TRAPPED IN A MASONIC WORLD

- 24 -
setting up a pub games business. The title of the programme was; Making a Million, though at the time of
filming, I had no knowledge whatsoever as to what the title of the programme was going to eventually be
called. I was chosen by the producer from BBC for my entrepreneurial spirit. In a sense I was
representing the South of England, as I was sort of pitched against another similar fellow, who came from
the North of the country, and the angle of the programme being who would become a millionaire first, - if
of course we would at all?
Anyway, whilst in the process of filming I got some very sinister phone calls, stating along the lines:
―Who the fuck do you think you are?‖ My car tyres were slashed, and even the BBC directly got some
odd enquiries admittedly from the police demanding to know the nature of the programme. On a separate
occasion, the producer was telephoned and told: - ―There‘s is no way the programme is being made‖.
Then the most disturbing of time‘s, was when I had been drinking in some pub and had left late at night
to head home, when all of a sudden as I was walking down the road, a dark coloured car screeched up
beside‘s me and out jumped three burly track-suited men. - Two grabbed hold of my arms, and I was
slammed up and pinned against the wall, when the other one thrust his two fists into my chest, tightly
gripping the lapels of my leather jacket. Then with his sweaty forehead he sorted of head butted me,
ramming his forehead up against mine and holding it there in a locked position, we were like a pair of
Roebuck Deer with our antlers entwined. He kind of started shaking me intermittently, as if he was trying
to make each word go in unison with each shake. He then began to sinisterly whisper, whilst at the same
time spraying me in the face with his rotten saliva. His breath reeked of alcohol and stale cigarettes, and
our mouth‘s were that close, I was afraid he was going to thrust his tongue down the back of my throat, as
he then hissed out the following message:
―Listen...cunt...there‘s...no-way...ya...making...any...fucking...programme. You... hear... me?
I‘m...telling...yah...now...cunt...you‘re...gunna...end...up...in...dat...fucking...Lea...dew-understand... wot-
I‘m-saying? - We...fucking...well-.mean-.it...you dopey cunt!‖
He then put his index finger and long finger in a kind of gun position, and pushed them hard against my
temple, then spat in my face. I know I could‘ve got his DNA! He‘s parting words were kind of parental:
―Its gunna be bye-bye to you, if you don‘t wise-up son‖. They then just left me sort of slumped up against
the wall, and sped off in the car. – No, I didn‘t pay attention to the car‘s registration, in fact I couldn‘t even
tell you the make or model of the car for certain. The oddest thing was, even though the bloke who did the
threatening, was right in front of my face, with his forehead touching mine, he just appeared cross-eyed
because our faces were that close together, and as soon as he fled with the others, all I could recall was the
hard sharp stubble from his shaved head and the strong odour of the fags and booze on his breath. The
other two blokes, were just that, two other blokes, and I wouldn‘t even have recognised them if they
walked back around the corner towards me again.
I took the ―Lea‖ bit, as in reference to the River Lea. And the ―we‖ bit referring to the police, as it
was the police who had not long before sent Frogmen into this river looking for a discarded gun I‘d thrown
in there alongside other evidence and whilst unknowingly being under ―obbo‖ [being followed and
observed] by Scotland Yard‘s Anti Terrorist Squad, in connection to the million pound fraud I had recently
committed, and following the deal I did with the Serious Fraud Squad [SFO], also from Scotland Yard.
I ended up getting a minicab home, and on the journey I recalled what the film producer had said to me
a couple of days prior, about the odd phone call he received menacingly telling him, and along the lines
such as: ―There‘s no way the programme is getting made‖. I was wrecking my brains, why are the police
coming down so heavy on me?
I‘ve mentioned the high profile IRA court cases and appeals that were going on, and explained that at
the time I really didn‘t realise the political sensitivity of my own case, and how explosively important and
significant my concealed tape recording of the conversation I had with that police officer was to prove to
be, and as to why I had just been slammed up against the wall and threatened by, the either undercover
police officer‘s, or M15/M16 agents or even members of the SAS.
The trial, - in which I‘ve already said I was totally unaware of, - had not long come to an end at the Old
Bailey, it was the trial of Gilbert ―Danny‖ McNamee, the Irishman wrongly jailed for 25 years in October
1987, for an IRA bomb plot and labelled by the prosecution as the ―Master bomb-maker‖ responsible for
a1982 Hyde Park explosion. And as I‘ve also mentioned before in a ―Miscarriage of Justice appeal‖, 11
years after his conviction on the17th December 1998: Danny won that appeal against the conviction, - and
mainly due to ―dubious fingerprint evidence,‖ that was the crucial part of the alleged evidence against
him.