Other than a couple of days last week, I have been in hospital for the past three weeks. First Sepsis, then the effects of the attempts to cure me of that. I am now the original Christmas Turkey – being fattened up so that I can die comfortably of the cancer. The irony is not lost on me.
Last Tuesday, I sat in a wheelchair in the hospital, waiting for a bed to come free. Unable to stand or walk, unable to move from facing the wall in front of which I had been put, unable to reach the bottle of water which was in a bag behind the chair, and in gob smacking pain, pain at a level of which I had no idea existed…
The TV behind me was on loop with the headlines every fifteen minutes. I couldn’t see the faces, but I could hear the voices. The world was spontaneously combusting; Corbynista babies were having their names put down for Dignitas not Eton; media leviathans were mopping their tears and, voices choking with emotion, announcing that democracy had gone terribly, irretrievably, life threateningly – wrong.
Hillary Clinton packed her bags and said good-bye to the caucus,
Off she went with a Trumpety-trump, Trump! Trump! Trump!
Anna Raccoon (since someone has enquired!)
Interspersed with this earth shattering, apocalyptic, termination of civilised existence – was the Henriques report.
I learnt, as I sat on a shattered and bloody bowel, on a bone hard wheelchair (do not try this at home children) waiting for a horizontal surface in the ‘envy of the world’ that:
‘Victims’ and ‘Survivors’ had magically morphed back into ‘claimants’. Not even a capital ‘C’.
Allegations were to be investigated before letting the media loose on the reputations of innocent men and women.
Liz Dux had crept out the door and sidled off to ignominy where she couldn’t further damage the reputation of Slater & Gordon.
Hogan-Howe’s one year extension contract will terminate in three months – just as soon as everyone has thrown rotten eggs at him.
IICSA has ditched the Savile Inquiry; the Janner Inquiry; and will spend their £110 million budget over which no one has oversight, as they choose, when they choose, if they choose.
Lol Goddard is happily chuckling to herself in New Zealand and laughing at the preposterous Mrs Balls talking bollocks while her husband lumbers round the dance floor like an out of control dustcart – entertaining the plebs.
Even with my condition being as it was – I can but laugh uproariously. Passers-by must think I am nuts.
You see, I have spent five years now, keeping my mouth shut. Only Jonathan King and my husband are aware of just how tightly I have been wound into the entire shebang. Not because I am ‘clever’ or even ‘brilliant’, which I am neither, but because of who I am, and what I am, and an entire network of people from my past who had reason to trust me. I have ended up being the confidant of more celebrity names than you could shake a hat at; of policemen and forensic computer experts – and even, God help me – in the end, of ‘Survivors’ and ‘Victims’. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, and do nothing more than pass them along the correct path at the back of Raccoon Towers – and write 1,000 odd words every day or so on whatever came to mind to keep the AR show on the road. It has been the most extraordinary juggling act, a monumental strain and an exercise in keeping your mouth shut in the face of daily provocation, and all conducted against a background of terminal cancer. Do excuse me if I seem a tad irritable at times….
On Tuesday, it came to an end. I was free. Need never re-open Anna Raccoon again, can slip quietly into the twilight of my life. No fuss, no bother.
On Tuesday, various people finally woke up to the fact that Kat Ward had published another book in August – ‘Victim Zero’.
Two of them pride themselves on being the ultimate experts on Savile, all things Duncroft, and keeper of the Holy celebrity flame.
They both started life as commentators on my blog, but have subsequently established their own home base, quietly nicking several ideas, and phrases.
One of them, Moor Larkin, I have expressed some admiration for in the past; his positively autistic ability to worry away at the same loose thread for hours, days and weeks, has actually come up with some useful information. Since Friday night he has lost every brownie point I ever awarded him.
The other one, rabbitaway, I have never had an ounce of respect for. She is a useful idiot. She fell out with me over her foul-mouthed habit of sending round robbin e-mails littered with anglo-saxon language into my inbox and also that of several working barristers in chambers. She took great exception to being asked to desist. She took further umbrage when, on sending me an e-mail telling me ‘it wouldn’t hurt me to support the Savile family more’, it transpired that I also spoke fluent anglo-saxon and was just in the mood to take her head off verbally and ever so neatly at the shoulders. We have never spoken since.
She went off and established her own blog. So be it. The rift occurred just as I fell ill again, and simultaneously suffered a rift with the Savile family – a vital piece of information that I could have encompassed in what I was doing, had been decided too toxic to share, which left me temporarily embarrassed. I understand the whys and the wherefores now, and have long since healed the rift. Quietly, not publicly. There was neither need nor point in continuing to write about Savile – he had been appointed poster boy for a juggernaut called ‘there’s a paedophile under every bed’ and nothing was going to change that. Too many vested interests, too far down the rabbithole.
The Savile family have my undiluted admiration for the dignity with which they have conducted themselves, against a tsunami of allegations and prurient speculation of the most intimate kind – of their brother, their uncle, their flesh and blood – even from money grabbing members of their own family; it has been death by a thousand cuts for them from the most painful, twisted, jagged, dentated, knives that cyber anonymity could conjure up.
They are real people. Flesh and Blood. They have real lives, births, deaths, marriages, illnesses that have had to be subsumed beyond the fact that their family name had now become synonymous with the most heinous evil. No hiding behind an avatar and nickname for them – not even to collect their dry cleaning.
Think about that for a moment. They have done nothing to deserve what has happened to them. Not that anyone cared.
I will include Barbara Hewson in that admiration too – she also has stood proud, in her own name, and been subjected to intolerable interference in her working and private life – for holding to the concept of innocent until proven guilty. Good Lord! That a Barrister should hold such a concept dear! Oh, I nearly forgot – and having the sheer temerity to suggest that we might have a debate concerning the age of consent…
Sadly rabbitaway appears to have a messiah complex. As she postured and pranced across cyber space, talking herself into a belief that she was an expert on Duncroft, Savile and all points in between, she rarely entered the periphery of my vision – the pouting princess had taken all the usual cyber steps of disapproval, blocking me on Twitter (thank God!) using my material but never linking back to me (Good!); I’m surprised that we didn’t have ‘block Anna Raccoon’ wristbands; at one point chairing a meeting with a reformed crack addict, an out of work car mechanic, and a selection of cyber characters and declaring that she was offering herself to the Nat West Bank as arbiter of the Savile claims. I nearly fell off my chair laughing.
Sometime on Friday night, she ceased to be a joke, or rather became the sickest joke in existence, and is now the reason this post is being written.
By God I will take no prisoners.
The prattling prima donna rabbitaway has finally woken up to Kat Ward’s latest abysmal opus. Do keep up Ducky.
Kat, in the face of mounting legal expenses, is yet again re-adjusting her story to fit with proven facts. This time she is covering her court case with Freddie Starr. She has declared her ever dying love, ‘crush’ and lifelong admiration for Susan who gave evidence against her weird and wonderful story of the 75th man in her short life who had said she had small tits.
Well, that caused some cackling in Raccoon Towers, I can tell you.
In order to give evidence; Susan had to declare her real identity. Unlike “Miss C” who had been raked up, much against her better will, to bolster Kat’s tale of pubic hairs being removed at what may or may not have been the same event – who was a ‘protected witness’, allegedly terrified of reprisals from the army of the insane that follow the VIP abuse circuit; from the exposure of her past to her family and friends; from the destruction of her carefully rebuilt life as a good and honest citizen…da dum, da dum, ad nauseum and in recognition of all that, she shall, by order of the court, remain “Miss C” From now to eternity. (Yeah, but we know who you are, don’t we tweetie-pie?)
Susan, and I, had no such protection. We were dastardly individuals daring to doubt the word of a multi-time fraudster, proven liar, and need I go on? We must be named and shamed at every opportunity.
Susan’s evidence, (accompanied by every possible occasion being taken to ensure she was identifiable) was no random event. It took hours, it was a line by line hermeneutic examination of every word that Susan had authorised to be put on my blog. There were no ‘off-piste’ questions. Every question posed had appeared and been answered on this blog.
You’d have known that, turnip brain, if you’d been there. You’d have known it if you’d stumped up £900 for a transcript – but you didn’t, of course. You rolled up on the last day – but there you are now, an expert on the Freddie Starr case. Voila!
You have no idea what it is like to be publicly identified on the internet – on the wrong side of an argument. Total strangers sit down and write the most incredible, unbelievable lies about you. They make up fantastical tales of how you are transgendered, with full details of the surgery in Tunisia; or an MI5 agent; they track down your former colleagues, your former employers, your family, your friends. They steal pictures of you and transform them into monsters. One sent me an e-mail every effing day for three years saying ‘Aren’t you dead yet’ – charming when you are in the middle of chemotherapy. They post disgusting items through the post. They do because they can. (And when you live in France, you have to go through Interpol. Ever tried phoning Interpol to report a turd in your post? Neither have I! What is the point?) They are the cyber army of the insane, and you just have to do your best to ignore them.
Until Kat’s book appeared, there was no mention of Susan’s full name anywhere. It didn’t appear in the judgement**** (see addendum) nor did mine. Nobody else had picked up on the reference. Susan had been spared all that, thank God – she lives alone, a very respectable and happy life built up over 50 years; she had chosen to put it all at risk for the sake of telling the truth.
Truth backed up by a trunk load of documents. Acht! Sorry, you didn’t know about that either, did you – your cohort Moor did, but you were too untrustworthy and gossipy to be included. Moor is ‘building a database’ of the documents apparently, swotting away over his computer. Only Andrew Rosthorn had the good sense to pay for his own petrol, drive to Susan’s house and photograph every last document. Old fashioned respect for facts, you see. Thank you Andrew.
Unbeknown to you all, there was a sense of urgency, as you will see.
So now you have your hands on Kat’s new book – and it gives Susan’s full name. Wheee! A new bone for you to pick over. Yap, yap!
Two little cyber puppies wagging your stumpy tails with excitement. You can show off your knowledge by using her full name, over and over again. Kat Ward has named her – why not you? You and Moor can discuss Savile’s non-existent masturbatory habits – why not? Are you not the keepers of the eternal flame and the ultimate obsessive fact diggers?
And so, you prattling pair of pretentious posturing pygmies, you gave yourself permission from behind your cyber names to speculate, based on that inveterate liar Kat Ward’s rendition of the court case, to start the process by which Susan will be exposed to the speculation, as I have been, of her neighbours, friends, nurses….
Did I say nurses? Yep. What you two obsessive corpse twiddling know nothings don’t know, is that Susan, like me, is in her final days of terminal cancer. So far she has lost part of her left leg, has a large hole in her pelvis that used to contain bits and pieces that held her upright, tumours growing in her bones – and that is the most painful version of cancer that you can have – bone is unyielding. It has invaded her lungs – about the only thing that beautiful girl, who has more truth, honesty and courage in her toenail clippings than you two and a hundred like you, hasn’t lost – is her sense of humour.
Neither of us know what tomorrow may bring – and as for the day after, we don’t even think about it. Since I am in the same mental space as her, we have howled laughing this morning, to the consternation of both our nurses. Hundreds of miles apart, but on the same wave length.
Other people, cyber strangers, will dissect and discuss her on the internet. They will speculate, and the nonsense will accumulate. That cannot be stopped now. Thanks to you two drawing attention to that bloody book and her full name. I can forgive, if not forget, the army of the insane that will now pick up and repeat Susan’s name and every last detail of that turgid book that had only sold 9 copies.
But you two? Two of the few people who claim to be on the side of the falsely accused? You are beneath contempt. Coming from you two it has finally tipped me over the edge.
I have spent the day dreaming up imaginative back stories for you Moor, or should I say David H. and you, rabbitawayendlessly aka Mary T. I know your full names and addresses; I chose not to identify you further right now.
Your new backstories are all cobblers of course, no more a word of truth than the stuff that has been written about me over the years. Or Jimmy Savile, come to that. Pretty lurid stuff. I’m particularly proud of my efforts for Mary. That deformed labia was a stroke of genius. All rubbish.
That won’t matter when your children’s friends look at Facebook, or you want a new job, or perhaps you get cancer and need the support of your community.
‘Cos let me tell you from experience – at least half the people who read it, will believe it.
Welcome to our world.
One more effing word out of the pair of you, one last remaining hair (sorry Susan, couldn’t resist that one!) trembled on Susan’s head, one iota of worry or distress caused to her – and even Mr G ‘old tin can fingers’ himself knows where to find the ‘destruct button’.
That is a threat. A direct and heartfelt threat. So feel free to call the police. Tell them we’ll need a fully equipped ambulance each – and they’d better hurry up. With any luck we’ll land up in the same police station – and we can give each other a last hug.
We’re taking bets on which of us will go first.
A plague on all your houses.
- ****Edited to add – I am reliably informed that Susan’s full name does appear once in the judgment. Just goes to prove that no one ever reads original documents – they take their news from the internet or the dead tree press.