Celtic Illumination, part 333, Real evil has a Cockney accent.
I actually thought that the threats of physical violence from Ed Mooney, the day before yesterday, would be the lowest point in the life of this blog. How wrong I was, for last night I was introduced to a new level of depravity, scorn, violence and abuse that would terrify a normal person. I shouldn’t really write about it and if any of you are presently eating I would strongly advise that you stop reading this and finish your meal unless you want to find the contents of your stomach covering whatever form of device you use to read this. I have decided that you should know the full horrific detail of what happened as I need to leave a permanent record of it and if I was to suddenly disappear, then at least the police will have something positive to direct them.
It was quite late, about nine o clock last night, late enough for decent God fearing people. The telephone rang, so I switched on the tape recorder. Placing the receiver against my ear I shuddered as I heard the menacing London accent growl, ‘Hello mate,’ at me. In a flash I knew who it was and I quite naturally checked for my escape routes and nearest weapon. “If you’re the King of Ireland then I wanna be a prince.” You can’t really sense the threatening tone of his voice from me writing here, but you can see that there was no pleasantries, no please or thank you, no hello how are you? Just the brutal demand in a voice similar to the one he probably used as an intimidating loan shark on the back streets of London as a youth, a world so removed from human decency that even Charles Dickens himself couldn’t have imagined it. I prayed that he was not standing outside my front door and hoped that he was locked up in a police cell somewhere pretending that he was calling a solicitor for advice.
I have to admit that the training the double top secret cabal had put me through found me, for once, sticking up to the international thug known to us all as John Sebastian Stanley Clancey. “With your propensity for wearing short leather skirts,” I said. “You would probably make a much better Queen!” My reposte seemed to catch him off guard, I doubt if he was used to people standing up to him and his brutish ways. “Oive been reading your blog,” he growled, indicating that he perhaps was not happy with the fact there were far too many ‘big words’ and not enough pictures in it. But on the other hand if he had actually read the blog, or had made someone read it to him, I could be in trouble. I could just imagine the scene, a prison cell full of shaved headed brutes, some giving others tattoos with the standard prison darning needle and bottle of Indian ink, while one fellow, the brains of the outfit, seated at the small table, trailing a finger under each word as he hesitantly pronounces it and waits for agreement on words with more than six letters. We all know that, despite it being a terrifying ordeal, dealing with a mindless thug is very similar to dealing with an innocent little puppy. They are easily distracted, so I would simply have to use the telephone equivalent of something sparkly and shiny to befuddle him.
Much to my surprise, rather than hear a torrent of foul, abusive, language Clancey actually spoke like a proper human being, well; as close to a proper human being as he could pretend. “Thanks for writing about my wedding,” he says, going on to explain that he had, at the time, been drunk for seven days straight and if it wasn’t for the photographs, that people had sent him, he probably wouldn’t have known he was married, he was so poor he couldn’t afford an official photographer. Of course what he didn’t realise is that the photographs were actually supporting claims for compensation for the damage many of us suffered to our personal possessions and clothing.
I think many of us actually felt sorry for Clancey, it wasn’t his fault that he had been born into such deprivation, most of us tried to support him and educate him, we tried to make him understand how morally wrong his life was, but people like Mick Hughes, a Welshman from Welsh Wales, behind our backs, encouraged Clancey, not just in drinking pints of red wine, but in continuing his life of crime, which of course, funded the drinking that now has the pair of them firmly in its grasp. Hughes of course apart from being a member of Clancey’s criminal gang and fellow alcoholic, was the commanding officer of the Bridgend Viet Taff. This was a most violent, red wine drinking, holiday home burning, group of Welsh terrorists, so feared that even today the Welsh authorities in Welsh Wales refuse to talk about them. In fact Hughes was so terrifyingly violent that he has been banned from ever entering Wales again in his life, he’s even not allowed to be buried there, so deep run the scars of his crimes. So you can imagine how God fearing decent people like myself and Tim and Rick felt when we saw Mick Hughes turn up at Clancey’s wedding without a police escort.
One embarrassing memory burned into my mind, like a red hot branding iron on the arse of a heifer, was as people gathered outside the small chapel of Kirk Maughold, Clancey was so drunk he was shouting, as someone, probably an undercover policeman, attempted to take a large group photograph, “Just take one shot and we can cut it up later.” For as we say in Ireland, even then, he had a fierce thirst on him. Rather than view my account of his wedding day and subsequent celebrations, as no more than a factual and historical account of how poor, uneducated, people conducted themselves in public, Clancey seemed to be proud that someone had actually written about a tiny piece of his life. Rather like the fellow in Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid who carries around all the newspaper clippings about the gang’s criminal exploits.
“Talking about Queens,” he said, “You should have mentioned that Queen Elizabeth was over on the Island when I got married.” This of course was something that we all wanted to keep quiet. “You could have said she came to my wedding.” I could start to see the naked jealousy in the man surface; you could see that, with the little education he had received in Borstal, he was unable to express his jealousy at the fact that I was now a King. I doubt very much if a reigning monarch would ever lower themselves to attend such a drunken and boorish event as Clancey’s wedding, but I suppose with images of Diana, or Mother Theresa, caring for dying and diseased children in the slums of Africa and India the more educationally challenged amongst us can always dream of the impossible.
It was hard enough for me to drag myself to Clancey’s wedding and perhaps luckily at that time I knew nothing about my Royal lineage so in a way was not governed by diplomacy as I now find myself. I wondered if any of the other guys like Tim Lort or Rick Stocks would have received threatening telephone calls from Clancey as it was becoming clear, as he continued to speak, that he had been drinking alcohol. Clancey, who would never admit it, has a drinking problem, given the amount of time he has spent in prison, I’m sure you can imagine the awful prison tattoos, I am certain there is also an underlying drug problem which he is too embarrassed to talk about. He is probably not aware but most of us, connected to him at arm’s length I may add, understand that the drug issue is more of a survival thing.
It’s hard to feel sorry for such a beast but when I last spoke to Tim Lort, Tim agreed that Clancey’s predilection for wearing short leather skirts indicated that in prison he would have sold himself as female. The leather indicates, or suggests, that he gave off the signal that he ‘liked it rough.’ Most of us ex-military types know all about survival and I suppose we all know that to survive in a prison environment would be a tough old bean to crack. It is without a doubt that we all agree that Clancey uses the alcohol and drugs to suppress not only his erupting feminine side, but the dark memories of night times on the prison wing landing, moving from cell door to cell door, telling inmates to switch off their lights and then offering them a little something on the side.
By giving you sufficient background information about Clancey, his gang, his exploits and his perversions, I hope I have allowed each of you decent law abiding members of The Illuminati, to come to some understanding of how terrifyingly evil the man is and this will now allow me to continue with the telephone call and the depravity it sank into. Clancey continued to talk, dishing out insult after insult about people he would publicly claim were friends. I am certain that Peter Browne wouldn’t even understand some of the swear words that Clancey used about him. Tim Lort would, but then he is ex-Navy so foul language like that is quite common among sailors or so I am told. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asked. A simple and pleasant enough question, but as this was Clancey I knew it would be coming from a different direction than if a normal and decent person had asked it.
“I shall be watching the Irish rugby team trounce the Italian rugby team by about forty six points to seven.” I said. “Why, what are you up to?” This is where, if you have recently have had a meal, grab a brown paper bag or make sure that you are close to some suitable form of receptacle. “Sally’s away for the weekend,” he growled, with the most indecent amount of perverted suggestiveness in his voice. “I’m sitting here naked,” he wheezed. “Drinking red wine, watching the under twenties rugby, and scratching myself.” Now I ask you, should people like me have to put up with the likes of this telephoning me at all hours of the day and night? Abuse and threats of violence I can understand and handle but the gloating perversions of a drunken brute I would suggest is far beyond the pale. So please forgive me for once again diverting away from the main narrative, but some things, as I am sure you will agree with me, need to be said.