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.