Case closed, then reopened?

** DI Review **

The following reflects a review conducted by DI Horwood. Sent on the 5th April 2016. 

This allegation is one of harassment between the victim and what would appear to be a number of internet “Trolls”. In reviewing this matter, I have also considered additional offences under the Malicious Communications Act and the Offence Against the Person Act 1861. One of the suspects resides outside the jurisdiction of the UK police so is beyond possible prosecution at this time. In addition to the evidence, I have also referred to the current CPS charging guidelines in respect of these offences.

The majority of the evidence would appear to be screen shots obtain from a number of internet social sites to which the general public seems to have access, rather than being sent directly to the victim. Therefore, one would suspect that to read the comments, one would need to access these sites/pages where the comments were held.

In my opinion, I have doubts whether these comments, and given the forum in which they exist, are sufficient to fall into the 'malicious communications or harassment category. Certainly, I would suggest they fall well below the required charging guidelines recommended by the CPS. Given that the suspects are 'bloggers' and online commentators, how do we distinguish a course of conduct from their online role? When does comment become abuse? Likewise, the comments are made in a public forum rather than being sent directly to the victim, so it makes proving the intent problematic. 

Taking this into account, I feel any successful prosecution of an offence under this legislation would be difficult.  As for the physiologic harm that may have been caused, given that I feel the evidence is not sufficient to obtain a successful prosecution for the other two minor offences, there is little possibility of bringing a successful prosecution of an offence under the more serious legislation

(Offences Against The Person Act)

In summary, given the high standard of proof required for any criminal prosecution, I do not feel that there is sufficient evidence to make out these offences or bring a successful prosecution. I understand that similar complaints have been made by others to other Police Services forces that have also come to the same conclusion.

Although in my view the evidence is not sufficient to bring criminal proceedings, I feel that if the victim were to seek a remedy through the civil courts, where the standard of proof is lower, and there exists more suitable legislation, they will be more successful.

05/04/2016 22:55 DC 20--- JW M I have emailed the victim informing them of the decision to close the investigation.

In other words

A senior police review found no evidence of criminality arising from the allegations. The material consisted of comments on publicly accessible online platforms, not communications directed at the complainant, and fell well below the Crown Prosecution Service threshold for any criminal offence, with no realistic prospect of prosecution. The investigation was therefore closed.

Update. Esther Baker is due to appear in court in Liverpool on the 14th Jan 2026. Four counts of perverting the course of justice.

However, in the following few weeks, from April 5th 2016, up to May 17th 2016, Vicky Allen reopened it, and she applied for and obtained a search warrant. Begging the question, what changed? Allen's e-mails during that time span are missing. Nothing between the 5th April and the 17th May. 

Soon afterwards, during the summer months, my initial accuser and Allen realised they had no case, as DCI Horwood clearly wrote. It was time to up their game. They needed others who would play the game too. The extra bolstering witness was living in Liverpool. Contact was established, and the local plod fell into the trap. Another dawn raid, of course. More property seized, of course, more bail, more trains, more courts, more hell. The pile-on was actively smothering me. 

Parklands

According to datacity the private rehabilitation industry is worth approaching £11 billion. Read that again £11 billion nearly. 

Ethnomethodology is essentially a sociological approved and used method of research which includes among other things the researcher being part of the study of the subject matter being researched. Anyone who knows me knows I am familiar with this area. In other words if you want to research something you need to get dirty, get involved and see it from the inside. Private rehabilitation workplaces/establishments/residential centres/clinics/detox centres are notoriously difficult to penetrate for the outsider. Especially so if said outsider is a has an offending background. Even harder when they’re honest enough to admit to any potential employer in the industry that they too have previously been an addict.

Just over five years ago I was blessed with sobriety. Ever since, I thought I'd like to give back the gift I obtained when I was in early recovery. I filled in the application for a position (recovery practitioner) at a supposed 5 star private luxury addiction rehab after speaking to a friend of the manager. I read the promotional bumph and thought, this could be interesting. After all, who could refuse? 

A rehabilitation centre located in north Wales. It provides unrivalled support for people recovering from alcohol addiction, drug addiction, gambling addiction, and other harmful behavioural conditions. The facility is situated in a stunning 16-bedroom mansion surrounded by National Trust farmland near the beautiful North Wales coast1. Their experienced and highly-qualified team works closely with guests to understand individual needs, build recovery capital, and renew personal and professional lives with a fresh outlook and new goals".

My initial approach was to lay all (or a large percentage) of my cards on the table at interview. It worked. Both the senior and junior managers were impressed. Or were they? Hindsight offers up much concerning their rationale behind “taking me on” as a “Recovery Practitioner”. £24,000 per annum starting wage, two shift patterns, two company shirts and nice new pen.

It should be noted that as a child and teenager I was personally resident in a dozen or so residential establishments ranging from the small family type children’s home to the large industrial complexes of the prison services. So a wide range of personal experiences over some two decades was drawn upon during this research. Memories of institutional staffing structures where utilised during the 10 weeks of research. Additionally, as the hours ticked by I was able to recall the how’s, the whys, the where’s and the when’s of this particular establishment.

It took less than a week for me to identify the good the bad and the ugly of Parklands Place the supposed five star private residential rehabilitation centre just outside Colwyn Bay in North Wales. It is my belief that the fifth star was awarded for nothing more than the installation of a lift from the ground floor to the first floor. Only one resident during my 10 week task was seen to use the lift. As is common for these establishments it was a late 18 century early 19th century Manor house situated among a number of large trees with a drive up to the main building. However, despite the promotional literature with professional photography and very carefully chosen descriptive words, behind-the-scenes it was just a financially driven business environment with a facade of respectability.

My initial tasks incorporated observational techniques delivered by untrained and unqualified young naïve individuals.

90% of the staff were female. Some of which were agency workers recruited hastily to fill in or to cover for staff sickness or the inability to recruit new staff. Investigations at that time and since evidenced a huge staff turnover over a relatively short period of time. Staff retention was minimal to say the least. During my short employment I witnessed approximately five staff members depart. Including a Polish night supervisor. he complained to me personally at the lack of support and the refusal of senior staff to attend during the night when summoned for emergencies. Other staff members were recruited from the north-west of England on a come day-go day basis. In other words, they recruited whoever they could from where ever they could whenever they could. Chefs were also provided by agencies.

The daily routine at PP was monotonous and brain melting. The morning routine started with a turnover discussion between the night staff and day staff. The report book/diary usually contained very little information with regard to the residents/customers evening activities. So and so requested paracetamol, so and so complained of headache, so and so was late handing their phone back, etc. Rarely if ever were the daytime staff provided with the detailed or informative behaviours of the customers mental state, physical state and or spiritual condition. Quite simply, the unqualified night staff had a little if any knowledge or any professional know how about the customers needs with regard to abstinence and maintenance regarding the sobriety of the residents. Self Isolation was the preferred option in order to upkeep the establishments false tranquillity. Comfortable bedroom furniture and a 50 inch widescreen television ensured the paying customer preferred to stay in their rooms.

Following breakfast and a relaxation period of an hour also customers where encouraged to attend a variety of workshops which included CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) among other tried and tested rehabilitation formulas. Afternoons we’re basically the same. PP offered what was described as a personal pathway to recovery structure. In other words a simple tick box program. Exercise, tick, counselling, tick, one-to-one discussion, tick, meditation, tick. Permission to attend a gym once a week, tick, family visit, tick and so on.

Not once did I witness any customer/addict receive any encouragement to carry out a personal inventory of their issues . Again, I didn’t witness any psychotherapy, any emotional stabilising therapy, any academic assessments, in fact it became apparent to me that once the £10,000 fee had been received very little professional treatments followed. which wasn’t entirely surprising given the lack of capabilities of the unqualified staff member, some of which had no experience of addiction or rehabilitation whatsoever. But because they were essentially Autobots management were keen to retain them. It became a pardon very early on that I was an anomaly among these Autobots.

Management were essentially sales people who travelled up and down the UK attending various conferences in order to recruit addicts with money into PP. That was a stand-up banner, pens, key-rings and leaflets, all the usual bumph. Management used a tried and tested presentation at each venue. Mostly with emphasis on PP’s furniture, wooded tree lined setting and big televisions.

Despite being untrained and unqualified myself, I was tasked with furnishing out medications of varying sorts. And yes of course I got it wrong sometimes as did others who like me have not completed the proficiency test/requirements necessary for such responsible tasks. I’m on occasion I handed out medication that was insufficient for the addict and caused him to react negatively in a physical manner. I was asked about the incident and assured it wouldn’t go any further. I maintained that I wasn’t qualified or sufficiently trained and was informed that it didn’t really matter.

One medical inventory in 10 weeks identified a huge disconnect in the supply and consumption of a number of medicines. Arguably a report by the care standards Council for Wales that ticked all the boxes for PP seem to have offered a green light for these procedures to perpetuate. I have no reason to believe in any cessation of such practices after my departure. A reluctance by the majority of unqualified staff to “handout“ the MEDS resulted with one staff member being assigned the task. She was often reluctant and late. Arguably, a case of familiarity breeds contempt.

Of the two male members of staff one was diligent and respectfully competent at delivering variety workshops. The other male, of some senior years quite frankly didn’t give a hoot for the well-being of any addict who was paying £10,000 per month at PP. He was unkempt, lazy, miserable And was solely focused on pleasing management. A horrible man who had been employed in the criminal justice service as a drug worker, by charities in the same field and was keen on delivering meditation. only because it meant sitting down doing nothing.

The politics of the office should be a major concern for anybody forking out £10,000. Essentially, the office is the control room without a consistent individual at the controls. If parklands was a submarine, it would have been at the bottom of the sea long ago. 

The disjointed structures of the actual therapy consisted of reams of paper handouts and teacher pupil whiteboard delivery methods. Put your hand up if you’ve got an answer type of delivery. You could see the customers watching the clock. Break times always came with a welcomed smile from all. 

Without delving in deep regarding the content of the so-called therapy, the customers were offered up varying techniques/types which included some group CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) watching YouTube videos, recommended reading of associated literature, one to one interviews or sessions (with unqualified staff remember), a bit of counselling on an ad hoc basis, physical exercise, and rest. Lots of rest. 

Other common areas touched upon were, anxiety, anger, setting boundaries, destructive behaviours, cravings, negative thinking, managing and coping. All very hip and fashionable phrases and terminology that were wafted about during one-to-one sessions and practitioner delivery classes. Studies using rats, dogs and other humans, you know the ones are stacked and buried in the lever arch file that soon begins to fill up. Blurry images of overused animated pictures of the brain, graphs and associated  bumph are included in each of the customers personal pack. 

Unnoticed by the customer is the hastily organised printing jobs in the morning, the running round looking for a working marker pen, the phone calls to the IT department demanding to know why the Wi-Fi isn’t connected, the frantic phone calls to head office regarding license permits for various videos to be used, the hectic shenanigans of opening the medicine cupboard and there after dispensing medication. The same behaviours, the same conversations, the same interactions every morning, every day and every week. Not once during the 10 week observations did this pattern change.

I began to keep a log, record on the spot videos and duplicate email and diary entries which raised matters of concern for me personally. One resident who had somehow managed to cut short a prison sentence for fraud and deception, 14 months I think, by adopting the autistic title attracted my attention throughout my time. He was funded by more than one agency. Overheard conversations suggested his placements which costing the government £100 for every hour he was there. Whilst most spent no more than 28 days in situ this particular individual accomplished a nine week stay in a five star luxury establishment. Top class food and visits every weekend. Not so autistic I think. You won’t be surprised to be informed that we clashed. He knew that I knew what he and they knew. Scandalous and probably not uncommon. Partner was a highflyer with some energy company. His crime were committed against her, but she was standing by him. He spent the majority of his time drawing with magic markers. It was suggested that I didn’t enter the room if he was inside. Him and his partner complained about something nearly every other day. I believe his partner was writing into the head of the company which was being paid substantial amount to manage his presence and behaviour whilst she had a nice break.

I got the impression that most of the residents who were in situ when I was there, were there for a short break and nothing more . Why not if you can afford it? Noticeable in recent times is the kudos associated with having been in a “private rehab“ or having your own personal “therapist“. All too American for my liking.

At no time at the establishment whilst I was there were any of the resident quizzed or probed about the rationale behind them for whatever addiction they were struggling with.  One elderly lady was on her third visit/stay/placement. “I just like to drink a bottle of sherry every night darling“, she told me. It was her family that insisted on her return visits. Again in my opinion, to give themselves a break. She was 72 and her daughter was well off financially. Poor soul. 

Another example of state funded placements included an individual with severe learning difficulties who was an alcoholic. He could barely string two words together and they expected him to initiate and complete a personal pathway recovery program with bigger words than he never seen. “I like to box Daz”, he said. So I managed to persuade management to allow him to use the boxasize gloves, or exercise gloves and let him spar with another customer who enjoyed prancing about. He belonged in full-time residential environment with full time special needs careers. A blind man on a galloping horse could see it. I couldn’t persuade management to allow me to show him how to wire a household plug correctly. “Health and safety would go mental“ came the reply, “show him a YouTube video and take him through it”. He arrived with 48 cans of Coca-Cola and was allowed to keep them. You could visibly see the effects of one at 7 am. He can continue drinking them throughout the day. But he wasn’t allowed aftershave in case he consumed it for the ethanol. 

Gossip kills. The volume of disgruntlement among staff members and the backstabbing was noticeable on my first day. From there on it increased in volume and voracity. It was no surprise to this author that so-and-so was in possession of certain information about so and so and had used said information as leverage for this and that. “Well, how do we know that nobody died when she was prescribing the medicines?, it wouldn’t surprise me“. Or words to that effect.

One senior uncouth manager decided it was OK to show me phone images of her uterus which had been recently extracted during an operation. Her reaction to my reaction lasted my entire stay. I believe she was quite keen on the status quo returning to what it was before my arrival. In other words she was never happy that I was there, was always overly keen to manoeuvre the conversation away from the alleged autistic man and had served longer than any other staff member. So despite the official line she was number one. Top of the bus, cock of the north. A particularly nasty specimen whose ego was probably four times her physical size. She was passed over for promotion and it was written on her face. She was arguably the worse gossiping individual I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. If it wasn’t for the recent sighting this blog entry may well have remained in the drafts until the Internet is no more. Funny the way things go. She accused me once of saying that she had eyes like a sewer rat. I informed the operations manager when questioned about such that I had actually said she had eyes like a shit-house rat. Big difference if you’re a rat. 

The manager is essentially a venue to venue rehab sales person. No time on her hands for dealing with the intricacies of production of the associated malfunctions of the product. Get em in, get the wonga and repeat the blag all year long. Whether it’s up north, down south, a state venue or community venue or anywhere where there’s potential funding you’ll find her there. Roll up roll up, if you’d like to come this way, please. 

My DBS took a life time to arrive. 142 days to be precise. I started early March after receiving a few texts from the senior very dominant manager instructing me to "get some black shoes" and "what size neck are you?"

From the moment I walked in to the day I was escorted off the premises by a former civilian custody oaf/officer now parading as some kind of "official who manages hundreds of staff", I witnessed behaviours reminiscence of my time in the care system as a child (1977-1983). I spent approximately six years from the age of ten to sixteen in the now infamous abusive north Wales care system, including two years at the notorious Bryn Estyn school for boys in Wrexham.

During my institutional stays I was placed in a wide variety of institutions, many of which were very similar to this rehab. Large house, secluded from publics gaze, nice gardens, couple of big rooms and lots of small ones. Cellar, attic, kitchen, TV room, dining room etc. Each and all were stereotypically managed in very similar ways using almost identical methods of management. Top dog, second in command and the chosen few favourites who'll always suck up to top dog. There's always an Office. The office is the control room. Locked but always "open". Open but always closed. It's a closed shop environment monitored for dissenters continually. Ears where ears need to be. I've witnessed it from the inside. 

I joined this grouping of people and immediately realised that nothing much had changed since my early days. The cleaner, the house maid, the cook, the handyman and his young sidekick (there's always a young sidekick). Bunches of keys rattled, the hoover, pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. A small radio just loud enough to allow it to become background sound and of course, the never ending ringing of the telephones. Polished corridors, book racks, schedule board, terms and conditions and the rules of house on display in a glass fronted notice board. 

In short, I consider my past a decent enough qualification for the purposes of this blog.

The lack of interest from the operators on the invisible needs of an addict was blatant. Additionally, the focus on finance rather than freedom (from addiction) isn't evident throughout the promotional offerings. Whether it’s a shitty little stall in the heart of London's Whitechapel or the bay windows of a local college, the incitive is heavily focussed on finance. The reality however has to be experienced.

For example, i was barely in the doors when I once administered the wrong dosage of medication to a “millionaire guest”. It was all very confusing for an untrained new starter. The guest survived (no real danger) and his correct dosage was administered. The “medical lead” didn’t have a great deal of work to do. Despite the strict instructions from her senior to take me through the medical competence test, she failed to do so. Other staff members were also let down repeatedly. Medical audits in reality, pill counting were simple enough tasks. However, the effort put in was minimal and resented.

Leon Marsh decided to invite the ‘medical lead’ at PP Joss into the room he chose to dismiss me from, the ‘library’. She spoke throughout the hurriedly organised sham of an official meeting and bare face lied about completing my medical competency test. LM brushed this aside along with my revelations about JW proudly showing me pictures of her extracted uterus. I recoiled at the sight and she never got over it or understood my reactions. She actively tried to convince LM that I described her on one occasion as having ‘the eyes of a sewer rat’. I watched with interest as she donned the victim hat and sat like a young school girl telling her version of events to Miss. I still chuckle. Poor little thing wasn’t far wrong with her recollections but she failed to mention it was actually a complimentary comment about her eye sight. She witnessed me smoking whilst walking with some guests. Very good eye sight I thought, being as she was walking approximately 500 yards behind us on an extremely busy promenade. Eyes like a shit house rat some would say. I’m one.

Other more serious questions have been raised about the lack of professional medical care on offer at PP. A former staff member, yet to speak publicly, raised the issue with me personally and I was left opened mouthed. More on that later.

The overall upkeep and care of the establishment and its grounds are in the hands of the caretaker come gardener. Along with his apprentice they potter about and test the alarms every Monday at 9am. That is it. During the time I was employed I observed a myriad of issues that were completely ignored. Windows not closing securely, door handles missing, WIFI connections failing, guests tv’s on the blink. More than once I was instructed to attend the local supermarket (the cheapest of course) and purchase items out of stock, bread, potatoes, coffee, sugar etc.

£10,000 for 28 days? Rip off I say.

Photo of myself from media campaign to expose the historical abuses of the care system. Others include-tyres barely legal and incorrect model for MPV. The minibus isn’t used to “collect” guests. That journey is the introduction to PP. Only a black executive VW saloon with a full leather interior, tints and blue tooth sounds will do for that job. “The guests love it Daz”. I can confirm they do. What an intro! “I felt like I’d won the X Factor" one guest told me. The unused medical kits had evidently been there for some time. I took these photos very early on in March. I eventually disposed of them to prevent the resident squirrels and rats and other wildlife from consuming them. Wildlife is important to those in recovery, I can vouch for this.

Staff turnover and an inability to retain those recruited is and will continue to be a hindrance to anyone paying ten thousand pounds a month. Unqualified therapists and bank staff are the main stay of turn over. Young gullible and eager to impress, they don’t last long. Every hour is sucked dry. 

Operations boss accused me of gross misconduct. He made threats to me that I would never be able to work in “this field” again should he report me to the care inspectorate for Wales. (The very same body I was personally involved with when the foundations for their existence were being laid post Waterhouse publication.) LM also instructed/demanded paying recovering addicts (£10,000 for 28 days) to “stay back and get back inside” when they approached me to say goodbye on the morning of the 3rd May this year.

He was parachuted in that morning. He is a former civilian police custody worker. We all know the type. A yes man, an “I’ll jump as high as you want me to” man, the tea maker, the go-n- fetch type. The type who’d cover up cover ups. The kind of person who’d perpetuate wrong doing by turning his head. A perfect match for the custody suite of any police station. His overall management PP was absent or hidden. I never saw him. The upstairs office was his patch. Few entered. Totalitarianism from above. A coward with perceived power.

I challenged the version of events put to me. I corrected the fabricated versions and set the record straight. I encouraged him to look at who was behind the information falsely presented to him. He wasn’t in the room, no eye contact, no authoritative stance, nothing. One of his girls had been offended by an inoffensive remark and he was sticking up for her. The same remark that was discussed 3 weeks previously with PP’s manager Cheryl Williams. The same manager who informed Leon's girl and I to put it (the masturbation remark) to bed. Indeed, CW dealt with it far more appropriately than Leon’s girl wanted. She wanted me gone. She got her way. E and I were opposites in every aspect of life. Leon Marsh exaggerated an event that was already exaggerated when it reached him in order to dismiss me from PP. Soon afterwards the gross misconduct allegation was reduced to “an inappropriate comment”. 

End

Adventures of Ryan Tanner pt 5

Richard Tanner made pathetic attempts to obtain custody of his biological son. Ryan was in care and Richard convinced himself that he should try to persuade the social workers that Ryan would be better off living with him and his new family. It was a half-hearted attempt, more to aggravate Judy and Norman than to do with what was in Ryan’s best interests. Richard had moved up to the north east of England and managed to begin a new life with a new partner and their two young daughters. Cindy was approximately seven years old and her older sister Gemma was about nine. Elaine was in love with Richard and remained so until her death many years later. Ryan grew fond of Elaine as an adult. During the few visits that Ryan and his own family made to the north east they were made as welcome as any of Elaine’s immediate family. Her funeral was a sad affair. Richard was ostracised by Elaine’s family. Ryan would eventually discover why.

Ryan first visited his father’s new family when he was ten years old. Judy and Norman wanted to be seen as doing their best for Ryan. They couldn’t have the neighbours thinking anything else so they arranged a short break for Ryan to stay with his father Richard and his new family. Ryan could sense the jealousy in his mother’s voice and attitude every time she came off the phone to Richard. Ryan bore the brunt of many of Judy’s bad tempers as a result of her jealousy of Richard and his new family. Mother hated father and father hated mother even and after almost a decade after separating they both used Ryan as a weapon against the other. Judy was often heard screaming at Ryan “you even walk like your bastard father”. Coincidently, Ryan discovered that this really was the case when he met his father many years later as an adult, Ryan often laughs at the memory. Ryan’s visit to his fathers was a short one, Judy made sure of that, Ryan was soon back at home and shortly afterward his return he found himself back in care. Judy only allowed Ryan home on leave as long as Norman was working away which he was much of the time. He would be overseas for months at a time, usually in Saudi Arabia. Norman went where the money was and during the eighties the money was in the Middle East.

"Has Darren Laverty been Targeted"?

There are those out there who've collaborated to target me. Not that it mattered. 

Listen and learn

Investigation into My Media World Ltd (2023)

Investigation into My Media World Ltd

Case opened 9 November 2023

Summary-Ofcom is investigating whether My Media World Ltd has taken and implemented appropriate measures to protect the general public from relevant harmful material and to protect under-18s from restricted material.

Relevant legal provision(s)

Sections 368Z(1) and (2) of Part 4B of the Communications Act 2003.

Opening text – 10 November 2023

Ofcom has opened an investigation into My Media World Ltd, in respect of the video-sharing platform (VSP) service Onevsp (previously known as Brand New Tube). The investigation will consider My Media World Ltd’s compliance with its statutory obligations as the provider of a VSP service under Part 4B of the Act.

Part 4B of the Act came into force on 1 November 2020 and sets out the statutory framework for the regulation of VSPs. In particular, a person who provides a VSP service must take and implement such of the measures set out in Schedule 15A of the Act as are appropriate for protecting:

• persons under the age of 18 from videos containing ‘restricted material’ which includes pornographic material and other material that might impair their physical, mental or moral development; and
• the general public from ‘relevant harmful material’ which includes material that is likely to incite violence or hatred, or material that would amount to a criminal offence under laws relating to terrorism, child sexual exploitation and abuse, and racism and xenophobia.

Schedule 15A lists, amongst other measures, the inclusion of terms and conditions to the effect that:

• if a person uploads a video to the service that contains any restricted material that the person must bring it to the attention of the provider of the service; and
• that a person must not upload a video to the service that contains relevant harmful material.

Where providers of VSP services take a Schedule 15A measure, they are required to implement it in such a way as to achieve the purpose or purposes for which the measure is appropriate.

We have concerns about the implementation and effectiveness of Onevsp’s terms of use. The investigation will therefore examine whether there are reasonable grounds for believing that My Media World has failed to take and/or implement such of the Schedule 15A measures as are appropriate to protect its users from relevant harmful material and/or under 18s from restricted material.

See link here

Guardian/Observer article removal (UPDATE OCTOBER 2023)

I've chased this up over the years. Just making sure the article remains where it belongs...in the bin. Old documents and e-mails keep popping up.

Not so long ago one supposed "troofer" swore that  "The Observer have never retracted the story". and “There was no evidence that the Observer’s report was inaccurate, and the newspaper stands by it”. 

Below is an extract of e-mail exchange with head of legal for the Guardian and myself concerning this comment made in a variety of statements. Note the dates. Essentially these emails destroy any idea that the paper stands by its actions. Would you believe an individual who calls themselves a real troofer, or the Director of legal services for the Guardian? 

"Can I suggest that you seek further information from... [redacted]...as to what they are referring to when they says that the September 13 article is available online? 

Although no-one seems to have obtained copies of the article from the GNM archive, over the years, third parties have posted copies of what look like a scanned copy of the original print article on their websites. 

This republication has taken place without the Observer’s authority. Any apparent online republication of the article appears to be a scan of a hard copy of the article from the newspaper dated 13 September 1992”.

best wishes 

Gill Phillips

Director of Editorial Legal Services, Guardian News & Media (25.04.2021)

“The article is not otherwise available online via the GNM website. I have searched within the GNM website search engine for the headline of the article and, separately, your name and nothing is produced”. 

Gill Phillips, Director of Editorial Legal Services 

Guardian News & Media. (25 April 2021)

Further email exchanges found on a word document with the FORMER Readers editor (see image above) who has since appeared somewhere in the classical music pages

"Morning Darren I received an e-mail this morning to say that the technical team have removed the piece but that it may take up to five days to actually disappear from an archive search, can I contact your stalker and warn him off?

Stephen

"I have had two meetings with the editor he has agreed at an interim gesture of goodwill we will remove the article and photograph in question from our digital archive to prevent it being available to anyone else. All this may look like prevarication until a but I assure you it is not I am working hard to get to the truth about how this story appeared."

Stephen

More recently this.. 

ee how quick they change uniforms? Utter hypocrisy from all involved. Spokes in a wheel with CSA/paedophilia as the hub. 

Adventures of Ryan Tanner (part 4)

It was the spring of 1983 when Ryan was released from the detention centre to his mother’s home address in Holyhead. Any chances of returning to the care of the local authority had long gone. He hadn’t lived with his family for more than a few weeks since the age of 10. 

He now had a younger brother too.  Unbeknown to Ryan his mother Judy and her new man Norman had tied the knot at the beginning of the eighties. James was seven years old and cute enough as a little brother but he had his own room in a two bedroom council flat. Norman wasn’t about to allow Ryan to change that. In all honesty Norman had always resented Ryan’s presence in the family home. It was clear from very early on during some home visits that Norman and Ryan were never going to be singing from the same hymn sheet. 

Ryan slept on the newly purchased sofa bed in James’s room. It was never going to last Ryan thought as he walked along the quayside of the town’s fishing dock during the early hours of one morning. “I need to get my own place” he’d tell his friends as they watched the tonnes of mackerel being unloaded from fishing trawlers onto the quayside. His sixteenth birthday was fast approaching. Helping the fishermen unload their catch for a pittance wasn’t an option for Ryan, he wanted more.

A cold winter’s north easterly wind battered Ryan’s face as he hurried through town from the jobcentre to the local pub. It was a dead Tuesday afternoon and the litter strewn town centre was empty. Many of the shops had “closing down” notices in their windows and doors. The town that offered so much to Ryan as a child was dying a slow death.

The Queens public house was the only pub in town that Ryan managed to get served with alcohol Few sixteen year olds looked as mature as Ryan. He had a well-established moustache and sometimes darkened it with his older sister’s mascara. As long as he could avoid the side of the glass rubbing against his bum-fluff, thereby causing the mascara to run down his chin he could pass for an eighteen year old and manage to get served. His few pounds of benefit payments never lasted more than a day or two. His situation was dire. He needed to get out of this God forsaken town. Some of his former school friends were meddling with heroin. Ryan witnessed more than one suffering from the effects of withdrawal. “Time to get out of this shit hole” he said as he lined up his cue on the white pool ball. John Tuck coughed aloud in an attempt to put Ryan off his shot. “Yeah, yeah Tanner everyone says it but no-one ever does it” said Tuck. Ryan missed his shot, “yeah, well I’m not fucking everyone am I mate?” he replied. Sipping on the final drops of his pint of cider and black currant Ryan looked at Tuck, “I’ll be gone this time next week John, you watch”. Tuck laughed, “Yeah, yeah we’ll see”. 

The following weekend Ryan stood on the outskirts of Holyhead town at the side of the A5 with his thumb out. The A5 was a road he’d travelled many times previously. Whether he was being conveyed in his social workers car or, as was more often the case in some kind stranger’s car. Ryan knew the A5 like the back of his hand. He’d always hitch-hiked his way across the Isle of Anglesey; it was only twenty four miles as the crow flies from east to west. Anglesey was a beautiful place to live if you had the means to do so but Ryan never had those means. A car pulled up, “where are you off to mate?” shouted the driver “anywhere mate, anywhere but this shit hole” Ryan replied. “Jump in,” the driver said. That was the final day of Ryan Tanner as a resident of the town of Holyhead, the gateway to Ireland.

Ryan’s biological father was of Irish descent. He had a strong Irish accent. Ryan still clings onto this part of his DNA. Is there anyone who dislikes an Irish accent? Ryan used to put on a fake Irish accent when trying to court the female holiday makers that visited Anglesey with their families. There was never a shortage of tourists during the summer months. If every day on Anglesey was a sunny and warm day Ryan doubts he would ever have left. There are many magical memories of the summer holidays that have remained with Ryan throughout his life. There are also some not so pleasant memories he’s carried with him too. He doesn’t dwell on the negative thoughts that pop up in his mind every now and then, he deals with them in his own way. Usually this process involves alcohol or some kind of other mind altering drug. 

Adventures of Ryan Tanner (Part 3)

Ryan Tanner walked through the main doors of Byrne House on a brisk but sunny morning in September 1981. He was 13 years old. His well-groomed black hair shone in the sunlight of the summer’s morning. He had a cocky smile. He looked like trouble and a decade or so later he was as troublesome as they come for anyone who mistreated him as a young boy. Byrne House was the place to house the Ryan Tanners of this world. He was there because no other children’s home would take him. “The last thing that Ryan Tanner needed was a family environment. He needs to be placed in an all-male environment” was the recommendation contained in the latest social workers report. Ryan knew nothing of the reports compiled by his former “carers”. He always thought that he was sent to Byrne House as punishment because of his behaviour whilst resident in other family orientated children’s homes. 

Ryan’s first placement in the care of the local authority was in a newly built modern looking assessment centre designed as a collective row of three to four houses. It was a new project for the local politicians to spend tax payers’ money on to try and gain some kudos in the forthcoming general elections.  It was a new and worthy cause that would bring kids and their broken families back together again. Ryan’s upbringing was alien to the concept offered by this placement. Any assessment of Ryan would evidence as much. Ryan Tanner was a hardened. He was child hardened by his first ten years of life. His behaviour was such that he attracted the attention of the officer-in-charge at the Yellow Project House, Neville Snot. In the time to come Neville Snot would regret the day he ever set eyes on that ten year old, who was just four feet and nine inches tall.

Early Tanner

Ryan Tanner was born in the summer of 1967. He was the youngest of three children. Soon after his first birthday Ryan’s father was posted to Singapore. Richard Tanner had joined the Royal Air Force a few years earlier. Ryan’s mother had initially refused to make the move with Richard because of her fear of flying. The thought of flying in a plane sent shivers down the spine of Judy Tanner. Eventually, she agreed to up sticks and make the move. Judy found it almost impossible to imagine bringing up the three kids without the support of Richard, emotionally and financially. 

Although Judy’s immediate family had offered to support her for the two years that Richard was due to stay in Singapore she knew it was the right decision to go with him. Ryan had vague and patchy memories of his mother singing a song which included the lyrics “Stand by your man”; he discovered later on in life that it was a big hit for Tammy Wynette. Music has always played a role in Ryan’s life; many of his memories centred on the music of a certain period. 

Whilst in Singapore Judy and Richard started to drift apart, Richard was constantly drinking more than he should for a father of three young children. Ryan’s two older sisters remembered their mother screaming and shouting about Richard’s constant nights out with his fellow air force comrades. Richard’s violent outbursts often resulted with Judy sporting a blackened eye or a thick lip, Judy couldn’t wait to get back home to the UK and to her family and friends.

In 1970 they all returned to the UK when Ryan was aged just three years old. The violence continued and it was inevitable given the size of Judy’s family that Richard was ostracised and eventually he left the family home. According to Richard, as he later explained to Ryan, he had no choice in the matter. Ryan never saw his father again until he was ten years old. Richard had a new family but he was still drinking heavily. This was a feature that was never to change throughout Richard’s life.  

Whilst growing up Ryan frequently asked himself the same questions; What if his father hadn’t left? What would life have been like if his parents had stayed together? Would his life have been different? He’d often fabricate a happy family life when meeting new people. Ryan would often brag about his dad being an RAF officer, he’d pretend to have memories of living Singapore and brag about the house-maids that used to look after him. Always trying to fit in with his peers Ryan never allowed his families breakdown to become a negative factor. 

Ryan’s short visit to see his father at the age ten was explained to his peers in terms of joy and happiness. In reality it was anything but. The truth was that Judy had a new man in her life. She could see Ryan’s behaviour was changing for the worse so sending Ryan to visit his father was an attempt to pacify him. But Judy knew deep down that she was never going to allow Ryan to actually live with Richard. Ryan had barely taken his shoes off in his father’s new family home when his mother Judy was on the phone. “He’s only there because I want a break” she used to insist. “Make sure he knows he’ll be back next week”. Richard’s new family home was never going to be Ryan’s new family home. Ryan knew he was going home to his mother sooner or later. 

Social workers assigned to Ryan in the early days often tried to persuade him that if he moved to live with his father things would be better for him. “Think of the new school, the new friends and new adventures you’d have Ryan”. What they actually meant was; as soon as we can get rid of this one to another patch then all the boxes that were required to be ticked would be ticked, job done, next!

Early school days for Ryan Tanner were much the same as his classmates. That said, his teachers always seemed to single him out. His hand would be the first raised to answer any questions put to the class. If he was chosen to answer by the teacher he answered with the confidence of an adult. So much so that he usually ended up questioning the original question. Teachers often grew annoyed at Ryan’s cocky answers. “But that isn’t what I was asking Ryan” they’d say. “Well that’s what it sounded like to me miss” was his usual reply. Ryan was never without friends in school. Other children would want to sit on the same table as him at lunch time. His female friends often flirted and made it known to him that they wanted his attention.

Despite his forty years of smoking and drinking Ryan Tanner carried a look of a man that’d walked into the wind and the sun for most of his life. If he was ever asked about his age few people would guess it and most always end up guessing it as many years younger. As a wry smile appeared from Ryan’s mouth Ryan’s dream came to an abrupt end. He heard his name being shouted. “TANNER, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT, get your fucking arse out of that pit NOW”! Ryan realised he’d been dreaming the dream again. The same dream he’d had for years-the dream of being a writer and writing books

Detention Centre 

The burly prison officer grabbed the base of Ryan’s bed and lifted it with Ryan still in it. Ryan stared at his ripping large muscles that were nearly bursting through his brilliant, starched white short- sleeved shirt; Ryan could see a web like pattern of deep purple veins bursting to break out of the screws biceps. “Where the fuck do you think you are”? Tanner’s bed was then dropped onto the polished wooden dormitory floor boards. “It’s not a fucking holiday camp you know”, the screw shouted across the dorm as he marched further on down the line of beds.

Ryan was serving four months in a youth detention centre (DC). He was now fifteen years old. He climbed out of bed and stretched his developing arms up toward the hundred year old ceiling of the dormitory. Cob webs filled the gaps in between the wooden beams and the lime coating under the roof tiles. “I hate this shit hole” Ryan murmured to himself. The usual routine followed-into the wash room with its freezing cold terracotta floor tiles and cold white ceramic tiled walls. Pick one of the forty or so deep Belfast sinks, strip wash, clean teeth, shave, rinse and dry. This was always followed by-back to the dorm, get dressed into the uniform of checked shirt and denim dungarees, build a square bed pack from your sheets and pillow, place it at the head of the bed on top of the mattress and then stand at the base of your bed until the screw had inspected the bed pack and permitted you to go down to the dining room to wait at your table for breakfast. It was the same routine every morning for nearly four months. The only respite was for the last few weeks when Ryan managed to get a job on the detention centres farm. 

Although extremely hard work and a 5am start Ryan enjoyed the change of scenery and the farm banter that came with the job. Additionally the “farm lads” food was also considerably better in quality and quantity. Ryan applied on numerous occasions for work on the farm but his general behaviour wasn’t good enough. He was informed that he needed to improve his over-all general behaviour before being allowed out unsupervised on the farm. With only three weeks left of his four month sentence he was deemed a suitable choice. Ryan hated the governor of Worthington House detention centre as he hated all the other people who’d claimed an authority over him as a child, a teenager and a young man. ‘Bastards, all of them’ he often thought, utter bastards. cont.......

4 years 6 months and 10 days.

Events of recent have emerged in such a way that I'm relying on a higher power to guide my actions. Left to my own devices things would inevitably hit the fan. Not anymore. No longer do I dive in head first and retaliate. Seems to be working so far. 

The words below came to me at sunrise recently. I thought I'd share them as I begin day 1655 of sobriety. The saying 'it works if you work it' has never been more apt. 

Now we know the truth to be this: “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic”

We’ve never seen one single case where one of us was able to go back to successful drinking… to believe anything different than that is to believe something that is not true, or to believe a lie. This guy believed that after 25 years of sobriety he could now drink like normal people.  Now based upon that belief he took a drink, triggered the allergy, couldn’t stop…four years later he’s dead.  Now is his real problem the fact that he has a physical allergy to alcohol or a form of insanity that tells him it’s OK to drink alcohol after 25 years of sobriety? The real problem is centred in our mind telling us we can drink, rather than in our body, that ensures that we can’t drink.

We have seen the truth demonstrated again and again: "Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic." Commencing to drink after a period of sobriety, we are in a short time as bad as ever. If we are planning to stop drinking, there must be no reservation of any kind, nor any lurking notion that someday we will be immune to alcohol.

From Joe and Charlie Bless em.

Adventures Of Ryan Tanner (Part 2)

......This was the first morning for over a year that the freight train of fear hadn’t arrived. Ryan Tanner’s every waking moment had been a nightmare since his arrest some twelve months previously. The freight train of fear had passed by for the first time in over a year. It wasn’t coming at him at speed; it wasn’t on its way. No screaming whistle and no screeching of the brakes. It was over. The possibility of ten years in prison was no more. The judge’s words kept repeating in Ryan’s head “You’re free to leave this court Mr Tanner”.

The journey home took just under four hours. Maggie, Ryans mother-in law, had slept for most of it. Apparently, she’d refused to go to sleep until Ryan was tucked up in his room. Ryan’s wife had mentioned earlier that it was about 3am. Ryan enjoyed the drive. Smiling and winking at the other drivers who were also caught in the stand-still traffic on the various motorways and dual carriage ways. Nothing could ruin his day he thought. The photographer back at the hotel was shocked to discover Ryan was happy to be photographed. Ryan chose the spot for the shoot in front of the same fish tank he’d attempted to swim in during the early hours. The news of his acquittal had made the headlines. Luckily, there was nothing about Ryan’s attempted early morning dip. Ryan remembered his audience the night before. “Fuck em” he thought. The presenter began, “A man was yesterday acquitted of all charges of stalking over a four year period”, the newscaster announced on the radio. “Ryan Tanner, who is fifty years old, spoke briefly to our reporter after his acquittal at Kingdom crown court yesterday. He said, I am innocent and have been innocent of all charges since the day the police smashed down my front door and arrested me. It’s time to gather my thoughts and spend some quality time with my family”. Ryan laughed out aloud as he re-tuned the radio. Don McLean-Chain Lightening that’ll do nicely he said as he turned up the volume using the control paddles next to the steering wheel.

2012 was the year Ryan had decided to try and in his own words “put things right about Byrne House”. Too many news reports were reporting that senior politicians and other well-known show business celebrities had been regular visitors to the home where Ryan had lived for two years. These supposed politicians had allegedly regularly picked up boys and took them away to London to be sexually abused in various addresses at high class parties. Ryan knew it was lies he was watching the creation of “fake news” in all its glory. The dramatic music behind the news features, the special reports involving experts and specialists filled the TV screens day and night for almost a week. Ryan’s mobile phone rang; it was Barry from the BBC Wales. A deep southwalian accent requested an interview. The promise of a £50 payment to talk about the Byrne House visitors on the phone for a few minutes sent Ryan into a tirade of expletives and curses. Barry apologised and promised no further contact. A quarter of an hour later Roger from BBC Wales was on the phone. Ryan knew Roger from the mid-eighties. Some of the so-called care staff had been convicted of sexually abusing some children at Byrne House. Roger had interviewed Ryan about his time there as a teenager. 

Things were different this time. Many years had passed and Roger was a senior reporter and he was expected to be able to deliver the goods. “OK, Ryan I understand what you’re saying but might there be any chance you could put me in touch with Alwyn Hughes?” Alwyn had been sexually abused according to the jury at the trial of Peter Hogget. Hogget had been convicted of numerous offences of sexual abuse against a number of boys at Byrne House during the 1960’s through to the middle of the 1980’s. “Roger” Ryan said quietly “I think it’s best if you fuck off. Leave me and anyone I know alone if you’d be so kind”. “But Ryan”, Roger persisted, “this is big. What’s it going to cost me?” Memories of Alwyn came to Ryan’s mind. He placed the phone on its cradle. It rang again. Ryan grabbed the dog lead and summoned his four legged friend. “Oscar, c'mon let’s go”.

Oscar heard Ryan’s legal defence time after time without knowing it. Each evening as they walked Ryan would inform Oscar what his reply to any of the prosecutions questions would be, each line would be rehearsed over and over. Oscar was happy to listen as long as he had a ball to fetch. The judge had agreed a time limit on Ryan’s trial, six days. The case management hearings and the pre-trial preparation hearings evidence was bollocks, Ryan explained to Oscar. It was a jury Ryan wanted, a jury of twelve normal everyday people who would see right through the prosecution’s case. “You wait and see Oscar; I’ll be taking you for a long walk on the 20th of June 2017. And so it was. Ryan and his sheepdog Oscar walked for five hours on the 20th June 2017.

Ryan Tanner’s refusals to accept the media’s mantra- that politicians visited Byrne House made him enemies. Whether it was on social media in the newspapers and or in the main stream media, various so-called “victims” made appearances and made wild and far-fetched claims. Tanner knew some of these so-called “victims”. They’d been at Byrne House together all those years ago. Martin Watson appeared on Sky News and looked almost dead to Ryan. His skin was white and his hair was wet from the sweat he was expelling. Martin was drinking from a beer bottle during the interview and wearing a denim jacket and ripped jeans, he lied through his teeth that resembled a row of bombed houses. Ryan turned to his wife and said, “That’s bullshit. Every word is bullshit, I was there”. “Don’t let it bother you” she replied. “Well it does bother me” said an uncomfortable Ryan. “It’s doing my head in”....cont

The Adventures Of Ryan Tanner (Part 1)

Ryan Tanner grinned as the judge announced his acquittal. “You’re free to leave this court Mr Tanner” the judge announced. Tanner, with his head held high surrounded by the glass walls of the crown court dock waited for the overweight female custody officer to unlock the door to freedom. 

No goodbyes and no looking back. Tanner held out his hand as his wife locked hers into his. They headed for the main doors of the court and disappeared outside into the public foyer. Once the lift reached the bottom floor Ryan could see the media scrum waiting outside the entrance to the courts. 

They scuffled and fought for the best position to catch a glimpse of Tanner as he exited the swinging doors of Kingdom crown court. Microphones and flashing cameras were aimed at Tanners face, “How does it feel Mr Tanner? Are you glad it’s over Ryan? Will you be suing the police Ryan? Have you got a message for your accusers Mr Tanner?” “Do you intend to sue them?” Tanner picked one camera and spoke directly into the lens, “these people have attempted to destroy my life. They failed, the police, the Crown prosecution service and certain politicians have spent thousands of pounds of public money on a prosecution that should never have been brought. I am innocent and have been innocent of all charges since the day the police smashed down my front door and arrested me. It’s time to gather my thoughts and spend some quality time with my family. I’ll be making an official statement in due course”. Tanner’s wife locked her arm into his and smiled at him. “Let’s go Ryan, let’s get away from here” she whispered in his ear. 

They shared a pouting kiss and made their way to the back of the building where they had parked their car. A few hacks attempted to follow them. Tanner politely asked them to leave them alone. Apart from one persistent little shit the media pack backed off and allowed the couple room to walk away freely. “But, Mr Tanner”, shouted the remaining hack as he walked backwards in front of Tanner as Tanner moved forward “what about the victims in this case?” Tanner paused and leaning forward, “the only victims in this case are my family and friends and the general public”, now I’ve politely asked you to allow us to get on with our lives so please leave us alone, or else”. The hack realised soon enough that Tanner was heading directly into his personal space. He moved aside and allowed Tanner and his wife the space to walk on. 

The next morning Ryan Tanner awoke and sat up in bed. He looked out of the windows on the thirteenth floor of the St James hotel in London. He could hear his wife singing in the shower, Dolly Parton. Standing next to the full length windows Tanner moved the net curtains to one side and looked down on the main street. Ant sized people went about their business. Red buses, black cabs and motorcycle couriers waited for the traffic lights to change colour. Something was amiss. Ryan thought for a while. Walking over to the half sized kettle he stopped. He caught a glance of himself in the full length mirror. His stomach was bigger than it was yesterday due to the previous night’s feast of alcohol and food. His stomach felt wrong. Not because of the over indulgence the night before, it was something else. Then it came to him.................cont....

Addiction/Recovery

For my 8th birthday my elder sister bought me a pack of Weetabix cereal. I distinctly remember my mother saying “you’re bloody addicted to them you are“. She wasn’t far wrong, I loved them. Is there a difference between addiction for/to something and loving something? Answers on a postcard.

At present, in my mid 50s, and with the benefit of hindsight one could argue the above question for decades. Thousands of therapists and scientists could and would spend the rest of their lives, trying to or rather pretending to try to, answer that question. 

The phenomenal recent increase of therapeutical practices with regards to addiction could not have gone unnoticed. Thousands upon thousands of so-called practitioners, swarm the internet through social media with adverts and promotional offerings with a promise to the addict or rather the addicted customer, a solution to help them take control of their lives and break free from their addictions. It doesn’t matter which addiction, it doesn’t matter why the addiction, it doesn’t matter who is the addict. What matters is that the customer has the finance or funding to pay for the specific therapy. The customer can can choose from a myriad of options available to them, ranging from hallucinogenic drugs to tapping their forehead repeatedly. Many therapists offer a range of solutions/remedies to the addictive customer, all for a special price… of course. Some of these so-called therapists have become millionaire celebrities in their own right. I could reel off half a dozen names of the so-called “specialists“ but I won’t bother. It’s not as if they need the publicity, indeed they have waiting lists as long as airport runways. 

Many of the modern day wizards/healers lay claim to have experienced traumatic events, which have led them to their position in life. Many more are just well read clowns, who make a living by profiteering from the suffering of others. It’s not a new phenomena but any means. 

Anyway back to me. For the past 46 years i’ve been labelled and have self labelled myself as someone with an addictive personality. My most recent addiction is a three year old boy who my daughter gave birth to during the height of a global detention/lockdown. Can my love for him to be described as an addiction? Can his love for his mother be classified as an addiction? There are many who would argue yes, absolutely. Those same people would be quite happy to charge you by the hour to take you through the psychological psychoanalytical physiological and sociological reasons why. I try to avoid such people. 

From 1977 through to 1984 I was unfortunate enough to find myself in the care of the local authority (hardly surprising given both of my parents were alcoholics). I learnt very quickly how to smoke, drink and behave or adapt to my environments. By the age of 14, my addictions ranged from antiperspirants, deodorant, petrol, glue, alcohol, and tobacco. By the age of 17, I had added, amphetamine, cannabis, ecstasy and LSD to the list. By the age of 18, I had served two prison sentences. I was ejected from the care system with very few social skills, no education and no ability to decipher the world around me. I was lost in a haze of sex drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. 

My early 20s arrived with a stumble. I had managed to reduced my addictions/dependencies down to just alcohol, tobacco and cannabis. Although I was living a life, it wasn’t one any parent would choose for their own children. I began to discover the world of employment and all that comes with living an independent  lifestyle i.e. responsibilities, planning, foresight and budgeting. 

However, at the age of 25 I had a new addiction. My daughter was born on November 22, 1994. She was a game changer in many ways. I discovered unconditional love, innocence, compassion, security and many other human emotions that had eluded me. I was now a father. 18 months later our second was born. He was my first son. Another addiction added to the list. Over the next few years we planned for two more. We lost one in the very early stages of pregnancy but had our third nearly a decade after our first. A good set up. I was content with my lot. Or was I? During the entire 30 years of recovering from my childhood disasters I was ignorant of why I had to drink so much so often to such extremes. I had no idea of the depths alcohol had taken me.

It wasn’t until I attended a meeting of similar minded people, that it dawned on me. It was March 15 2019. A small wooden building in the village of Menai Bridge on the island of Anglesey, north Wales. It was cold, it was wet and it was my first realisation that I was, am and have been an alcoholic for many years. Some argue it took hold in the womb. Who knows? Who cares? 

I haven’t consumed alcohol since that day. My sobriety is now an addiction. The more I have the more I want. And as if I any reinforcement of sobriety was required, it came along in the form of my first grandson in June 2020. He’s a gift beyond description.  

It would take an entire manual to describe and evidence the battles, internally and externally, I have fought to reach my station in life. However, I recently arrived at a junction. Decisions were required regarding the next decade or two. Who, what, where and when are we heading? Where do I want to end up? And how do I end up there?

In the very early years, we decided we’d like to be Driftwood artists. Collecting driftwood from the coast of Anglesey cleaning it, tart it up a bit and sell it on. A dream like existence that would involve beach strolls, sunsets and barbecues. it took a while, but we eventually realised dreamers only exist in dreams. So thereafter we embarked on an educational journey through university college etc eventually graduating in the early 2000s. My wife and I both becoming officially recognised criminologists. 

Initially, I was a mentor to teenagers from deprived backgrounds. There was a lot of outdoors stuff and associated physical tasks. They looked up to me, they trusted me and they opened up quite freely on a wide range of subjects. You can guess some of the more negative issues I counselled them for. I had a rapport beyond the comprehension of any other staff members reach. I began working in the criminal justice system only to discover I was different from everyone else employed in the criminal justice. It was never going to work. I left with a bang. I’ve dipped my toe in the children’s residential services, I endured two years of non-governmental organisation trauma working with ex offenders and have more recently ventured into and out of the profit making arena of private rehabilitation. 

The latter providing a sordid example of how bad things have got. The sales team in the private rehabilitation industry, usually the unit managers are evidently able to convince some very well off vulnerable people to spend upwards of £10,000 a month with a promise of solving their addictions. The paying customer is led along a merry path which has been designed with their vulnerabilities in mind. They use tactics, not unfamiliar to second-hand car salesman or scrupulous landlords. They reel you in and hook you using tactics that thus far, are mostly concealed from the publics gaze. Part of my future plan involves close scrutiny of such units. Especially the local offerings here in north Wales.

I am anti-authoritarian. I am a child of the system of government which has repeatedly and perpetually been unable to provide the tax payers any services to a decent standard. Every government since 1967 has failed to provide adequate personal assistance to enable the addicted among us  to climb the economic, social and educational ladders of life. The systemic influences of financial gain are obvious. 

Alcoholic pensioners by the dozen are convinced to part with tens of thousands of pounds to spend some time “with others, among friends, and with people who understand you, in a luxury environment.“ They’ll be told about the clean sheets, the laundry service, the meditation, the yoga, the restaurant styled food, the local scenery, the fresh air, and not forgetting “the program” or the more recently favoured jargon used by the private providers “your individual pathway”. Customers are provided with “schedules“. Failure to adhere to these “schedules“ could result in your discharge. Therefore you will forfeit any remaining payment. In other words, if you don’t do what you’re told we do you have the right via the signed contract to terminate your stay or “pathway” and to keep your money. Shocking. 

My last, and arguably, the most powerful of addictions, tobacco is a battle still being fought. Don’t ask. 

Tactical Retreats

Tactical retreats can serve a great many purposes …

Firstly, they can, as you posit in your question, withdraw a unit from engagement and otherwise save it from destruction and/or to fight another day.

Secondly, and tangentially, they could also be undertaken to withdraw a weary or otherwise tired unit, thereby sustaining its combat effectiveness.

Third, a unit could withdraw because they felt themselves to be at a disadvantage, like the terrain, or because they lacked forces/numbers, or weapons, or reinforcements.

Fourth, a unit could also withdraw to gain an advantage, like a movement to more advantageous grounds and/or a better position or situation.

Fifth, and most interestingly, a withdrawal could be a well designed trap!

 

Helping others help themselves

COVID LIES

Funeral Director exposes truth about fake Pandemic 

D-DAY

On this day 35 years ago I was summoned to the main office where Peter Howarth announced: "there's a warrant here for your train". "Train"? I asked. "Yep... you're off lad". Two minutes later David Birch walked in rattling the van keys smiling. "Come on Darren, your train leaves in 20 mins we don't want you missing it do we"? My mouth was agape. I walked upstairs to my dorm put my stuff in a rucksack threw it over my shoulder and made my way downstairs, then outside to the minibus. No goodbyes no handshakes no hugs nothing. Just me, Birchy and the minibus.

Birchy dropped me off, "try and look after yourself Darren lad, it's a fucking jungle out there". I turned around to say goodbye but he was already driving off. I handed the ticket to the man behind the glass window. He stamped it and I walked onto the platform. Someone had left a newspaper on the bench, The Daily Post, 6th June 1983. The train pulled up, I lit a fag opened the door and stepped on board. I found a seat next to the window and watched as Wrexham faded into a small spot and eventually from sight. I began to cry.

Arrival at Chester station was 20 mins later. A quick train swap and I was on the train to Llanfair PG. Another home, another life another episode. This time it was going to be different. I was going to get a job and meet a girl and enjoy my life away from social services.


30 years later and it feels like yesterday. Upon arrival at the halfway house/home, one of the helpers at the establishment commented "you know what day it is don't you Darren?.... It's D-Day, you could call it Daz's Day". I have every year since. Every year, every June 6th has been Daz's Day.  Today is no different.

RIP to all those who've failed to reach this far, you're forever in my thoughts.

Grandparentage

Let me introduce my grandson Jax. Born on the 9th June. Now, if ever there was a reason to fight the fight I've been fighting for so, this is him. The past few years have been a hard lesson. The next few might be too. But things have changed, resentments no longer control the psyche. Logic rules.

The End Game

I'd like to thank the ICO for their findings and dismissing the Guardians appeal on this matter. The disclosure concerned was a fabricated false and fake document which was created in or around 1991/2. My signature was forged by someone who I believe to be David Rose, (secret paedophile I am 'a former MI5 agent' who 'specialises in fixing tricky problems which are inconveniencing the more conservative parts of the Establishment – by using spin, disinformation and pure lies'.), news reporter of the year in the Society of Editors British Press Awards for 2015. He dismissed my approaches in the same year and has failed to explain to me why his name was on the article of September 1992 in which words from the fabricated document were copied from and used in the 1992 article.

The wording was such that it alleged I took part in a rape at the age of 11. There was no rape, no rape victim, and no gang rapists. There was a girl (14) who had sex with 3 boys(14,15,15)  whilst I was in the area. She consented and as far as I witnessed she enjoyed the experience. She never complained to the authorities (she was in care with me) or the police. There was no investigation because there was no crime, other than all four involved were underage. This information hasn't previously been available to the public. Neither has the fact that, the only other humans apart from those involved, who were aware of these details of the event were policemen/women from North Wales police. 

I told the police about it in August 1991. It was supposed to be in my original police statement about my time in care. Only the author of the fabricated document and the police know how it arrived in David Roses possession. My guess? It was created to discredit me as a witness against Gordon Anglesea. I could place him at Bryn Estyn and I was credible. A jury would have believed the truth from me. The police knew it and so did Anglesea's Masonic brothers. Ask yourselves this-Why, if Laverty was worth enough to feature on the same Observer piece that was spread over two pages- why wasn't he worth it enough to call as a witness at the 1994 libel trial? They couldn't afford to have me in the witness box on their behalf because they'd previously written that I was a rapist at the age of 11. Furthermore, how could the same article appear on twitter 20 years later when the archivists at from the Guardian, according to Stephen Pritchard, have stated that the archived version of the article has never been accessed? I'm happy to share the e-mail should anyone need clarification. So where did it come from? I know not. Only a select few have that knowledge. The lawyers and the heads of both the Guardian and the Observer are among that select few. 

They thought they could ruin me and Stephen Messham (who also featured in the 1992 two page spread about Gordon Anglesea). You know what happened to Steve, not once, but twice they ruined him and his mind. They never came close to doing the same to me. I was and still am too strong and tenacious to let another human ruin my mind. If you've met me you'll agree. 

The Guardians readers editor Stephen Pritchard (officially and unbelievably their ombudsmen) was contacted by or contacted a hack  on October 5th, 2016. After speaking on the telephone he disclosed the forgery with the hope of increasing my chances of conviction on fabricated malicious stalking charges. The disclosure was made via e-mail. There is no other way it could be shared because it only exists in digital form. There is no date on it and no-one has ever seen an original. That is a fact. During legal arguments, the head of legal for the Guardian couldn't deny it. Now, however, anyone could have it. 

Am I making this up? I shit you not, every word is fact. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, welcome on stage Esther Baker. Forever the victim Baker lays into me. Her police statements are pure gold for a future novelist. She was clearly coached by the spooks from Exaro, the police (from three forces) and the Lantern crew. She goes on about me tweeting about hoisin sauce and roasting ducks and thought she could convince a jury that I was actually tweeting to her about being "spit roasted". Then she goes on to claim that she knows that the term refers to be fucked in the doggy style whilst giving a blow job. This is what I was being accused of, there's more of similar lies from Poulton. One day when I'm dead you'll get to see it all. Each and every one of my accusers can't make the truth into lies. The ones who've chosen to use the article to justify and boost their hatred of me have only given me the strength that I never knew I had. You're all to blame for this blog remaining online, all to blame for creating a more resilient Laverty than previously existed. 

Those who chose to swim alongside me against the tide have also struggled. My haters are their haters because they chose to believe and challenge what was being put out there about me. Well, thank you, haters, for introducing me to some amazing people. Without your hate and bile and lies about me, I wouldn't have been given the opportunity to have been blessed with their courage and tenacity and friendship. Long may it continue. That said, I've come across a large number of absolute nutters in the past five years too. Too many to mention. They only wanted to help but failed to understand the gravity of my situation. I hope they're reading this and beginning to understand it a bit more now. It really does read like fantasy to many because of the depths it goes to. There's far more to offer but this isn't the place. Maybe YouTube or a similar platform. You can look into my eyes and judge for yourselves.

This isn't the end of the matter. Imran Kahn QC, arguably one of the most respected QC's in the UK and further afield, has been instructed and is in the process of finalising a legal letter of intent. The letter will be arriving on certain doorsteps in the not too distant future. Rest assured it'll be made public once completed. Those who ignore Imran's declaration will face severe consequences. That's not a threat, it's a promise. Imran knows the DNA of my case and has every intention of dealing with those who continue to use the fabricated article as a weapon against me. Those who allow the publication or availability of the article are not excluded from legal action. Those residents living outside the UK but in Europe will also have to face the legal consequences. There are no borders to stop the courts from dealing with you. 

Additionally, I believe a crime has been committed by the Observer readers editor. His actions fit the crime of attempting to pervert the course of justice. Whether or not he gets charged, and based on my previous dealings with the police I don't expect he will, he has to live with the fact that the intent was there. He intended to sway the juries mind into believing I was a rapist. All based on the document that was faked, forged and fabricated by his newspaper. He involved himself in a criminal court case and intended to cause serious harm to the administration of justice. It's there in black and white. If you or I acted in the same way, we would be in front of a judge in less than five minutes. Jail would follow. 

So, for now, I'll let you digest the above. Be rest assured though, I have the comprehensive details of addresses and contact details for each and all of those who've chosen to share, publish, tweet or retweet the fabricated article. All the evidence is online. You know who you are. Be careful what you wish for. If I managed to persuade the Guardian to remove it from their archives, I can certainly manage to deal with each and every one of you individually. I won't even have to leave the house unless it's to face you in court.