I actually thought that the threats of physical
violence from Ed Mooney, the day before yesterday, would be the lowest point in
the life of this blog. How wrong I was,
for last night I was introduced to a new level of depravity, scorn, violence
and abuse that would terrify a normal person.
I shouldn’t really write about it and if any of you are presently eating
I would strongly advise that you stop reading this and finish your meal unless
you want to find the contents of your stomach covering whatever form of device
you use to read this. I have decided
that you should know the full horrific detail of what happened as I need to
leave a permanent record of it and if I was to suddenly disappear, then at least
the police will have something positive to direct them.
It was quite late, about nine o clock last
night, late enough for decent God fearing people. The telephone rang, so I switched
on the tape recorder. Placing the
receiver against my ear I shuddered as I heard the menacing London accent
growl, ‘Hello mate,’ at me. In a flash I
knew who it was and I quite naturally checked for my escape routes and nearest
weapon. “If you’re the King of Ireland
then I wanna be a prince.” You can’t
really sense the threatening tone of his voice from me writing here, but you
can see that there was no pleasantries, no please or thank you, no hello how
are you? Just the brutal demand in a
voice similar to the one he probably used as an intimidating loan shark on the
back streets of London as a youth, a world so removed from human decency that
even Charles Dickens himself couldn’t have imagined it. I prayed that he was not standing outside my
front door and hoped that he was locked up in a police cell somewhere pretending
that he was calling a solicitor for advice.
I have to admit that the training the double
top secret cabal had put me through found me, for once, sticking up to the international
thug known to us all as John Sebastian Stanley Clancey. “With your propensity for wearing short leather
skirts,” I said. “You would probably make a much better Queen!” My reposte
seemed to catch him off guard, I doubt if he was used to people standing up to
him and his brutish ways. “Oive been
reading your blog,” he growled, indicating that he perhaps was not happy with
the fact there were far too many ‘big words’ and not enough pictures in
it. But on the other hand if he had
actually read the blog, or had made someone read it to him, I could be in
trouble. I could just imagine the scene,
a prison cell full of shaved headed brutes, some giving others tattoos with the
standard prison darning needle and bottle of Indian ink, while one fellow, the brains
of the outfit, seated at the small table, trailing a finger under each word as
he hesitantly pronounces it and waits for agreement on words with more than six
letters. We all know that, despite it
being a terrifying ordeal, dealing with a mindless thug is very similar to
dealing with an innocent little puppy.
They are easily distracted, so I would simply have to use the telephone equivalent
of something sparkly and shiny to befuddle him.
Much to my surprise, rather than hear a torrent
of foul, abusive, language Clancey actually spoke like a proper human being,
well; as close to a proper human being as he could pretend. “Thanks for writing about my wedding,” he
says, going on to explain that he had, at the time, been drunk for seven days
straight and if it wasn’t for the photographs, that people had sent him, he probably
wouldn’t have known he was married, he was so poor he couldn’t afford an official
photographer. Of course what he didn’t realise
is that the photographs were actually supporting claims for compensation for
the damage many of us suffered to our personal possessions and clothing.
I think many of us actually felt sorry for
Clancey, it wasn’t his fault that he had been born into such deprivation, most
of us tried to support him and educate him, we tried to make him understand how
morally wrong his life was, but people like Mick Hughes, a Welshman from Welsh
Wales, behind our backs, encouraged Clancey, not just in drinking pints of red
wine, but in continuing his life of crime, which of course, funded the drinking
that now has the pair of them firmly in its grasp. Hughes of course apart from being a member of
Clancey’s criminal gang and fellow alcoholic, was the commanding officer of the
Bridgend Viet Taff. This was a most
violent, red wine drinking, holiday home burning, group of Welsh terrorists, so
feared that even today the Welsh authorities in Welsh Wales refuse to talk
about them. In fact Hughes was so terrifyingly
violent that he has been banned from ever entering Wales again in his life, he’s
even not allowed to be buried there, so deep run the scars of his crimes. So you can imagine how God fearing decent
people like myself and Tim and Rick felt when we saw Mick Hughes turn up at
Clancey’s wedding without a police escort.
One embarrassing memory burned into my mind,
like a red hot branding iron on the arse of a heifer, was as people gathered
outside the small chapel of Kirk Maughold, Clancey was so drunk he was
shouting, as someone, probably an undercover policeman, attempted to take a
large group photograph, “Just take one shot and we can cut it up later.” For as we say in Ireland, even then, he had a fierce
thirst on him. Rather than view my account
of his wedding day and subsequent celebrations, as no more than a factual and historical
account of how poor, uneducated, people conducted themselves in public, Clancey
seemed to be proud that someone had actually written about a tiny piece of his
life. Rather like the fellow in Butch Cassidy
and The Sundance Kid who carries around all the newspaper clippings about the gang’s
criminal exploits.
“Talking about Queens,” he said, “You should
have mentioned that Queen Elizabeth was over on the Island when I got married.” This of course was something that we all
wanted to keep quiet. “You could have
said she came to my wedding.” I could
start to see the naked jealousy in the man surface; you could see that, with
the little education he had received in Borstal, he was unable to express his jealousy
at the fact that I was now a King. I
doubt very much if a reigning monarch would ever lower themselves to attend
such a drunken and boorish event as Clancey’s wedding, but I suppose with
images of Diana, or Mother Theresa, caring for dying and diseased children in
the slums of Africa and India the more educationally challenged amongst us can always
dream of the impossible.
It was hard enough for me to drag myself to
Clancey’s wedding and perhaps luckily at that time I knew nothing about my
Royal lineage so in a way was not governed by diplomacy as I now find myself. I wondered if any of the other guys like Tim
Lort or Rick Stocks would have received threatening telephone calls from Clancey
as it was becoming clear, as he continued to speak, that he had been drinking alcohol. Clancey,
who would never admit it, has a drinking problem, given the amount of time he
has spent in prison, I’m sure you can imagine the awful prison tattoos, I am certain
there is also an underlying drug problem which he is too embarrassed to talk
about. He is probably not aware but most
of us, connected to him at arm’s length I may add, understand that the drug
issue is more of a survival thing.
It’s hard to feel sorry for such a beast but
when I last spoke to Tim Lort, Tim agreed that Clancey’s predilection for
wearing short leather skirts indicated that in prison he would have sold himself
as female. The leather indicates, or
suggests, that he gave off the signal that he ‘liked it rough.’ Most of us ex-military types know all about survival
and I suppose we all know that to survive in a prison environment would be a
tough old bean to crack. It is without a
doubt that we all agree that Clancey uses the alcohol and drugs to suppress not
only his erupting feminine side, but the dark memories of night times on the prison
wing landing, moving from cell door to cell door, telling inmates to switch off
their lights and then offering them a little something on the side.
By giving you sufficient background information
about Clancey, his gang, his exploits and his perversions, I hope I have allowed
each of you decent law abiding members of The Illuminati, to come to some
understanding of how terrifyingly evil the man is and this will now allow me to
continue with the telephone call and the depravity it sank into. Clancey continued to talk, dishing out insult
after insult about people he would publicly claim were friends. I am certain that Peter Browne wouldn’t even
understand some of the swear words that Clancey used about him. Tim Lort would, but then he is ex-Navy so
foul language like that is quite common among sailors or so I am told. “What are you doing this weekend?” he
asked. A simple and pleasant enough
question, but as this was Clancey I knew it would be coming from a different direction
than if a normal and decent person had asked it.
“I shall be watching the Irish rugby team
trounce the Italian rugby team by about forty six points to seven.” I said. “Why, what are you up to?” This is where, if you have recently have had
a meal, grab a brown paper bag or make sure that you are close to some suitable
form of receptacle. “Sally’s away for
the weekend,” he growled, with the most indecent amount of perverted suggestiveness
in his voice. “I’m sitting here naked,”
he wheezed. “Drinking red wine, watching the under twenties rugby, and scratching
myself.” Now I ask you, should people
like me have to put up with the likes of this telephoning me at all hours of
the day and night? Abuse and threats of violence
I can understand and handle but the gloating perversions of a drunken brute I
would suggest is far beyond the pale. So
please forgive me for once again diverting away from the main narrative, but some
things, as I am sure you will agree with me, need to be said.
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