Chapter 1 - Confessions of a teenage pornstar

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...” Henry V – William Shakespeare

Mandy Rice-Davies is dead. I just heard it on the news and now I stand here in total shock. That little bundle of bouncing, blonde bawdiness that taught me so much in my, ahem, formative years is gone. It is just me and Christine Keeler left now.

Instantaneously I am transported back over fifty years and 10,000 miles from the blinding glare of an Australian summer to my childhood years spent in a grey and damp old London Town. Back then I was at the heart of a scandal. Slap-bang in the middle of a sensation that would bring down a government, launch the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and propel the names of Christine Keeler, Mandy Rice-Davies and Stephen Ward into the stratosphere.

Mandy’s passing is the prompt I need to finally commit my memories to print before I too pop my clogs. Me? You won’t have heard of me, so, perhaps a little introduction is in order.

My name is not important but you can call me Sven. I was privileged to have grown up in Bromley in south London as a lad. Well, actually it was Widmore Green to be precise and, as this is the story of my life then I guess I should be.

My Dad was a Major in the elite Norwegian Royal Guards who had married a lovely Scottish lass during the war and at the end of hostilities they both returned to Oslo, where I was born. Dad was also a close friend of the then Crown Prince, but later King, Olav of Norway.

When we returned to England in ’51 I spoke no English and, whilst some of my friends might claim I still can’t, this situation was quickly resolved by my attendance at the Ol’ Tin Hut school in Nightingale Lane before I moved to another ex-military establishment in Bromley (I forget the road) and then the newly-built St. George’s Primary in Tylney Road before going on to Quernmore Secondary in London Lane. In 1963, just as the shit hit the fan, we emigrated again, this time to Australia, but it is my adventures in London that I wish to share with you all.

For anyone unfamiliar with the ‘official’ details of the, so-called, ‘Profumo affair’ I suggest you click the conveniently provided blue link.

Before we commence upon this glorious romp through the Establishment’s pseudo-history of the 1960s and I fill you in on the reality, I should perhaps warn you that the cast list is somewhat extensive and, therefore, potentially confusing.

I will, wherever possible, provide you with a photograph as an aide memoir, so, here’s one of me. If not I have endeavoured to provide as many external links or Wikipedia profiles of the individuals concerned as I can; likewise I have tried to provide links to my source material.

The author: back in the day, obviously!

I am also rather fond of the odd colloquialism, or two, and so I will also do my upmost to explain any curious turns of phrase, slang or any other euphemisms that I may employ.

Back in 1963 the staid and distinctly decrepit world of little old England erupted in shock and scandal when it emerged that the then Secretary of State for War, John Profumo, had been caught with his pants down shagging someone who was, most definitely, not his wife. The Tory minister, who had been banging Christine Keeler for months, further compounded these sexual indiscretions by then lying to the House about the nature of his relationship with Chrissie as he sowed the seeds of his, and his Government’s, destruction along with his own wild oats.

Poor Chrissie, who’d had more pricks than a smack addicts veins, was about to become an inadvertent icon of the sixties; the Lewis Morley image of her sat naked, astride a chair, becoming perhaps the defining image of the decade.

Christine Keeler

Back in those far-flung days Chrissie had been a busy girl; as well as two black west London hustlers, and Profumo, she had also been simultaneously shagging a Russian naval attaché called Captain Yevgeny (Eugene) Ivanov. Perhaps not unsurprisingly given that this was the height of the Cold War, the world wanted to know what little pearls of national security the Secretary of State for War, John Profumo, may have revealed to Chrissie when he lay back and smoked his post-coital ciggie. Loose hips sink ships and all that, don’t you know.

The story really went stratospheric though when the good denizens of Fleet Street claimed that Chrissie, and her pal Mandy Rice-Davies, were actually a pair of two-bob slappers being pimped by a society portrait artist and osteopath named Stephen Ward who was also a commie sympathiser hell bent on bringing down the British Establishment.

That, like so many things connected to the scandal, is total and utter bullshit.

The Profumo affair was the biggest cover-up in global history, and Stephen Ward became its global scapegoat. The ripples and fall-out from the scandal extended way beyond the narrow confines of 1960s London. Its true scope and enormity would shock even the most ardent conspiracy theorist: it encompasses not just Ward, but all his girls and how he controlled them; its connections with the JFK assassination; of how the hippie movement was created as an instrument of generational control; the invention of a non-existent serial killer; of phoney spies and royal conspiracies. All to protect a secret!

A secret I will reveal to you.

But all in good time; first, a little background detail is in order.

I knew Mandy Rice-Davies very well actually. I dated her in 1961 and ‘62, ‘borrowing’ her from Peter Rachman, the slum landlord, who I knew via Stephen Ward. Her name was actually Marilyn Davies-Rice but her stepfather preferred his name first. Once we found out what was wrong with her – she’d been abused all her life by the aforementioned paedophile stepfather - and initiated a cure, she calmed down into a lovely little lady that everyone liked and she finally convinced Rachman that she was the girl to spawn his kids. He then taught her Hebrew, business management and economics (helped by Rachman’s then wife, Audrey, who had several degrees. Theirs was a business marriage, she was gay).

Phoney Rachman

Rachman, like Profumo, is another whose name has entered the social lexicon; Rachmanism having become a euphemism for rogue landlords who let their tenants shoddy, undesirable and, in some cases, uninhabitable dwellings. In fact, Rachman’s tenants were not unhappy with their accommodation; Rachman being prepared to let his properties to anyone with a penny-piece in their pockets in an era otherwise dominated by the ‘No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs’ agenda.

By the way, the little fat guy you think of as Peter Rachman was, in fact, his double; an ex-paratrooper living on borrowed time (wounded in the war) from the East End who had Polish neighbours as a boy and who spoke some Polish. The real Peter Rachman was in fact tall, dark, and very handsome, 6 feet 5 inches tall in his stockinged feet; he had to bow his head in our living-room to avoid hitting the ceiling! Mandy fell madly in love with him at first sight. She only came up to his navel, which led to many a ribald comment!!!

Phoney Rachman and Mandy: Many say this was his best side!

The real Peter Rachman, Ilan Ram’el, was a rich art-student from Lvov who was planning on buying a tile factory when the war started. Peter loved designing and making tiles. He served under Menachem Begin during the war as well as with Vladek Sheybal - the actor in From Russia with Love - and the three survived the massacre of the Polish Army at Katyn in 1943 as they were out slitting German throats and stealing their food supplies. 

Peter then decided Begin had to be gotten out of Europe and to Israel and so led them west to Britain, where he had family friends. But when they got ambushed on the way Peter offered himself up to allow Begin to escape, and thus spent nearly two years in a concentration camp, surviving only by “doing things that shamed me”. Unfortunately, for him, some of the inmates survived too and there was a death sentence placed on Peter’s head. He got to England before the Poles found him. “I saw the inmates were walking dead, they had given up. Well, I wasn’t going to do that. Somebody had to survive to tell of the atrocities that went on in Poland, and the camp. So…”

I expect you may be struggling to believe some of what I have just told you, well hold on to your hats folks, because you won’t believe a l lot of what I am about to reveal, but that’s history for you. What was it Napoleon once said: “History is a lie agreed upon”.

History is written by the powerful and they will only tell you what they think you should know. They will give you a load of old cobblers about it not being ‘in the interests of national security’ or some such old flannel, but these are events from over fifty years ago and the paperwork relating to the so called ‘Profumo affair’ is being kept under lock and key until 2046. Officially this is because it will then be over one hundred years since Mandy’s birth, but Mandy is now dead. So is Stephen Ward, so is John Profumo, so is Lord Astor, so just who are they protecting?

Hence this journal: There are only Chrissie and I left now and she won’t ever tell the whole story. She is too traumatised and besides, who would believe her? I doubt anybody is going to believe me either; hell this is the tallest of tall stories but I shall write this and leave it for posterity to judge.

I used to be Britain’s top teenage porno-star.

Yes, you did read that right. Nobody knows of me though, back in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s porno was kept very much under the covers as only very rich people had film projectors anyway. Most of these films were made to order, for a very specific type of pervert, and not sold under the counter and wrapped in a brown paper-bag like the top-shelf mucky magazines of the time.

That said, I did do a few photo shoots as well, but even these were only available for wealthy customers; your average hairy-arsed worker was barely earning enough to eat at the time, let alone to indulge in some top quality wank material. So all my starring roles will be gathering dust up in grubby lofts in Belgravia now; that’s why I can’t find anything yet. Found a few old girlfriends though. There were so many girls you can but recall only a few. Luckily a lot of them were glam-models for George Harrison Marks so pretty faces all-round and with tits so big you could get lost for a week! Oh, happy days. Sometime, somewhere, some piccies or a film will turn up.

Lately I’ve been out surfing the net for these glamour girls and watching so much porn that my eyes are popping out. A man could go blind doing this!

My first impression was that most of the guys and gals involved were a bit screwy, nobody deliberately fucks for a living on camera if they’re halfway sane. Mind you, I worked in the London theatres, the Mermaid and the Garrick, for a couple of years, ‘60-‘62, and a lot of stage/film/TV stars are a bit screwy too!

I’m out researching my murky past now, hence the porno-surfing. I’ve been in touch with a few people in the biz, so to speak, enthusiasts, collectors etc. You’d be surprised what some people are into for a hobby!

Nowadays I’m just an old git living on fading memories and I never earned a penny out of it; lunch and a free fuck was my payment and, whilst I’m not complaining, I thought now was the time to write down my recollections before they’re gone forever.

You won’t believe my tale; it’s so fantastic I struggle to believe it myself sometimes, but I’m going to tell it anyway.

It actually all started when I began helping out Harley Street doctors to research sexual development and what sex was. Only now I understand it wasn’t about research at all, it was all about money and control!

This had never been done before, you see, sex was a taboo subject even in medicine. The pill was on the way and they knew there was likely to be trouble and they wanted to pre-empt any problems; psychological mainly. I wound up doing sex-shows, photographs and films for a while. I now understand it wasn’t all research, someone was making money out of this and that someone was George Harrison Marks, the so-called ‘glamour photographer’ and film-maker.

I worked with Doctor’s Emanuel Miller (Jonathan Miller’s Dad) and Richard Asher (Jane and Peter Asher’s Dad), and Sir Raphael Cilento (Diane Cilento’s Dad). I have often wondered if it was a coincidence that they should all have successful and famous offspring or if it was a payoff for their ‘assistance’? Archie McIndoe was a silent partner, he agreed with the principle but daren’t be associated as he could be struck-off; his burn-patients always came first.

I began with the doctors in 1958 and I was to thoroughly lose my innocence in an occult ritual in a mere two years. It was a very quick apprenticeship! It began because we had a new neighbour that was a top orthopaedic surgeon (I forget his name, we always called him ’Doc’, originality not being a prevalent feature round my way!). He had a Harley Street practice and, like the others, taught med-students in his spare time.

He suddenly needed a ‘model’ to use; the boy he had having moved, and my Mum said yes to him using me. When I was up at Harley Street we used to have elevenses with the other doctors and often went to lunch together. Thus I met Stephen Ward, who wasn’t actually a doctor, officially, at least (long story, but he was actually the finest doctor I ever met, a genius) he was an osteopath. Ward wasn’t actually involved in our work, though he sometimes looked-in as he was interested. It was merely over tea and a chance remark that led us to the subject of hypnotism and me being asked to be the guinea-pig.

Doctor’s Miller and Asher were the best guys in Britain and they couldn’t hypnotise me, so they were annoyed. Ward smiled at them and asked me if he could try. Voila, I was under his spell. Though they were very embarrassed the doctors were forced to ask Ward to do the experiment for them, and as it progressed over the months he became an integral part of the secret research we were slowly getting into. I didn’t really know Ward at this time; I only met him with the other doctors there. One day my doctor had a real patient come to him in dire trouble, and I was taken to Ward’s surgery for tea and a chat during her visit, Ward having no patients just then; he was rarely overworked, though it did happen. Ward was amusing company, we had lots to talk about, we liked each other, he having no family of his own and he obviously missed having somebody to care for, a son, and I became that substitute.

Dr Stephen Ward

Ward got on well with my Mum too; so much so that I used to wish that they would marry. Sadly though, my mother already was, to my Dad, who was working abroad by this time. I later discovered that Ward was probably impotent; so no good to my Mum but she loved his company anyway. He was a really nice man and she used to visit him up in London quite often.

My work in Harley Street was always during the week, though sometimes my Mum would let me spend the night at Ward’s providing she had his telephone number for emergencies. PAD 8625, I remember it even now.

He had once raced cars and he took me to Brands Hatch, the racing circuit, where I met all the racing-drivers of that time, and got to sit in a few cars, too. Ward had been a fine racer, Stirling Moss once told me he sighed with relief when Ward decided he had to quit and think of a career, not being wealthy enough and being a mite too old to go pro: “You would have never have heard of me, otherwise,” Stirling said. “Stephen Ward could have been a big star of the ‘50s if he was just five years younger or had some money behind him.”

At the time I became involved in this medical research at Harley Street I had no idea about its background or beginnings. I now know that it all started with the ‘shell-shock’ survivors of World War I who came home from the trenches in a dreadful state and for which the Tavistock Institute was initiated to help to find solutions. Even in my time we were still working with war veterans, though these were of the World War II vintage. I remember one time when we were shooting some porn photos that there was this guy. He was a war-hero, a captain on a warship that ran into a German cruiser in the North Atlantic one stormy day when neither ships radar were working due to the freezing conditions. Surprised, neither backed-off.

The German ship was either sunk or was severely damaged, enough for the Navy to run them down. The British ship, however, looked like a corkscrew; blown apart, burning, half of the crew dead.

Despite being raked by shrapnel all over his body, his cock and one testicle blown-off, barely alive, the Captain lay in agony on what was left of his bridge and directed his sailors as to how to sail a ship scarcely afloat back into port, not resting for a second the entire time. He got a medal for that. Then his wife left him; “half a man as he was”, and he only ever saw his daughter when she wanted money. By the time I met him he was a successful businessman who was busily working himself to death. He was also going crazy. He still had an enormous sex-drive, but no cock.

The top psychiatrists of the day, the aforementioned Doctor’s Emanuel Miller and Richard Asher, aided by Stephen Ward, used me to find out how to give this man the orgasm he needed to relax. It’s all in the mind, you see. Tests with Ward (into alternative medicine) showed you could create orgasms using acupuncture but this wasn’t good enough, the poor man had to be able to do it himself, in his head.  

To this day I don’t how, or if, my work helped this guy and the others in the same boat; but it sure helped me!

One of the experiments we did was in ‘The Tank’ at a military establishment. They used to train agents and divers in there. Or so they said. It was a huge, heated, soundproofed water tank. They would throw you in naked and slam the door and turn out the light! Sensory deprivation. There was an air-line from the roof and a mouthpiece to breathe with so you didn’t drown. Then they gave you a weighted belt so you sank under the surface, floating as though weightless in space.

I was told by the Navy divers that I had what it took to be one. They used to read to me sometimes, Shakespeare mainly, through a loudspeaker. I was taught both under hypnosis and not (to see the difference) all his works, and Welsh!

They told me that they were testing to see if it was a good way to learn scripts, you see. I recall it came out all mixed up, not in the right order. I could only do bits of it and I needed reminding a lot. Thus they knew that the brain stores things in different places. But not why, and how?

It was all very interesting work and I enjoyed it. Far better than wearing short trousers and playing conkers with the other brain-dead kids!

Stephen Ward was involved with the war wounded as well. The first time I ever met John Profumo was after a visit to the Queen Victoria hospital in East Grinstead with Ward to see ‘his boys’, the burned Battle of Britain pilots he had worked with during the war. Ward never passed by without going in to say hello, though they never mentioned this in the media - and the other charity works he was involved with, Dr Barnardo’s, child abuse (with Valerie Hobson, Profumo’s wife, no less) Leonard Cheshire etc.

Though I now deeply suspect his motives, I didn’t then. We had stopped off at Cliveden House for a quick cuppa when Lord Astor came down to invite Ward to a dinner that evening. I couldn’t go as it was a black-tie affair and I was in jeans, but Ward was in a suit that would pass muster. So I had tea alone in Ward’s cottage listening to the radio. At nine I walked up to the house, the guests were just leaving at this time and I was to have coffee with the Astor’s. People were still getting their coats on, so I waited outside. Profumo was coming out for a quick smoke and a stroll. He just said: “Hello, nice to meet you at last” before strolling off around the house to the cars as he waited for the women to get sorted.

Astor, who was a former naval intelligence man, had met Stephen Ward in 1950 when he treated the Lord after he had fallen from a horse. By 1956, Astor, so enamoured with Ward’s restorative powers, had gifted him the use of a cottage on the Cliveden Estate, for which Ward paid a peppercorn rent.

There is a photo of Chrissie on the internet that always reminds me of the second time I met Profumo; she’s sitting in a chair, dressed in a blouse and skirt, looking fab (as usual, she was a really lovely girl, far better in reality than in a photo) a glass table on her left, Ward’s briefcase behind her on the right. If the photo was bigger you’d see my duffle-bag next to his briefcase!

I helped Ward set up this very quick shot, using only one light; she is looking up at me as he took it!

She had come out of her room ready for a date and Stephen was so taken with her beauty that he just had to take a picture. Then, as he was in the kitchen, taking out the now-finished roll of film, a horn hooted outside and she rushed back into her room to brush her hair again: “God, I look a mess!” A few seconds later John Profumo came up, agitated, “I’m double-parked! Where is she?” “Doing her hair...again”, I told him. He raised his eyes.

Then out she came with a warm smile and looking simply stunning. “Oh”, I quipped, “you CAN make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!” Profumo laughed. Chrissie pinched my nose and wrinkled hers at me. “You’d better go before Stephen comes back in, I’m not supposed to have seen him”, I said, nodding at Profumo, adding I’d been told not to look out of the window. “Have a nice time, you two”. I got smiled at and they left.

So as you can now see I was at the very centre of events during the biggest scandal of the twentieth century.

Hopefully you are now beginning to realise that there was a lot never mentioned during the scandalous Profumo Affair? Why aren’t you asking why the entire anti-Ward agenda is on the top secret list until 2046? If Ward was, in essence, a mere pimp, a dime-a-dozen sleazebag, then this would not be worthy of a mention on the back pages let alone the expense of a huge trial in Crown Court.

No, he was the sacrificial lamb executed to spare the embarrassment of the so-called elite, the Establishment.

These same ‘fine’ people that used to rule us with the sword, before they realised this was self-defeating as they needed slaves to do all the hard work for them and devised religion to control us. This eventually began to lose its effect so they came up with the ultimate solution; rule us via our wallets.

They created the Industrial Revolution to force us to manufacture the goods we were then forced to spend our wages on. They moaned at how much we were costing, but omitted to say that they immediately took the money back again – and with interest! And we are so stupid we lap it up, ‘We’ve never had it so good’ forgetting the fact that we have to come up with the repayments every month or wind up starving in the streets. All we’re doing is making a few select families, dynasties, Masonic ones, richer by the minute.

Of course, though, there is a lot more to it than just pure greed and Ward was far more than a mere puppet; puppet master more like. Indeed MI5 once described Ward as being ‘the provider of popsies for rich people’, and they should know. Ward supplied the young girls in the same way the spy Anthony Blunt, or the gangster Kray twins, procured the young boys; on behalf of MI5 and for the express purpose of obtaining materials for blackmail.


Chapter 2

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