Sound Affects

Sound Affects

Shake your chains to Earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you

Ye are many, they are few.

I read these lines, like many kids my age, in the winter of 1980, on
the back of The Jam’s ‘Sound Affects’ album. Unlike most pre-teens, I
suspect, I admired the cadence and scoffed at the sentiment. I knew
different: they were not – and are not – few, at all.

I was at the time twelve years old, and prostitute to Peter Hayman. I
attended his private apartment weekly to fellate his anal prolapse –
this was his personal peccadillo – and to be brutally raped and abused
for his entertainment by guests like Harvey Proctor and Derek Laud. I
had a dozen other regular ‘privates’, and was required to attend
rape-parties at Dolphin Square and elsewhere in Pimlico, London, and
around southern England, weekly too. I remember buying Start!
that autumn, the big single from Sound Affects, in Woolworth’s: I got
the bright cerise glossy cover, but it had no middle. I half-inched one
from a dopey John Lennon single and paid my 85p.

I played Start! for the first time in my room, on an old mono
dansette knock-off from the 1960s: even through the tin-can speaker, the
neural spikes of Weller’s cut-off power-chords and his raucous
distorted solo made me writhe with delight. Even hope: this was the
opposite of chart pop, the creepy Stringfellow’s grind of Yes Sir I Can Boogie, or the happy-hooker fantasy-confessional I’ve Never Been To Me,
or any of the sleazy-listening soft-porn favoured by Saville and pals
at Radio 1. The Jam felt real, in 1980, when little else did.

It seems a strange time, with hindsight, though was not so perhaps.
In 1978, the hit musical Grease’s pussy-and-cum spattered lyrics were
marketed aggressively to pre-pubescents; its Hollywood follow-up, Bugsy
Malone, had for a showstopper an astonishingly uncomfortable
child-prostitute song – Talulla had a training/In North Carolina –
which remained a school-panto favourite until recently. Bill Wyman was
yet to score his “wild child”, Mandy Smith, to the ogling delight of the
British press, but underage ‘groupies’ had been standard fare at
rockstar and ‘elite’ parties for decades already: this was common
knowledge.

It was also personal knowledge, for me, for I was a ‘groupie’ too:
but not to a rock band. When I was ten, eleven and twelve, I wore high
heels and lingerie and makeup – in real life I was a boy who liked
skateboarding, and racing pigeons with my grandfather – to service a
cabal composed of what with hindsight seems like half of the Privy
Council and the Monday Club, many if not most political big names of the
period, plus a smattering of MI6 and Special Branch, plus the odd
regional police chief, or chief-criminal, or both, in town for a jolly.

At fourteen I was too old for the market. I took O-levels and
A-levels, kept myself going with Bensons and books. Kids who’d been
abused next to me started dying: car crashes on lonely roads, or out
drinking in London and just keeling after the first pint. I kept my head
down, worked shifts to earn cash, got myself out of that town and to a
radical poly, to equip myself.

A few years later, I was internationally respected in my chosen
profession and earning well. I began to seek help for the insomnia and
depression which had wrecked my week-to-week life since mid childhood.
This led to specialist help for sexual abuse, and then to heavy-duty NHS
help for the serious mental illnesses with which I was diagnosed. I
kept working, internationally, just, but ultimately, as I relived more
and more horrors in therapy, my sleep was too disturbed/nonexistent to
be productive at my old rate of knots, and I went on benefits. My wife
had recently had breast cancer, and a double-mastectomy, following which
we had a series of miscarriages: it felt like the sensible thing to do
at the time, as did giving evidence to the police about the sexual abuse
and exploitation in my childhood. The CPS did nothing, but this was
pre-Saville and par for the course.

All of these things did not seem wise when, first thing on February 2nd
this year, I was speaking to a senior Metropolitan Police officer about
child prostitution when the call was cut off. This happened repeatedly,
and strange threats flashed up on my computer screen. Then suddenly
there was a hammering at the door: uniformed police who, when I asked
for ID, showed me a plastic shield. When I asked for photo-ID, they told
me I’d been shown ID. They said they were responding to a complaint of a
man in a dress: I am transgender, have received NHS treatment for
gender transition for a year now, and legally changed my name to a
female one last autumn.

A condition of receiving treatment is that you live as a woman,
twenty-four seven. So back there on my doorstep, in my nightdress and
pom-pom slippers, the first Monday morning in February, after a couple
of hours of trying to put off the inevitable, I was raped by a uniformed
officer, and detained in a violent and dangerous psychiatric lockdown
ward for six days, on a section. This had been easy for the police to
obtain due to my history of mental health treatment and long-term
benefit dependence. During this detainment I was denied clothing – I was
barefoot all week, in a nightshirt and nothing else, with heavy snow
outside, and the heater in my room out of order; I was also denied soap
and prescription medicine and a razor, until the penultimate day.

When released, the police visited me again, claiming to be following
up another absurd complaint about me (someone was apparently worried
that I had spoken of an upcoming visit to Moscow on Facebook; I have had
a Moscow business partner since 2001). I summoned burly friends to
protect me, and fled my home county that afternoon. One of those burly
friends’ daughter, a new mum with first grandchild, was followed in an
aggressive and intimidating manner by one of the police officers
concerned the next day, for the duration of a shopping trip to the High
Street of the local town.

My wife and I decided, immediately, to leave the country for our own
safety. Multiple serious attempts on our lives were made as we left our
home town, and on the motorway to the airport, by large white Audi’s and
BMW’s with non-standard registrations (we were driving a tiny Kia,
laden with all our possessions). I remain in hiding overseas, with no
idea of when it might be safe to return – or what that safety could even
look like.

So I don’t regret my lack of support for the “we are the 99%”
protests of a few years back. That slogan made me feel the same kneejerk
oh for christ’s sake as the Shelley poem on the Jam album.
“They” are not 1%; they are not few. They never have been. You can’t
hold power that way, unless you use castles and boiling-oil, and they’ve
had a whole millennium to work on the British system.

And everyone knows this. The open secret of what “Rank Has Its
Privileges” really means in Britain is now the subject of major police
and judicial investigations, so far as the Establishment permit.
Meanwhile, as on every other day since the abuse began for me, I hear
scattered howls of outrage – overwhelmed, now, by crashing silence.

1st April 2015

The lighter, brighter side of fleeing-for-your-life from our murderous British Police and Security Services

Four years and two months ago I began giving evidence to British
police about the world of sexual abuse and child prostitution I was
forced into through my childhood.

I was still talking to a senior detective about my time as a child
prostitute exactly  one month, thirty days and nineteen hours ago, on a
phone call which was suddenly interrupted – and then interrupted again,
immediately, when we re-established the connection.

Two months ago (shy about five hours now) I was dragged from my house
by uniformed police, raped, and dumped on psycho ward, for what was
barely a week but felt like a dime. Upon my release, the same police
came back: I had to call brick-shithouse friends to protect me, and fled
the country with my partner of 17 years.

All the way to the airport, huge white Audi’s and BMW’s with
non-standard registrations – and male drivers in late middle-age,
gesticulating obscenely and mouthing threats – attempted to ram us, in a
tiny Kia, laden to the roof with all our possessions. It was only my
pathetic speed which allowed me repeatedly to dodge their
pedal-to-the-metal assaults – each time they loomed up in the rear-view,
I pulled sharp over to the far edge of the hard shoulder where,  if
they followed me at the 90 or so they were doing, they would obliterate
my car but end up on their roof in a field.

It worked, as far as Heathrow, and ever since it’s been a gap-year
whirlwind tour, as I move around the far side of the globe from safe
house to safe house; a gap-year gallivant decades too late, taken
suddenly and in stark terror , with no credit whatsoever, after five
years on disability for severe mental illnesses.

Lest this blog descend into a sourpuss complainathon, however, let me
detail the lighter side of being a global fugitive from Establishment
holocaust-scale child-rapists who have murdered with brazen impunity for
decades and only prospered, obscenely.

[Security and Intelligence Services, please choose either (1)s or
(2)s, from the following, and do not read your non-chosen option.
Reading both at once will cause you to get boo-boo in the head, and can
Nanny get her special cream in there? No miss, she can’t]

1) It is extremely cold where I am currently in hiding. Locals say
that there used to be a warm spring wind, this time of year, but only
the old ones really remember it now. When it’s like a witch’s teat,
people look up and say the spring wind is trying to blow in exactly the same way we Brits squint at the sky this time of year and say the sun is trying to come out. It’s sweet, but I’m homesick for daffs and tulips.

2) It is extremely hot where I am currently in hiding. Locals say
that there used to be a cool spring wind, this time of year, but only
the old ones really remember it now. When it’s like Lucifer’s arse after
a bleed’n vindaloo m8, people look up and say the spring wind is trying to blow in exactly the same way we Brits squint at the sky this time of year and say the sun is trying to come out. It’s sweet, but I’m homesick for daffs and tulips.

*

1) They drink a lot of sake where I am currently cringing in terror
as my eternal soul reels from the debasement of the days or even weeks
of mindsplitting humanity-degrading torture which will precede my murder
by the UK Police slash Security and/or Intelligence Services, and which
they will make look like a bizarre and
completely-unbelievable-until-everyone-reports-it sex prank slash drug
misadventure slash farewell crool worl’ slash polonium-pomegranate chai
slash wev the budget is this month (new fiscal year, boys and girls!
Have at me!!).

2) You would think they drink sake but actually they drink
Scotch where I am currently cringing in terror as my eternal soul reels
from the debasement of the days or even weeks of mindsplitting
humanity-degrading torture which will precede my murder by the UK Police
slash Security and/or Intelligence Services, and which they will make
look like a bizarre and
completely-unbelievable-until-everyone-reports-it sex prank slash drug
misadventure slash farewell crool worl’ slash polonium-pomegranate chai
slash wev the budget is this month (new fiscal year, boys and girls!
Have at me!!).

*

1) Etc

2) &c

*

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