Chapter 4 - My fair lady

Thanks due to Monica Weller for her voluminous and exhaustive research into the Ruth Ellis and Stephen Ward connections

Stephen Ward first met Ruth Ellis at some point in the late 1940s. Exactly what the nature of their relationship was I was never certain, however, Ellis, who had fled from abuse at the family home having giving birth aged just 17, would go on to find some form of gainful employment by posing for nude photographs and running nightclubs. The kind of nightclubs where influential men could obtain the company of pretty young things who would, for a fee, keep them warm at night.

Influential men, of course, need to know that details of their late night assignations are going to remain secret which is why it would have been most convenient for them when Ruth became the last female in the UK to feel the warmth of the hangman’s noose as it tightened sharply around her slender neck. She had been convicted of murder.

Now Ruth had been caught bang to rights with the smoking pistol still in her hands, when she shot, and killed, her boyfriend David Blakely outside a pub in Hampstead but, when visited by a solicitor on the eve of her execution and asked what had really happened on the fateful night she stated that she hadn’t told the truth because to do so “seemed traitorous – absolutely traitorous.”

Which is an interesting turn of phrase, don’t you think? Who was she protecting and just what secrets did she take with her to her grave? I did hear a rumour that she had slept with the Duke of Edinburgh, but that could just be bullshit.

What is true though is that Stephen Ward had used his showbiz contacts to secure Ruth an appearance in the 1951 film Lady Godiva Rides Again which starred Kay Kendall, Joan Collins, Diana Dors, Jane Hart, Pat Marlowe and Gina Egan.

Following filming, in her 1981 autobiography Dors by Diana, the delightful Miss Double D recalled: “I commenced filming on location at Folkestone where I met a beautiful young girl named Jane Hart who was playing a small role…when the boyfriend arrived at our hotel I did not take to him at all: he looked devious and was something of a show-off…he found fame as a slick society doctor among the jet set…My earlier opinion of him was confirmed in 1963, however, when Dr Stephen Ward died from an overdose of drugs after it had been revealed that he was behind the Christine Keeler affair…”

Which all sounds rather a little too disingenuous to me? She may not have liked Ward but she certainly moved in the same circles, attended the same parties, utilised the same surreptitious and devious two-way mirror recording techniques and covered her tracks by employing the very same lawyer: the lady doth protest too much, methinks!

Kay Kendall was a close friend of Ward. Indeed, at the time that John Profumo first met his future wife – another actress – Valerie Hobson in 1947 she was, rather inconveniently, already married. No problem, however, as Kay Kendall was busily employed to keep Hobson’s husband off the scent by fucking him senseless. Could this deception have been arranged by Ward? Almost certainly.

Pat Marlowe was yet another friend of Ward’s. She, allegedly, had an affair with Lord Astor, before, certainly, giving birth to the illegitimate child of the famous entertainer Max Bygraves. He would then pay her £10,000 in ‘shut your mouth’ money in order that she kept schtum* about the child’s paternity.

*Schtum = say nothing - especially in circumstances where saying the wrong thing may get you into trouble.

In August 1962 Pat was discovered dead in bed from, yes you guessed it, yet another drug overdose. Barbiturates prescribed for ‘depression’ in this case.

Gina Egan meanwhile, who worked with Ruth Ellis at the Little Club in Knightsbridge, was also friends with one Vicki Martin whose flat-mate in London was Ruth Ellis. Circles within circles. Again. Gina Egan would go on to marry the Maharajah of Cooch Behar; about whom I shall reveal more imminently.

However, it is worth considering just how influential Ward must have been within showbiz circles in order that he could arrange for his girls to appear in these movies. One wonders if Ward was trying to establish himself as a show-business impresario, or, perhaps, he had employed the services of one.

Vicki Martin had been born Valerie Mewes in 1931. She first met Stephen Ward in a doorway on London’s Oxford Street when they were both sheltering from a thunderstorm, or so he claimed. He took her in and began his Henry Higgins act (ironically, the fictitious Pygmalion character Higgins operated from Wimpole Street, as did Stephen Ward, whilst its star, Rex Harrison, would marry Ward’s friend Kay Kendall), transforming her from small-town provincial girl into the hottest glamour model in London. He got her a job at Murray’s Cabaret Club and she started to pick up bits and pieces of acting work including, in 1952, an appearance in the film, It Started in Paradise with Kay Kendall, who had been in Lady Godiva Rides Again with Ruth Ellis etc.

Pretty soon she had picked up something far more valuable than a bit-part; the Maharajah of Cooch Behar.

The exotically monikered Maharajah was something of a 1950s playboy whose horse-racing colours had graced many a racing-meet up and down the country. On the day he first met Vicki he is said to have walked into the Dorchester Hotel and ordered that the entire contents of its flower shop be delivered to her.

His largesse did not stop there, however, as he also commissioned the renowned artist Vasco Lazzolo to paint her portrait. In this endeavour he was not alone as she had also been previously sketched by Stephen Ward, and indeed, Ward and Lazzolo were pals.

Both were members of the infamous Thursday Club – along with the Duke of Edinburgh and where the Kray Twins or the spy Kim Philby were prone to drop by to chew the fat with the great and the good – and Lazzolo gave evidence in Ward’s defence at his trial. In this respect Lazzolo was taking a big risk as he had been warned by Detective Chief Inspector Samuel Herbert – who also investigated the Stripper murders - that by doing so he risked being discredited, perhaps by the ‘discovery’ of some pornographic material in his studio which could lead to a subsequent prosecution.

But back to the Maharajah, who had, by now, become extremely eager to add a veneer of respectability to Lazzolo’s portrait by placing a ring on the finger of the exalted Miss Martin. Unfortunately for him his family did not share his joy at the prospect of the ensuing nuptials and they threatened to divorce him from his wealth should he insist upon - euphemism alert! - taking her up the aisle. They needn’t have worried though, for not long afterwards Vicki found she wouldn’t be going anywhere anymore.

Vicki was, it seems, as fond of a fast car as she was a fast buck. She was also rather prone to crashing fast cars too. Some estimates put her motoring misdemeanours at a staggering twelve accidents, before, on January 9th 1955, the unlucky thirteenth claimed her life when she smashed head first into a newly-wed couple in Maidenhead in Berkshire; however, if the brides maidenhead was still intact at this point is unclear!

Vicki, despite never really working, left some £2,000 in her will, which at today’s values would be worth around £45,000. Certainly a far better return than poor old punch-drunk Freddie Mills ever managed to accrue!

With Vicki that fateful night was a Canadian author, who claimed an obscure connection to the Jack the Ripper case, by the name of Terence Robertson. Robertson alleged in 1950 that he had discovered an additional victim of the Whitechapel fiend with his discovery of the case of the delightfully named prostitute Fairy Fay who had met her demise on the night of Boxing Day 1887. Fast forward five years from his ‘discovery’, to 1955, and Robertson would find himself standing before a judge claiming that he had absolutely no memory of the car accident that killed Vicki, possibly because, at an earlier inquest hearing numerous friends of Vicki’s had told the judge that she could not drive!

So just who was driving that dramatic evening remains a mystery, as do Vicki’s earlier movements on the night in question. Some claim she had been at a nightclub, some a restaurant, some even claim she had been at Lord Astor’s residence, Cliveden House, but I guess we will never know for sure. Robertson’s wonky memory would come back to haunt him with tragic implications when he landed up as another of those poor unfortunates who ‘forgets’ just how many sleeping pills they’ve already taken. It is truly amazing just how many people with secrets have difficulty sleeping!

Coincidentally, or not, Vicki’s sister Vivienne Warren would later become the second wife of pornographer-in-chief George Harrison Marks. Also coincidentally, Vivienne went to the same school as Christine Keeler. More circles within circles.

By 1955 both Ruth Ellis and Vicki Martin were dead and buried but the Dr Stephen Ward modus operandi was in full working operation. Namely, discover attractive but vulnerable women that can be seduced in order that they will do your bidding. But to what end?

One can only speculate and so that is precisely what I shall do. It is perhaps no surprise that young Vicki Martin was so drawn to fast cars as perhaps it was those that drove them that were the real attraction?

She would certainly have met a few racing-drivers via her social orbit. Her friend and flat-mate Ruth Ellis was dating – and murdering – David Blakely, who was a racing-driver. He had been introduced to Ellis by Mike Hawthorn who was also a racing-driver. Racing-drivers, at that time, frequented an appropriately named drinking-hole called the Steering Wheel Club in Mayfair where the high-flyers of the era like Stirling Moss and Graham Hill could be found. As could one Stephen Ward.

Stephen Ward was, in 1955, living in a, Lord Astor financed, flat in Devonshire Street near Regent’s Park and he would maintain his osteopathic practice at this address for many years to come. Indeed, somewhere on the world-wide-web is an old Pathe film of him in his practice treating a patient. That patient is me.

Good old Chrissie Keeler would go on to live on Devonshire Street as well. Here she is leaving her flat to give evidence against Ward in 1963.

Keeler and Paul Mann

It is interesting that the credit on the image above says that Paul Mann, the gentleman in the photograph, is also a racing-driver! According to Johnny Edgecombe* Mann was an MI5 operative. We shall return to Mann in due course.

*Edgecombe was an integral player in the Profumo scandal. He was, at the time, Chrissie’s on/off boyfriend and it was his actions that brought events into the public eye. Edgecombe had rescued Chrissie from the unwanted attentions of ‘Lucky’ Gordon; another of Chrissie’s occasional black boyfriends, who had previously held Chrissie hostage in her own flat, and who was stabbed in a club in Soho. Long story short; Chrissie went AWOL from Edgecombe who subsequently tracked her down to Ward’s Wimpole Mews abode. When Mandy erroneously informed Edgecombe that Chrissie wasn’t there he decided to convert Ward’s front door into Swiss cheese by firing numerous bullets into it. Chrissie, being unappreciative of Edgecombe’s minimalist redesign of the door, and genuinely in fear for her life, phoned Ward at Devonshire Street who, in turn, called the Old Bill. Strangely though, rather than a gaggle of Scotland Yard’s finest it would be a throng of Fleet Street paparazzo’s who descended first on the scene and suddenly the entire nation would find the names Christine Keeler, Mandy Rice-Davies and Stephen Ward indelibly stained upon their consciousness. Edgecombe, for his troubles, would serve seven years inside for – euphemism alert! - emptying his barrel into Ward’s vestibule.

Also residing in the same block of flats in Devonshire Street was a man by the name of Desmond Cussen. Now Desmond shared with Blakely and Ward a love of motor-racing, however, he also shared the affections of Ruth Ellis. He was the older, sugar-daddy, type character that Ellis had turned to when Blakely started getting a bit handy with his fists. Indeed, Blakely is alleged to have hit Ellis so hard in the stomach that she would, tragically, miscarry their unborn baby. Cussen was another former RAF man, though claims that he spent the war as a bomber pilot are wide of the mark. He joined the service in April 1945 and left that same October; a six-month stint seems very suspicious to me particularly given the time and expense involved in training him as a pilot; I suspect a cover story.

Therefore, I am inclined to believe claims that suggest that Desmond Cussen was an MI5 asset. Certainly, in 1945, MI5 did send a Major Edward James Patrick Cussen to interrogate the author P. G. Wodehouse after he was accused of being a Nazi sympathiser. So, are the two related? Could the secret services have engaged in a bit of espionage nepotism; kissing Cussen’s perhaps. I know not.

However, Cussen has been described by an ex-Home Guard member with whom he served as being “a crack shot”, so, if we throw into the mix the oft cited claim that Stephen Ward was also engaged as an MI5 operative and compare that with the ‘coincidence’ that David Blakely just happens to be buried in the same graveyard at which the Russian spy Donald Maclean’s ashes were scattered then we can concoct, at the very least, a possible synopsis for the actions of Ellis and her curious claim about not having told the truth about her motives for murdering her lover because it “seemed traitorous – absolutely traitorous.”

What if Blakely – a loud-mouthed drunk – had knowledge of, or worse still, evidence of Maclean’s treachery and had threatened to go public? Alternatively, What if Blakely was also a Russian spy or sympathiser? Maybe Ellis had knowledge of this also? Perhaps then Ellis was only acting out orders when she fired the fatal shots? Ellis may have been a Manchurian Candidate; programmed to kill and programmed to take any secrets with her down through the gallows trap-doors. Maybe crack shot Cussen, lurking in the shadows somewhere, had actually fired the lethal shots and left Ellis to take the rap believing she was genuinely responsible? She killed, or believed she had killed, to protect the integrity of the nation she loved before MI5 disposed of the bodies at a ‘friendly facility’ for redundant spooks.

Indeed one might well question why the British nation would go to the time, trouble and expense of repatriating the remains of Donald Maclean from Russia if he really was the drunken, traitorous spy that history has branded him.

So, is it even possible to programme someone to carry an act as draconian as assassinating a fellow human being? Probably not, but one significant fact in the Ellis case is that one of the shots that hit Blakely did so from a point-blank range. Meaning Ellis must have fired at least one of the kill shots. At the very least it must be difficult to rely on someone actually performing an assassination to perfection, so maybe Cussen was on hand to ensure that Blakely would die whilst Ellis had been conditioned to accept being the patsy, and then duly took the blame.

We shall return to this aspect of a potential Tavistock end-game later in our merry pilgrimage; beforehand we must prepare the groundwork.

To this end we should explore the considerable links that seem to exist between the RAF – and in particular Battle of Britain – pilots and motor-racing drivers. Perhaps these links exist simply because both professions attract adrenaline junkies with a need for speed; but maybe there is another reason? Let us investigate:

Firstly we have Squadron Leader Brian “Sandy” Lane who married the famous female racing driver Eileen Ellison in Cambridge.

Which leads nicely to Roberta Cowell who was both a racing-driver and World War II fighter pilot. Roberta was also the first known British transsexual woman to undergo sex reassignment surgery. In 1941, and still pre-op, Roberta married Diana Margaret Zelma Carpenter with whom she shared an interest in motor-racing.

Then we have Squadron Leader Tony Gaze who was one of Battle of Britain legend, Douglas Bader’s most trusted flying colleagues, offering him protection on many dangerous sorties. After the war, Gaze became the first Australian to compete in a Grand Prix and came up with the idea of turning RAF Westhampnett into what is now Goodwood racing track.

Lastly, we have Whitney Straight, an American, who was both a Grand Prix motor-racing driver and a Battle of Britain pilot. Straight, another ex-Cambridge man had had an affair with noted aviator Diana Barnato Walker, MBE, the first British woman to break the sound barrier and who was the daughter of another famous racing-driver, Woolf Barnato and the widow of Wing Commander Derek Ronald Walker who was killed in 1945.

Perhaps though, for reasons that will become apparent in due course, of even greater significance was the identity of Whitney’s brother; Michael Whitney Straight, about whom I shall quote directly from his Wikipedia page:

While a student at the University of Cambridge in the mid-1930s, Straight became a Communist Party member and a part of an intellectual secret society known as the Cambridge Apostles. Straight worked for the Soviet Union as part of a spy ring whose members included Donald Maclean, Guy Burgess, Kim Philby and KGB recruiter Anthony Blunt, who had briefly been Straight’s lover. A document from Soviet archives of a report that Blunt made in 1943 to the KGB states, “As you already know the actual recruits whom I took were Michael Straight”.

Whilst we should not forget the actress Deborah Kerr’s husband, Squadron Leader Anthony Bartley. Bartley was not a motor-racing-driver, however, he did, post WWII, move into show business, and Hollywood, becoming quite the major player in lovey land in the process. Bartley, it seems, was yet another member of Stephen Ward’s showbiz network given that Ward, and Ruth Ellis, would make up a regular awesome foursome with Bartley and Kerr at the White Hart Hotel in Brasted in Kent in the late forties.

The landlord of the White Hart was a guy called Teddy Preston who was a former naval intelligence man and it seems the pub was something of a regular haunt for many of the Battle of Britain pilots, known as the Few. The alleged Russian spies Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean would also frequent this watering hole. Another regular at the White Hart was Ruth’s husband George Ellis. George was, officially, a dentist, and an alcoholic who would regularly make a 30 mile round trip from Croydon to Brasted, by bicycle, for a tipple at the bar. A newspaper article detailing George and Ruth’s visits to the pub can be found here.

Now why would George make such a monumental and regular round trip? I suspect that George, who was considerably older than Ruth, was either acting as her handler or, alternatively, the marriage was connived specifically to provide George with a veneer of respectability. George died in 1958 – suicide, naturally enough – with what would amount to around £150,000 in modern money just sitting in his bank account doing nothing. From where did he acquire such an astonishing sum and why hadn’t he pissed it up the nearest wall? One would assume it was either payment for services received or was shut your mouth money. We will probably never know.

George met Ruth when she was working as a nightclub hostess; the Court Club in this instance of which Diana Dors and Denis Hamilton were regular patrons, naturally, and where she also met David Blakely, officially, at least, for the first time. Now whilst it is perfectly feasible to see the attraction of these drinking holes as extensions of the old-boy-networks and as an environment in which the entitled minorities could let their hair down in private, it is not quite so clear, at first view at any rate, why the manageress would need to be so thoroughly chaperoned. The only plausible explanation is that Ruth, in this role, would be overhearing hugely sensitive information and ‘they’ wanted to ensure it was not disclosed to a wider audience.

Maybe this is why George Ellis would visit the White Hart, home of the Few and managed as it was by the ex-intelligence man, to report back on his wife and her activities. There is also quite an established link between dentists and hypnotism. Was George hypnotically controlling his wife as Stephen Ward had also done?

Author MonicaWeller* who has written extensively about Ruth Ellis claims that Ruth addressed her final handwritten letter from prison “To the Few I know”; a cryptic, but perhaps telling glimpse at the reality of her situation.

*Monica Weller would like me to supply further acknowledgement to her work. You can visit her blog here, or alternatively, please buy her book here

A quick return visit to the Wikipedia account of Leonard Cheshire may prove telling:  

Cheshire had strong feelings on any crew refusing to fly (commonly called Lack of Moral Fibre in the RAF) when subject to the combat stress of Bomber Command’s sorties (many of which had loss rates of 50% or more). Even as a brilliant and sympathetic leader, he wrote “I was ruthless with LMF, I had to be. We were airmen not psychiatrists. Of course we had concern for any individual whose internal tensions meant that he could no longer go on but there was a worry that one really frightened man could affect others around him. There was no time to be as compassionate as I would like to have been.” Thus Cheshire transferred LMF cases out of his squadron almost instantaneously.

Now whilst I can understand why Cheshire acted as he did, it does reveal a clear psychological aspect of Battle of Britain pilots – and presumably motor-racing-drivers - that would remain useful outside the theatre of war. Namely that ability to think clearly, and coldly, under extreme duress even when facing potential death. Add to that an inherent ability to blindly follow orders and what you have is an extremely efficient and intelligent unit; ideal, perhaps, for monitoring, and running, a team of pre-programmed Manchurian candidates.

Consider also Cheshire’s post war care home set-up which provided Tavistock with an on-going supply of brainwashing subjects, and Stephen Ward’s relationship with Cheshire and a glimpse of the truth emerges from the years of subterfuge.

Stephen Ward was certainly capable of brainwashing people into doing whatever he wanted. True. I’ve got an uncle in Norway who could do that to his wife, usually during a party and to her great embarrassment! But not everybody is susceptible, and certainly not everybody can do it. But it does work, I’ve seen it done. Not only seen, Ward used me for that too, but I’m not going to tell you about that! (Other than that I had fun... I think).

But it is not fun for everybody, for some it has far more serious connotations.

Chapter 5

Chapter 18 - Bloodlines

Dr Richard Asher, for whom I often worked as a guinea-pig, was regarded as ‘one of the foremost medical thinkers of our times’ and was the senior physician responsible for the mental observation ward at the Central Middlesex Hospital before opening private consulting rooms at the Asher family home of 57 Wimpole Street, lived just around the corner from Ward and Asher’s wife Margaret was a professor of music. Her most famous pupil was The Beatles’ producer Sir George Martin. I don’t believe it was a coincidence that Paul McCartney would go on to live with the Asher’s when he was dating their daughter Jane.

Curiously, in 1964, Dr. Asher suddenly gave up his hospital post and, possibly, all medical activities, just as the famous Beatle moved in. 

It was whilst McCartney was living with the Asher’s that he came up with perhaps his most famous song, Yesterday, which he claims came to him, fully formed, in a dream. I don’t believe that. If you’re living with a mind-control expert and a professor of music and then dream up the most famous melody ever then that ‘dream’ is likely to have been implanted. Yesterday is proof of mind-control in action.

Hence the perpetual genealogical studies; they believe that if you can trace your ancestry back through this Stuart/Plantagenet/Merovingian line back through the ages then you may still possess the psychic gene.

This is why the Royals control their breeding like they’re some pedigree, prize-winning champion wonder-horse. They arrogantly assumed that with their ‘blue-blood’ they would have the gene; they don’t.

Of course, those that do, Ward’s people, they’ve been sleeping with all-sorts and, as a result, have diluted the gene, possibly to the point of extinction.

Perhaps a little historical diversion is called for at this point.

I was told that it all dates back to the Battle of Crecy in 1346 during the Hundred Years’ War. Up until then very few nobles were killed. They used to just take each other hostage, no big deal, the money and property was merely moved from one branch of the family to another. Nobody really took it that seriously, it was just a game to them and it meant nothing that the peasants were slaughtered; they would soon breed more sons, stupid fools, was their attitude.

But the terrain at Crecy, and the weather, meant the nobles in the British Army couldn’t get up front in time to call off the dogs, so to speak. The English archers had the time to take out their knives and axes and slaughter all the French nobles to a man. French casualties are said to have numbered 30,000, including the Kings of Bohemia and Majorca, the Duke of Lorraine, the Count of Flanders, the Count of Blois, eight other counts and three archbishops. Utter carnage. When the nobles fell off their horses their armour stuck to the mud, making them helpless, they couldn’t get up.

Crecy caused ripples that are still being felt today. Crecy and the French Revolution frightened the Establishment rigid; it was not meant to be them that got killed! Their wives could only produce so many children and only a few of these survived to reach maturity, let alone those that are born thick-as-shit, or mad, or with six fingers, or with webbed feet, or all of the above; so they began to father illegitimate children to make up the numbers.

These they kept secret, of course, but they were discretely looked after and, if they showed signs of something that could be of use, they were further helped in their careers and married into the family etc. But they mainly bred ‘extra’ children to ensure the line continued despite war and pestilence, and because inbreeding can cause impotence.

Sex is something they just do to produce heirs, to keep the bloodline going. Anything went. Hence these sex-orgies, they were to get people used to just doing it with anybody available, without flinching. This is why I know they haven’t found anybody powerful-enough to master the psychic gene, they would have used it to protect themselves from war and disease otherwise, but without it they had to just hunker-down and survive.

Tommy Cooper claimed descent from a family involved in internal and external security: a Gestapo, a KGB, a CIA, a Death’s Head SS, all rolled-up into one. That’s why he looked the way he did, ugly, as they had to breed with themselves, nobody wanting to have anything to do with them which resulted in terrific inbreeding. After Camelot they had to flee and hide very deep, that didn’t help either. They were hated. Nothing Tommy was proud of, but it wasn’t his fault.

At the time I thought Tommy’s ramblings were just the delusions of a drunkard, but my research has caused me to reconsider. I think Tommy came from a Templar family and that Camelot is actually a representation of the old Cathar fortress at Montsegur. The medieval grail romances about Arthur, Lancelot, Guinevere and Excalibur etc., therefore, are allegories of some sort that allude to this ancient, psychic bloodline.

Jesus used these abilities to perform his miracles; he was one who nature turned-up occasionally, one who had more of ‘the Force’ – to use a Star Wars analogy - than usual; the psychic force that enabled people to do mind-control. Not fully, probably, but they had to assemble a team of others to do as much as he probably could.

If we keep the Star Wars analogy thing going, as it makes it easier for me to explain, then these Jedi are extremely ancient. As humanity evolved they were gradually losing their powers, it not being easy to maintain them, and not being helped by us ‘folding-up’ our brain on the top of our head to give a lighter, more agile, unit. At first, this didn’t matter, they were so powerful it made only a small difference, but life was tough on Earth and people died too early, etc., making it hard to keep the ‘Force’ up, as you need a lot of practice to do it, and learning the theory takes time.

It got to the stage that only people with ‘leaky’ brains could do mind-control, as we had created an electrical shield around the part of the brain that is used. Ward’s people were born psychic, born with leaky brains. Ward’s leak was thought to be his eye. He had a ‘lazy’ eye that protruded quiet markedly when he was ‘controlling’ somebody. I recall seeing this several times when I was doing something that I’m not going to repeat here, so he was probably controlling me, just like he was this time with Chrissie.

I have seen Ward control Christine Keeler with my own eyes. She was standing on the other side of the street waiting for us when she walked up to this guy and started fondling his arse and balls, eying him up for all she could. He was with his wife and children and his wife went bananas! Then Chrissie got all flustered and red in the face, apologising for all she was worth and then running over the street to us. Boy, did she lay into Ward! She realised what he had done and was not amused. She wasn’t like that at all; she was a rather prudish girl, not a slag or a whore. Don’t get me wrong she loved to fuck but she was also a very nice, moral girl who would never dream of doing something like that, even if he had been alone.

This mind-control is limited, though Ward could ‘reach out’ and hear things up to a couple of miles away. I remember he woke-up in a sweat once when I was sleeping-over, and in a daze woke me and described an accident that had just occurred in minute detail; an accident that was reported in the papers the following day, the details matching exactly his recall. It was a couple of miles away and impossible for him to have heard the crash with normal hearing.

He could only directly use his powers as long as the victim was in eyesight. He couldn’t ‘listen’ to everybody, either, but seemingly only other people whose brains ‘leaked’ enough for him to read them. Ward was a funny chap sometimes, he had a weird sense of humour, often doing absolutely mad things on the spur of the moment, but I think he was inadvertently reacting to something in his head. Believe me, I know.

So this means it can take generations of breeding before somebody with a leaky-brain turns up. You can’t control it, it happens by accident. Then they must be trained, and like an athlete, kept in training.

This is why they considered it important enough to build up the ledgers. These recorded those they believed had the gene – the leaky brain – as well as those they considered ‘pure’ enough to breed with. It is, in essence, eugenics for dummies.

I also believe that this where the Battle of Britain pilots – the Few – came in. Leonard Cheshire knew from his encounters with LMF – Lack of Moral Fibre – pilots how to quickly identify those that would undertake their orders absolutely to the letter and how best to utilise these men in peace time.

They were ideal for running those like me, those that had been programmed and whose role it was to search for the ledgers or to obtain the blackmail material from compromising situations.

Remember also that it was Anthony Blunt who went around buying up and collecting as many of Stephen Ward’s artworks as he could get his hands on after Ward’s conviction. Was Ward’s art significant also, or did it serve merely to embarrass some of his more blue-blooded subjects? Could it have represented the ledgers in a pencil and water-colours format?

There are long-held rumours that Blunt was, in fact, the bastard offspring of King George V and, indeed, there is a remarkable similarity between the young Blunt and George’s son, King Edward VIII.

Now I appreciate that this rather crude mock-up is proof of nothing save a rather basic understanding of PowerPoint; however, Blunt was appointed Surveyor of the King’s Pictures in 1945 despite his description just three years later, in 1948, as being “…our Russian spy” by the then King’s private secretary.

Likewise he was made a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order in 1956 by the Queen despite the defection to Russia in 1951 of his close friends and fellow Cambridge alumni Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean.

Indeed, even when in 1964 Blunt confessed to his espionage activities he managed to secure immunity from prosecution and publicity and an agreement from the British government that his spying would remain secret. That secret lasted fifteen years before he was exposed in Parliament.

My point is; royal bastard or not, this man’s supposedly treasonous activities were common knowledge for a very long time, therefore, he clearly either had some serious shit on somebody or he was never a spy in the first place. It is telling then that in the sixties, after Blunt’s confession, the Queen’s private secretary said to MI5 immediately prior to an in-depth interrogation of Blunt:

“From time to time you may find Blunt referring to an assignment he undertook on behalf of the Palace – a visit to Germany at the end of the war. Please do not pursue this matter. Strictly speaking, it is not relevant to considerations of national security.”

Really? Just who the fuck is the Queen’s private secretary to determine what is, and what is not, a matter of national security.

The reality is that Blunt was engaged in wiping clean the royal arse; he was securing records that showed just how close the Duke of Windsor - the former King Edward VIII and Blunt’s doppelganger - was to Adolf Hitler. Records that showed that the Duke considered the war to have been a huge mistake and that, had he still of been King, it would not of taken place.

Blunt had journeyed to the ancestral home of the Hesse family; a dynasty that spawned Prince Philip’s matrilineal ancestors the Mountbattens and who had, in 1769, appointed Mayer Amschel Rothschild to supervise the operation of their properties and tax-gathering.

The wealth of the Hesse estate provided a good living for Rothschild and, from this, he founded the Rothschild family dynasty, which became important in financing and banking in Europe.

The early fortunes of the Rothschild family were made through a conjunction of financial intelligence and the wealth of William IX, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel. During the Napoleonic Wars, William used the Frankfurt Rothschilds to hide his fortune from Napoleon. This money then saw its way through to Nathan Mayer Rothschild, (from whose loins was spawned the line from which Victor Rothschild was born) in London, where it helped fund the British movements through Portugal and Spain. The interest made from this venture was reaped by the budding banker barons, who used it to swiftly develop their fortune and prestige in Europe and Britain. It was not long before their riches outweighed those of their benefactor, William of Hesse-Kassel.

So, in essence the Rothchilds of Hanover found themselves bankrolling Britain’s Hanoverian rulers.

As part of my research I have come across claims on the internet that suggest that Queen Victoria’s children were actually sired by Lionel Nathan Rothschild, son of Nathan Mayer Rothschild, which, whilst most likely total bollocks, would provide a tangible reason for Blunt’s trip to Germany, should evidence of this exist.

On this basis could Blunt have got the document extraction gig on the recommendation of Victor Rothschild? After all why send a traitor on such a sensitive mission? It would be like asking Jimmy Savile to babysit your kids.

The last line of the above image is interesting: ‘As a former member of MI5 and a member of the royal household, Blunt would be an ideal candidate for a mission to recover such incriminating papers’. If Blunt was only those things then that statement may have carried some validity, however, not only was he a Russian spy, he was a KNOWN Russian spy. Ergo any information retrieved would find its way back to his Soviet paymasters, who were in 1945, nominally anyway, Britain’s ally.

So the British were, quite deliberately, sending a message which was, on the face of it, a massive fuck you to the Soviet Union. They were saying that had the former king been capable of keeping his dick in his trousers and had not abdicated then the British Empire would have held out the welcome mat to its fascist cousins and fuck the 30,000,000 odd Russians that perished whilst defeating the Nazi threat.

Unless, of course, that was not quite the intention.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19 - Game, Set and Match

Anthony Blunt was a communist, one of many that emanated from Cambridge University in the 1930s. Anthony Blunt was also great friends with Victor Rothschild, a man who also worked for MI5 during the war and who was rumoured to have been the Fifth Man in the Cambridge ring of spies, alongside Blunt, Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean and Kim Philby.

So, irrespective of Rothschild’s possible involvement, Blunt was clearly not your run of the mill communist. Communism is about the social ownership of the means of production, in other words, a system in which the humble worker has a say, and a stake, in the production of wealth.

As opposed to the capitalist system whereby the means of production are owned and controlled by an individual or a family – such as the Rothschild’s, Rockefeller’s or the Astor’s – and where the workers have to be grateful for whatever crumbs of shit the owner deems them worthy of receiving.

Monarchies can flourish within a capitalist society because the power resides in the hands of the few and it is often the monarch who decides in whose hands this power rests. This power, of course, could be expanded exponentially through a merger between a monarch and a leading capitalist family, a la the rumoured Rothschild/Royal bastards. Monarchies also perpetuate the misapprehension that there exists a ruling class; somehow born with an innate ability to know what is best for the rest of us. In much the same way as the neo-liberal, capitalist apologists now spew guff about ‘trusting the markets’ and how it is fine for the rich to get richer as, ultimately, some of their vast wealth will ‘trickle down’ to the rest of us.

Monarchies don’t do so well in communist societies because power rests, theoretically at least, in the hands of the oppressed masses who tend to resent the former power and wealth of the monarchs and who are, therefore, more inclined to line up the said monarchs, and their stooges, in front of a wall for a spot of shooting practice or to place their necks at the sharp-end of a guillotine.

Blunt, however, accepted both a job and a knighthood from the British monarchy. Clearly then his form of communism was either, an affectation, or, some bizarre hypothetical British hybrid in which the proletariat would, presumably, be assuaged by the nationalisation of certain key industries but where the ultimate head of these nationalised industries would still be the monarch.

In other words, fuck all changes.

So why send a traitor to retrieve information that is, at the very least, highly sensitive and, at the worst, would confirm that the Hanoverian monarchy has no legitimate claim to the British crown?

Queen Victoria was, in fact, the last Hanoverian ruler of the United Kingdom as all her descendants would take the patrilineal title of Saxe-Coburg Gotha from her husband Prince Albert until 1917 when King George V realised, three years into World War I, that the Germanic name may not play too well with those brave British souls whose guts were being spilled over an aristocratic family tiff! So, they replaced it with the far less German-sounding title of Windsor.

In the logical scheme of things the communist Blunt would have told his Soviet masters that A: King Edward VIII was a Nazi loving shit who would have happily sold the entire Russian nation down the river for the price of a crown, and, or, B: that the British royal family were, in fact, Rothschild bastards.

In either event this would have been Intel that the Russians would have been extremely interested in. But, if they ever got this memo, they did nothing with it.

Inbred hipsters: King George V (on the right) and Tsar Nicholas II of Russia play at dressing-up in German uniforms in 1913

Now conventional British wisdom implies that it won World War II, although the reality is that at the outset of the war the only global superpower on the world stage was the old British empirical war-horse. At wars end, however, there were two superpowers contesting the global willy-waving competition and neither of them spoke the King’s English. Though, to be fair, due to an in-bred stammer, neither did the King!

In reality America and Russia divided up the post war spoils whilst Germany was sent to sit on the naughty step for five minutes before resuming control of non-communist Europe. Britain’s prize for oppressing the Nazis was decades of rationing and squalor and the mother of all mortgages to be paid, until centuries end, to its US overlord. But hey, on the plus side, the in-bred Hanoverian fuckwits held on to their throne; a fact still rejoiced today by the flag-waving, Daily Mail reading, brain-dead, middle-class masses that populate the Home Counties.

And there you have it, for really there is no difference between the Yanks, the Reds, the Krauts and the Brits for they are all ruled by the self-same cabal of self-serving individuals.

You are now hopefully becoming aware that the stakes are high here, that life has no meaning to these people - yours and mine. We are mere pawns in a vast game of chess. 

They are prepared to do whatever it takes to stay alive and on the top of the pile of life whilst we engage in a massive race-to-the-bottom.

However, what with all the politics and the wars taking their eye off the ball they inadvertently allowed a global population explosion. The common people are becoming increasingly dangerous to this elite club and they are having trouble controlling us. We can rise and exterminate them anytime we want: we are many, they are few; our offspring numerous, theirs scarce; we are breeding as fast as insects, they as slow as elephants. Worse; they have been resting on their laurels counting their money whilst we had to plan and execute all the work they wanted us to do; forming the tools and industry to do it; so we can make things, they nothing.

Having been forced to think on our feet we now have the brains, they none. All this means only one thing, something that frightens them; they need us, we sure as hell don’t need them. So they control our economy; it is our Achilles-heel.

They literally own the world, they have seen to it that we have to live our lives in debt to the banks; they own our food, they own our homes, they own our jobs, they own us...with our own money!

We face continual attacks on our living standards, our working conditions, our pensions and our savings and this is deliberate. It is divide and conquer. Keep us in the shit so that we fight each other for the next Pound, Dollar or Euro; anything, so long as we don’t stand up to them.

To keep this power in one place they only breed amongst themselves. I know, I was denied the chance to marry one of the girls of nobility that I knew; they said so, and they made it so.

This control is not so obvious; they cover it in a sugar-coating called ‘democracy’, making sure most of the people we can vote for are, in reality, theirs. They make sure names are changed to avoid us suspecting anything as most of the people ruling and running the country ‘for us’, are, in fact, related to each other. A point in case would be the former British Prime Minister David Cameron whose wife Samantha’s step-father, William Astor (a Committee of 300 member), is the son of the Lord Astor I used to meet at Cliveden House with Ward.

Hence Ward and his team were always trying to keep track of all the names and planned marriages.

There was no way we could work-out who was who without those genealogical ledgers, and finding who had the ledgers wasn’t easy either as those that held them would be people on those lists! These were the Establishment’s list of those they considered eugenically pure and a record of where they had stashed the blue-blood-bastards for safe up-keeping. It didn’t matter who you fucked, but if you wanted to breed you had to consult the ledgers.

So Ward was physically inserting people into various homes, using sex-shows, organising orgies, shagging the occupants shitless, then, with them exhausted and asleep, they were sneaking around looking for clues. Very crude, very time-consuming, very risky, but what else was there? Rothschild, Rockefeller, Courtauld, Astor, these are some of the top families that are related to each other, controlling big business. Not all are bad people and this makes it harder to spot anything.

Even the Bauer family, German media barons, and the most notorious masters of the black occult and human sacrifice in the world, are amongst us, but are called something else today. In the 1760s – the decade that the Hanoverian George became King of England – Mayer Amschel Bauer, a banker from Hanover, changes his name to Rothschild; German for red shield, and a new world order is born.

Aware that they are few, and decimated by the first and second world wars, they have continued to father illegitimate children to make up the numbers, to have ‘money in the bank’ and to guard against war and pestilence.

Anthony Blunt was one of their half-breed bastards; Anthony Blunt was a ‘spare’, Anthony Blunt was their agent.

Blunt may well have been a traitor to his country, but not to his monarch; from whose saggy teats he continued to gain nourishment long after his seeming betrayal.

So, what was the glue that bound this eugenics based master-plan together?

Enter the Astor family led Cliveden Set.

The Royal Institute of International Affairs (RIIA) was created in 1919. It is now known as Chatham House and it claims to be a leading global think-tank that ruminates on international affairs and policy, however, given it is largely funded by donations from big-business it is, in reality, a mouthpiece for corporations and the establishment. The Astor family were major financial backers of the RIIA and Waldorf Astor was appointed its chairman. The American equivalent to the RIIA is the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR). The RIIA and CFR set up Round Table Groups (based on the King Arthur myths) which were initially named by Cecil Rhodes ‘Association of Helpers’.

High ranking Freemason, son of a vicar, and Cliveden Set member, Cecil Rhodes also created the Rhodes Scholarship to bring together select men from the English speaking world and Germany to learn how to bring in the one-world government agenda that they had long coveted.

Another founder of those Round Table groups was the author Aldous Huxley - whose mind-control quote you read earlier – who was a member of a group called the “Children of the Sun”, a Dionysian cult that promoted the one-world-government agenda so beloved of Britain’s elite. Another member was the spy Guy Burgess.

The Cliveden Estate of the Cliveden Astor’s has played an important role in the preparation of Rhodes Scholars, who were duly apprenticed into the one-world-government scheme of promoting and preserving the welfare of the one-percenters. Bill Clinton being a perfect example of a beneficiary of a Rhodes scholarship; Clinton later served as US President from 1993-2001.

The principle members of the Cliveden Set were: Geoffrey Dawson, editor of the London Times newspaper that was owned by the Astors; Philip Kerr (Lord Lothian), author and politician; Edward Wood (Lord Halifax), politician; William Montagu, 9th Duke of Manchester, politician; Robert Brand and Nancy Astor, Viscountess Astor, wife of Waldorf Astor - of the prominent, and extremely wealthy, Astor family - and mother of William Astor. William Astor, you will recall, gave Stephen Ward a cottage at his Cliveden residence and it was here that John Profumo met Christine Keeler and, in so doing, sowed the seeds of his downfall.

Philip Kerr and his reading material of choice

The Cliveden Set was an extremely influential group of right-wing high-flyers who were keen that Britain avoided war with Germany at all costs.

Why then would the Cliveden Set take a supposed communist sympathiser and traitor such as Stephen Ward under their wing if he was as diametrically opposed to their political aims as history contends?

History, written as it is by the victors, has tried to portray the Cliveden Set not as pro-fascists but as seeing the Nazis as the solution to what they considered to be the Jewish and communist problem. In other words, that one should just ignore the Nazis and let them gas all the Jews to extinction before fighting themselves to death in a mutually destructive conflict with the communist Russians. One stone, three birds, happy days!

So, the Cliveden Set were not then fascists; just loveable, cuddly, pro-democracy anti-Semites!

Of course, you don’t have to be a member of the aristocracy to be a fascist; they come in all shapes and classes, however, it is only the upper-classes that have a vested interest in preserving the status quo and protecting the old order.

Indeed, the old order very much shared the Cliveden Set’s pro-appeasement policy. It wasn’t just the ex-king Edward that was keen to suck on some German sausage; his brother Prince George, the Duke of Kent was equally as partial.

Eddie, Adolf and the boy Simpson

Prince George died on August 25^th 1942, at the age of 39, on board an RAF flying boat which mysteriously crashed into a Scottish hillside whilst, supposedly, on a hush-hush mission to Iceland.

Bizarrely Prince George had with him a briefcase full of 100 Kroner notes, worthless in Iceland, handcuffed to his wrist, leading to speculation that the flight was actually on a military mission to Sweden, the only place Kroner notes were of any value.

There was also a mysterious extra person on-board the plane that night, one not on the official list of passengers; a certain Rudolf Hess, who was being surreptitiously returned to the bosom of the Nazi’s having safely delivered the ledgers. The poor, rambling unfortunate who was subsequently put on show at the Nuremburg trials and then spent the remainder of his life banged up in solitary at Spandau was a double.

In the normal course of events you might imagine that a dead Prince, martyred, and burnt to a crisp as he was for the greater good of the nation that he loved, would be a tragedy that would be seared, irrevocably, into the hearts and minds of every single God-fearing, Queen loving, Union Jack waving, poppy wearing, rule Britannia singing Brit from the Outer Hebrides to Outer Mongolia. The kind of man whose eternally youthful visage should be preserved in a suitably heroic pose and rendered in bronze at every war memorial the length and breadth of the UK. A memorial to be viewed by all in hushed tones and from where suitably reverential, modern day, Royals would bow, scrape and place a wreath in honour of his, ultimate, sacrifice for his country. As it is, I’ll bet you’ve never even heard of him.

Why would that be? Why would the dark masters of spin miss this greatest of all opportunities to perpetuate the age-old myth of regal nobility; that the shit of the aristocracy does not, indeed, stink, but does, in fact, fall from the royal cheeks in a pleasing hue of red, white and blue; that it carries upon it the heady bouquet of perfumed roses and that if you were to spread it on your garden it would yield an eternal supply of golden rhubarb?

The answer, of course, is because the Duke, as with the rest of his ancestors, siblings and progeny, was a Hanoverian and was, therefore, as German as sauerkraut and lederhosen and, as such, it should come as no surprise that he should die in league with his adopted nation’s enemy and with his cold, dead, hands still grasping the foreign blood money.

Churchill, on the other hand, did not buy into this pro-appeasement bullshit and was not about to be bullied into peace talks with the Nazis and so war was the only outcome.

One should never forget though that the official reason for Britain declaring war with Germany was because the Nazis had invaded Poland; although when the Russians did the exact same thing a mere two-weeks later the Brits said fuck all and, indeed, the Poles found their Baltics gripped in a Soviet vice until 1990.

Ultimately, the only winner from the conflict in Europe was the Americans, who emerged as a fully-fledged super-power; a point not lost, I am sure, on the half-Yank Churchill.

The Nazis, as you will recall if you’ve studied your Indiana Jones, were well into the occult and were quite famous for their views on the promotion of the Aryan race. Indeed in the year of our Lord, and Jack the Ripper, of 1888, Helena Blavatsky described the Aryan race as having begun about a million years ago in Atlantis. Now whilst this is clearly bollocks it did heavily influence Nazi thinking and does, essentially, name check a pre-flood civilisation that the Nazis subsequently attached themselves to.

Which brings us to Josef Mengele and his ‘Boys from Brazil’; Mengele is famously reviled for the human experiments he carried out on the inmates at Auschwitz and is rumoured to have developed the ‘trauma-based’ system of mind-control. This system manipulates a mechanism of the mind that shuts out memories of extreme trauma; in essence a person who has suffered systematic abuse will enter a disassociated state of mind from where they become more susceptible to hypnotic command whilst in these trance states.

This work originated from the initial post WWI studies of the Tavistock Institute on shell-shocked soldiers but the dissociative method works best on young children. This form of conditioning is allegedly pan-generational and so is passed on from one generation to the next. It is from this facet that the term Monarch mind-control was conceived; the Monarch butterfly remembers where it was born and it passes this knowledge, via genetics, on to its offspring who can then travel to this location despite never having previously been there.

This would be perfect for those, like the Nazis, who wished to create a ‘Master race’ as their subjects would be born with a preconceived notion of their ancestor’s abuse and conditioning.

One wonders if the inspiration for Ira Levin’s book, ‘Boys from Brazil’, in which Mengele attempts to create clones of Hitler – was actually based on an attempt to recreate an Aryan complete with their purported psychic ability?

There exists amongst the gargantuan annals of the internet a conspiracy theory that claims that Maria Anna Schicklgruber – Hitler’s Grandmother – had been a servant at the Rothschild mansion in Vienna before leaving when she found herself mysteriously knocked up*; could it be that Hitler was a bastard Rothschild?

*Knocked up = infantile slang employed by the author to imply a pregnancy.

All in all this connection to an ancient ancestry does seem to provide a common cause between the traditional powers and could imply that Hitler and the Windsors’ were cousins, or something equally as fucked up!

But, alas, there is no definitive proof and I wouldn’t expect to find any either. These people are organised and run ‘the Establishment’, the country, they are masters at hiding things and they are also the same people who we would ask to look for things, to investigate things! They are in total control.

Ultimately, we are just puppets along for the ride. But we are becoming aware, we have communications undreamed of 100 years ago, and are slowly getting into contact with others who ‘know’, and are piecing it together. But there’s no way can we win unless we strike lucky. As I’ve indicated, Ward had photos of their evil; he used these photos to blackmail several highly-placed people for information and protection. These people killed him. Then they destroyed his network.

Chapter 20