed talking to me.  

When I asked him why, he smoothly replied:  ‘Because you are so ignorant.’  We were about 17 at the time, in the back seat of a car, on the way to compete in the National Cross Country Championships.  He was reading Samuel Butler’s ‘Erewohn’ at the time. Like ‘Polly’ my friend was inspirational.  

This was the 1950s and early 60s in small town Winslow. I was a kid who still made model aeroplanes and played with his model railway. I took my Uncle Charle’s empty beer bottles back to the ‘Nag’s Head’ get full ones, collecting the deposit for me to save and buy more track for my railway.  So I was indeed ignorant. Steven’s contempt inspired my interest in literature.

Back to the main story, for the masses, it was television that was shaping the new consciousness.  As Winslow moved into the 1960s TV drama, pop music and news were re shaping the world and Winslow.  Moralising Dixon of Dock Green and Sunday Night at the London Palladium with leggy sequined tight wearing Tiller Girsl opening the show, for a fianle with the likes of Gracie Fields and Shirley Bassey were fading TV interests, fuddy duddy and shows of the past.

Britain’s empire was in decline and the local newspaper brought us the thrilling story of local hero Gunner Chowles fighting a rearguard against Aden’s Moslem rebels.  

The world was changing.  My father was still listening to his record player, probably the first home built stereo in town, buying his records form Hallahans, another TV and radio shop fronted by Miss Andrews, on land now occupied by Elmfield Gate’s road exit on to High Street.

My father was dying then, along with the old ways of Winslow, all the cow shit he hated getting lesser everyday. No more grumpy old Jack Hone, McQuordale’s man putt putting up Sheep Street on his high old Fordson tractor stinking out the street with clouds of tractor vapourising oil-  TVO as we nerds call it.

Stan Blake, my mother’s cousin- her aunt Violet Cripps married spiv, con man and travelling salesman Barney Blake- up from Kent , sitting on a farm machine by the iron railings of Winslow School.  

The school was a place I hated.  The picture was taken c1930. Winslow Hall’s roof can be seen peeking over the hedge in the background.  The school’s outside toilets are visible left.  There was no full roof, so boys used to compete to see who could project their urine highest over the wall on to the playground. This was another sport I failed at.  The standard was high, one boy managing to drench the deputy headmasters, Jim Hall’s head with his jet. The school was sold off in the early 1990s for luxury housing,

When I started at Winslow School, the leaving age was 14. Those who passed the 11 plus transferred to grammar schools, as my clever sister did. She and I were never close so I have few memories of her there, other than teachers telling me that I was nowhere near as clever as her. On the plus side, the headmaster was an ex soldier Norman Bevan, a man from a wider world than Winslow.  

The school was not the same after Bevan left to head the new secondary modern school at the other end of town and village school master Arthur Chapman took over with his rather snobbish wife being my last teacher before I left aged 11. The school also lost a good deputy head, Jim Hall.

Jim Hall, a severe looking man with slicked down hair, thanks to Brylcream, was another ex army man and a stickler for PE. Our school had no playground, so until the secondary modern school was built we used to trek up the Little Horwood Road, then climb over old grey rotting wooden style by the double bend, walk down the footpath where the cycle way and Elmfields are today, to the old long gone recreation ground to play cricket.

This was every Friday afternoon from May to September, excepting holidays and I hated it.  Being on the receiving end of a hard wooden ball, with  aheavy bat to defend poorly coordinated self, was not my idea of fun.

The secondary school changed all that.  We were going to play football for the first time.  Jim gave us a briefing in the school canteen hut.  He said it was important to stick to our positions.  At the time my father was supposedly but not recovering from his failed operation, so he had no wages. Wanting to look the part, mum persuaded Uncle Charlie to buy the boots from Hilton’s shoe shop, along with socks and shin pads.

Off we went, two by two like the animals boarding Noah’s Ark. The new school at the end of Avenue Road looked amazing as we went through the front gate. Dividing us into teams, Jim- whistle around his neck- organised us in positions. Probably because I could at least run fast, I was near the middle where a circle was marked at the centre of the pitch. That was the half way line dividing the team ends.  

One sharp burst from Jim’s whistle and we were off. Well everyone was off except me as I had no idea what was going on.  We did not play football in Sheep Street.

Apart from me, the boys were very excited, calling out to each other, slipping over, desperate to get the heavy leather ball then kick it between the goal posts.  Boys got peer group respect this way.

At half time there was lots of gasping, laying down and rubbing calf muscles and excited chatter involving all except me. The field sloped quite steeply, so my team did a bit better when we changed ends- though still losing.  I did not care, never understanding the passion of football and its supporters.  I have never watched Winslow United play.

So at the end of the match Jim called to the boys, ‘Come on, gather round Cook. Now, look at his feet.  He hasn’t even got his boots dirty.  Little angelic me just looked up into his red seemingly angry face and said: ‘But Sir, you did tell us to stick to our positions.’ Instead of getting my class mates to laugh at me, they laughed at Jim.

The country may then have had hopes and illusions about its future, but after Bevan left so did any hopes I ever had.  As for illusions, I had none by that time.  New headmaster’s wife Mrs Chapman, my last teacher, made it quite clear she thought I was thick. Her glasses were Dame Edna Everidge style, her cheeks chubby, giving the impression that she was always smiling, though often rather nasty. She was the only other teacher at that school to hit me. I don’t recall why, probably for talking out of turn.  

I remember Chapman dragging me from my seat, pushing me tumbling between rows of wooden desks, then tugging, in a rage, directing me to her classroom door, slapping my head from side to side as she pushed me out.

Teachers had a licence to hit, some of them obviously enjoyed it.  There was something very Dickensian about that old school, teachers attitudes and the smell of wood and cheap ink from the ink wells in every pupils desks.

As for hopes, growing up in poverty and hardship at the bottom of the Winslow pile, I never had illusions or delusions.  I have none now.  

As for Britain, the Brexit con and fiasco says it all.  This is a new and sinister age of elite control and censorship. Little Winslow is not an island, but some of its people live in a bubble.  Criticism is a dirty word as far as the elite and vested interests are concerned.

One of my most disturbing memories of Winslow is the workhouse.  There is an old peoples’ home built on the site now. Years ago we used to see a trail of old men and women walking holding hands like school children, all down the High Street, Sheep Street, Little Horwood Road.

They walked out every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, like little children, innocent smiling faces, except the one mum called Albert who had no friend’s hand to hold.  He followed up behind. We saw them always on Sundays while walking ‘Prince’ down to let him lose in a field by the railway bridge a mile out of town. Prince enjoyed those moments of freedom, as we all do.

Though of clean and tidy appearance, their clothes were unusual, men with stiff winged collars to their shirts, double breasted suits, turn ups and brogues, women in floral dresses and flapper style hats from the 1920s.  

Self important Dr Rudd and lay preacher wrote a patronising pamphlet for his audience of admirers.  It was apparently about his role as medical officer for these sad old folk who lived in the workhouse.  Rudd made no mention of why those people were in there.  The women had been sent there when young and troublesome to parents who lived in a religious snobbish hypocritical England.  Rudd made no mention of young girls put in that horrible place because, oh dear, they had babies out of wedlock.

They never saw those babies. One of my many arguments with Norman Saving, probably the worst, was when I told him I would tell the tale of the young Turney girl, , aged 19, condemned to death for drowning her baby in Granborough Brook in 1924- the year my late mother was born.  

I told him the story would be in ‘The Book of Winslow’ (1989).  He told me that I was displaying my tabloid journalist mentality. One did not have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out the backstory.  This poor girl, described in the vulture like press, as having a mental age of 12, had been in service with a wealthy family in Guildford- the master of the house a wealthy powerful man. This little country is all about class.

Local history and its exponents talk amongst themselves and for themselves.  I am not a local historian, but am Winslow born just after a murderous world war and now living in a crazy dangerous complex age.  Human instincts are ultimately religious, reproductive, selfish, superstitious, fearful and ultimately animal.  Those instincts will out, however strong the boxes. Even coffins rot away.

My old sketch of McQuoradale’s obseqious brown coated estate manager Jack Hone astride his Fordson tractor, taken from my book ‘Before the Supremacy of the Motorcar’ 1982, That memoir of mine pictures him at what is now the entrance to Elmfields Housing Estate.

Looking back on my first schooldays, three women were definitive.  Miss Cole, the wonderful innocent infant teacher, Miss Green, a woman of her own truth and justice, and Mrs Chapman, a toady to the local class system who influenced me in unintended ways. Winslow is fertile ground for narrow minds.

As a child I remember tramps coming round to our back door, hoping to have their ‘billy cans’ filled and maybe a few scraps of food. Life at the bottom of Winslow’s pile, was hard for me and others, but worse for those tramps. Poverty is relative.

Snobbery was rife in Winslow and still exists. Their are two kinds of snob, the ones who look up to their ‘betters’- inverted snobs as my mother called them- and those who look down on their inferiors.  That order was reinforced by church and school.

Deprivation with all of its humiliations and insecurities is difficult.  For me the most moving words ever written about Winslow were found inscribed on a wall in Winslow Workhouse:

‘Of all sorts of business

The cadgers are the best;

Because when he is tired ,

He can sit down and rest

Here lies a poor beggar

Life always tired,

For he lived in a world

Where too much is required.

Friends grieve not for me,

That death is severe;

For I am going to do nothing

For ever and ever,

Poor old M is dead and gone,

He’s gone to a place

Where there is no breaking up stone.’

R J Cook May 21^st 2019 Search for:

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