A Birthday Party to remember....

It's 15:25 and my party starts in 2 1/2 hours.

I still need to get my haircut, shower, prep and ensure everything is ready at The Club at The Hotel Cafe Royal.

Their website reads

"The Club at Café Royal is the hotel's latest offering, conceived to ensure that the Regent Street venue once again becomes a crucible for writers, artists, poets, musicians. The Club celebrates a long legacy of famed patrons as it welcomes the return of today’s leaders and stars from the literary, art and fashion worlds."

My guest list couldn't reflect that ethos better.

Friends like comedian Helen Lederer is due to make an appearance, author/actor/director/playwright Ian Kelly, Celebrity Photographer Christina Jansen, Saville Row Tailor David Newell (who I'll be wearing).

I've met so many amazing people in my life, that this party is meant to highlight the genius of living in a city that is open to anything.

My musical friends will all be performing live this evening.

First at the baby grand piano is friend, composer and synth guru Paul Wiffen. Wiffen has played with Stevie Wonder, Jean Michelle Jarre and worked with Vangellis on the music for Ridley Scott's Bladerunner.  He'll be easing people into the evening with film soundtracks on the piano.

Next to take to the keyboard will be the legend that is my friend Juliet Lawson like Sugarman after the press announcing she will be the next great British singer (comparing her to Joni Mitchell in style and status) in the 70's. She was out of the limelight for years until a launch of her new EP from which she'll be performing tracks live tonight.

Recently acquired friend Natalie Gauci, is next, the Australian Pop Idol winner will be performing tacks from her new EP "Free Falling"

Then burlesque artist Miss Luci Furr (a former guide at The Globe Theatre) will world premiere her International Berlin Festival Routine before my assembled guests. We'd met through a mutual friend who asked if I'd film it for her submission.  It's great when the first time you meet a person, you meet them naked!

To finish the evening will be the amazing Sterland sisters performing Rock in a classical style, St. Martin graduates Heather & Charlotte (@JazzGamesSoho) sing, play violin and piano.

During the evening their mother the incredible portrait artist Julia Sterland (yes, the girls Mother) will be painting selected guests.  Far better than a tacky PhotoBooth.

All of them, like me, have continually struggled with everything life as had to throw at them.

But friendship and a belief in something far greater than money (volunteer performers from the amazing You Me Bum Bum Train who I'd normally be acting with tonight - will come over when the show closes just to emphatically prove the point) is what drives us and the love of London history is what we love to share.

Like Oscar Wilde, my parties are fun, eclectic, naughty, intelligent and surprising...

Talking of which, better run....

A never ending struggle....

Just a break.

A single, unadulterated, unassuming, open door, little push, kind of break.

That's all I'm asking.

And you wouldn't think it was much to ask under my current circumstances either.

Like most mornings, I awoke, curled up on the back seat of my friends Volkswagen Golf car, this time out in the styx of Chadwell Heath.

I'd got to sleep around 1:00 and was awake by 07:30.

This morning I was lucky and the ticket barrier guard at the station was helpful and courteous. It isn't always the case and often the first fight of the day is trying to get some moronic jobs-worth to let me pass onto TFL's network with my damaged Freedom Pass.

Whilst every other card in my wallet has been in there for 10 years or more and remains completely unperturbed, my Freedom Pass, living in exactly same circumstances, disintegrates roughly every 18 months.

Even though I should have been issued with a replacement Travelcard nearly a month ago, I am still hounding the Chief Executive of Southwark Council, Eleanor Kelly to resolve the problem.  The hold up seemingly, as ever, the issue of having no residential address.

With the rising number of homeless like me in the capital, you'd think that they'd have a dedicated department  handling this, but instead you deal with a generic call centre in bumfucknowhere who know nothing of anything.

But as I say, today at the station, no fight.

Well, at least not at the barrier.

Because the next fight is the soulless, brainless, apathetic, phone-drone called a commuter.

How these idiots endure this dirge of movement between, station, train, station, tube, escalator, light, is a question best left to future generations.

Impolite, inconsiderate, unnecessarily impatient.  It's a physical brutal fight, of shuffling, squeezing shoving and holding ground (it's ironic when I first came to London in 1996 everyone on the tube had the same intent, get to wherever they were going as quickly and as efficiently as possible, in 2016 its the complete reverse and seems everyone has all the time in the world either to watch films, listen to the radio or just meander through the corridors of tube stations).

For a Chronic Fatigue sufferer like myself, it's the worst kind of trigger.

A "trigger" is an event that causes a relapse of my condition. Something that sends a CFS sufferer spiralling back to their bed, deplete of energy in abject agony. Think of the worst day you've ever had the flu, that day where the slightest movement racked your body into unbelievable pain and your only relief was securing your favourite position in bed, lying perfectly still, wet cloth covering your eyes blocking out all light, breathing as shallowly as is able to still sustain life to prevent movement and further pain....

Now times that suffering by Ten.

Now remember waking like that at 3am in the morning, having had say, an hour an half's sleep...

That, is what it's like to suffer with CFS everyday of your life.

But worse than that, worse than the pain, worse than the sudden draining of energy is the fact that a "crash" for that is what sufferers call a relapse, could happen at any second of any day and last for any length of time.

The worst I was bed-ridden was 2 years straight.

The worst unable to talk, 3 months.

Longest time in a wheelchair 36 months.

I was diagnosed at 20, so for the past 27 years I've been living with this literal sword of Damocles hanging over my head, everyday is an immense challenge and my biggest fear is being derailed by something trivial or menial.

That public sector worker that you can't get to do their job. That train guard who is unnecessarily obstreperous, the person that promises something and then doesn't deliver.

And it's that latter, the assistance of others, where that break I opened this piece with comes in.

Last year began well.

A new girlfriend (youthful, exuberant, but damaged), a temporary address with her and health in the main, giving me 3 to 4 days a week to function at my best.

It was in this state I approached the Museum of London, my funds almost deplete to nothing and now forcing me to dispose of my storage unit possessions that I'd held for ten years, fundamentally to donate to a museum, to see if they wanted them.

Initial conversations were extremely promising, an exhibition about my life was on the table, akin to a living Pepys if you would. Excitement was palpable and the impossible in sight.

The hope that instilled from those decisions was manifest.  The need for constant adrenaline to keep energies up (a strategy every doctor will tell you ensures a "crash" of cataclysmic proportions) was fuelled each day, by the hope of finally achieving something worthwhile again.

And so it was that I volunteered my time, skills and efforts to the Michaela Community School on the request of Katharine Birbalsingh to produce for them their school video.

In an ironic twist of fate, I was able to do this with the assistance of a homeless Bulgarian Film editor, whom I met through a mutual friend.

He was in desperate need to produce something, I was in desperate need of an editor.

He had no home, I had no home. A film-makers match in heaven.

I'm proud of the work we did on that.  Even prouder under the circumstances it was made. The editor was desperately trying to sustain himself for a project before finally succumbing to having to return to his home. Literally surviving on a single peanut butter sandwich a day.

We even shared a couple of nights in the car together - he in the front, me in the back, to ensure no street sleeping and the ability to keep working.

This is what we made:  Michaela Community School - A New Education

But by the end of July the girlfriend had gone, the roof had gone and so too my energy.

But back to today's problem.

The Museum of London exhibition became a much smaller affair (Recording a Life in Show Space) than originally envisioned, it was claimed that it should be seen as a starting point for further work together, though I find it difficult to see how that will evolve.

But nonetheless, in September of last year, Chocolate Films very graciously gave me some space and access to computer and editing software in their offices in Brixton to begin editing over 200 hours of video film of 16 years worth of visits my son had made to see me in London.

Peter Ride at the University of Westminster had offered me some student assistance to sort out my storage unit on which I'd negotiated preferential rates with Access Battersea to be able to keep it on until such time all was removed.

And I finally retrieved possessions that had been kept in the homeless shelter I once resided at in Apsley, DENS that had resided there since 2014.

But the exhibition is underway now, the PR that had been envisioned for Our London Lives didn't materialise, not a single press release or listing getting a mention in any publication. The film was stolen before it had gone up.  Though requested a back-up at the museum was never made.

And so, I find myself editing again, co-ordinating the PR, doing my own social media, being let down on all sides and that, with my ever declining health, my energy levels dipping and a daily fight just to get around, is the problem.

CFS sufferers are the masters of Cost Benefit Analysis.  Every decision has to be weighed up and merited for it's benefits.  Do I shower OR wash-up, won't have the energy to do both, which is the most beneficial. Shop or Cook? Eat or drink?  We work in 10 minute chunks, we know the distance and energy required to get to a shop, but If the products we are going for have moved 3 shelves inside, we won't make it.  We'd planned and exerted perfectly but any deviation, we'll be reliant on the assistance of someone to get us home.

And that is why I want a break... only a little one...  that Time Out listing, that Evening Standard Profile piece that LBC radio interview... that's all just a tiny, easy, minuscule, life changing little break!

 It's not asking much... is it?

Mum's dead, dad's dead, brother's aren't speaking to me, son has disowned me... Merry Christmas everyone!

It shouldn't be funny, but it is.

That point when you don't think things can possibly get worse and then they suddenly do.

My life since becoming homeless in 2009 has been a veritable rollercoster of emotional turmoil, consistent disappointment and profound loneliness all indispersed with moments of spectacular hope, impossible achievements and unbelievable friendship.

Be under no illusion though, this blogs title is no exaggeration but it's certainly not anything like my worst Christmas to date.

That honour has to go to Christmas 2013 http://paulatherton.livejournal.com/2013/12/24/. That year for the first time in my life I failed to host my son at Christmas. I had nowhere to live and for the first time in my life, had not a penny in my pocket (through no fault of my own).

 It was also the year I realised that I was living in a very different world to the one I'd occupied the previous 20 years. Not one of my regular haunts would assist in housing us or providing supplemental support in these desperate straits, the Savoy Hotel turned me down cold ( a regular in the American Bar for 20 years), Harvey Nichols (a regular at Christmas for 20 years), knowing I was homeless thought it would be a good idea to offer me a measley Christmas Pudding (the only thing that actually required an oven to prepare - you really couldn't make it up) and Hamley's (where I'd purchased nearly every toy I'd ever bought my son for Christmas since he was born 16 years ago), couldn't even be bothered to respond.

That was the year that let me know everything had been corprotised.  Businesses were no longer run by families, who you could appeal to on a humanitarian level or even supported by creative and intelligent PR's who could have leveraged a wonderful "Christmas Saved" press story from helpfully intervening. No, now everybody was just concerned about the instant money. Not long term customer engagement, not good press, not even the potential of just simply feeling good having helped a fellow human being.  No "give us the cash mate or f**k off" seemed to be the new clarion call.

But that was 2 years ago and this is the 30th December 2015 and at least this year I had some cash in my pocket.

Again though, I spent Christmas out of London, but thanks to the ever brilliant support of my best friend David Williams (we've now been friends for 38 years) and his house in Hertfordshire and good friend Paul Wiffen (and his Car in Chadwell Heath) It was nowhere near as bad.

It wasn't like a needed to be alone, I'd had almost complete strangers who'd become friends this year offer to share the day with me.  Samantha Young a burgeoning journalist with a large family offered, even though she had barely the space to house her own family, Elise Godsell who lives up North and whom I'd only known on her few visits to London over the past 6 months offered and David Williams' brilliant family (I'm often referred to as their second son) in Wales, as every year, had invited me back to their house in our home village.

But I passed on every invite, mainly because I didn't want to impose on anyone else at this time of year but also I wanted my traditional London Christmas.

Ironically, that backfired on a spectacular level.

Firstly, I've had a cough for the past 3 months, I suspect it's cancer or Pneumonia (I've literally just visited the Doctor and been given a course of antibiotics to see if that rights it, before being allowed to have the various tests to discover what it really is) because of the living in the car thing (the Doctor actually asked me if it was warm in there and seemed to take offence when I said "No it's bloody freezing"as I laughed at the suggestion, I'm just grateful for global warming or whatever other factor that's producing one of the warmest winters on record), which meant I was by no means firing on all cylinders.

Secondly, the people I'd hoped to meet in Harvey Nichols on Christmas Eve (which would have warranted the exertion to get there) were either ill (new friend, 30 year old Syrian News Anchor, Areej Zyat) unavailable (Ponni Arumugam who ironically spends every Christmas Eve with Amanda Paul for her Birthday, more of that later, Karina Cornell, Penny Glazebrook, Sanne Winderickx,  Dawn Grant, Christine Davis, Caroline Heatlie, Cristina Keech, Deone Morris, Karina Cornell, ) undecided (Christina Jansen, Samantha Young & Samantha Tyson) misconstrued the date (NYE or something else, Aceil Haddad, Baaba Nzema-Ghana, Elizbeth Block, Julia Sterling) or surprisingly & unusually simply hadn't responded to requests (Dirk van Der Velden, Amy Elizabeth Kingsmill, Deborah Collins, Elin Robinson, Elizabeth Jones, Emma Williams, Harriet Olaleye, Marianne Alapini, Sarah Begum), the people who could make it (George Chiesa & Nichola Hartwell) were people I often see and would be able to see over the festive period anyway.

And thirdly, without a car myself, it's impossible to get to the Peter Pan Swimming Race in Hyde Park on Christmas morning, as there is no public transport running, and unless you're in Central London, a taxi is the same cost as a mortgage.

By boxing day, my usual trip to Richmond Park, had ben ruined by the construction of Westfield in Shepard's Bush making the A40 an impossible impasse some years ago and the alternative Hampstead Heath was not looking inviting with a 2 hour trip to get there and the subsequent rain not making for good walking conditions. I'd promised Areej a trip to the Ballet to see the Nutcraker at the Royal Opera House in the afternoon and her ill health had scuppered that too.

So Christmas passed, uneventful, outside of London and alone.

My dads death in 2007, was not too upsetting, my mum's in 2014 far more so, but it was the failure of the my son sixteen year old son to even respond to a Christmas text that was the most heartbreaking event of all.

I'm still unclear as to what exactly happened with us.  He just decided he no longer wanted to come to London.  As you can imagine this was an anathema to me.  If anything, I would have thought he would have been rebelling against his mother and come running away to London, as it is I've been completely cut out of his life. Worse than that, his mother isn't replying to any of my messages either, so I have no idea what's going on in his life.

Now that's clearly soul destroying.

Since my mother's death, my relationship with my brothers has also diminished to the point that this year, I didn't receive a text or email from either of them. My continued homelessness may be a factor but should that be a factor no attempts to build bridges as ever been made.

I always think of Christmas as a Dickension experience, so often put out an olive branch out to people I may have lost contact with (al la Fred from a Christmas Carol).

Amanda Paul, whom I lived with for 5 years, is a prime example, although she is the fundamental reason I find myself in my current state I always wish her a Happy Birthday as the day lands on Christmas Eve. It normally elicits at least a thank you, but this year nothing!

Kathryn Tabu, who made the start of 2015 a far better experience than the last 6 ones, a 29 year old model, whom I dated for the first 6 months of the year and sofa surfed with for 3 of them, ended our relationship unexpectedly and quite brutally in the Summer, was also offered the seasons greetings in the hope of eliciting at least a response telling me she's still OK (I still care about these people hugely, wouldn't have been in their lives if I hadn't) but nothing in return.

My family (son, Mother of son, brothers, sister-in-laws) were all offered the same courtesy but not one of them saw the benefit of returning the gesture.

It actually hurts to write that down. In stark hard print, it feels so heartless, so unnecessary, so cold.

Thankfully people like Naomi Kenton (a girlfriend for 7 years, 20 years ago) remind me that there are some amazing people still out there, I'm putting my son's disowning down to his adolescence, my families absence to the departure of our mother (who kept us together) and Amanda & Kathryn down to needing to keep me distant (something I never can tell if that's because they cared too much or never cared at all).

Anyway, that's Christmas 2015.  I promised myself in 2013 I'd never spend another one alone, I was wrong.

But tomorrow's New Years Eve and 2016 beckons, so hopefully, they'll be better times then...

One can only hope!    

Memories for my son Charles Atherton-Laurie....

About a month ago, my 16 year old son informed me that he didn't see me as a "real" father but more as a distant relative and he didn't want to come to London to see me anymore (he resides in Cardiff with his mother).

As I'd just travelled 160 miles from London to Cardiff on a National Express Coach in the early hours of the morning (arriving at 3am) had, had no sleep (spending the remaining hours until 09:00am in a 24 hour McDonald's - my idea of hell) before meeting him, all simply to deliver his Comicon Costume (a birthday present that I'd had made by the special effects team behind the masks in Mad Max Fury Road) on time...

To say I was disappointed, would have been the biggest understatement in history.

The cliched words that came from his mouth like "You're buying my affection" I believe could only have come from his other parent.

It's not like that he doesn't know his father sleeps in a car, on the tube or when lucky crashes on friends floors or that because of his health has to survive on disability state benefits (a wapping £20 per day), so with what he thinks I can buy his affection, is beyond me.

The amazing things I am able to achieve for him come from living in London and having a wonderful circle of friends who would do anything for him.

But while we endure our estrangement the thing that annoys me most is the inability to share those moments that I so love.

He's hoping to become an Aeronautical Engineer and my recent visit to the Science Museums Cosmonaut exhibition I know he would have (excuse the pun) been over the moon with, even though I was clearly visible in the crowds of the Lord Mayors Parade in the BBC coverage yesterday, he wasn't with me and his Mum even when prompted, wouldn't point me out to him on their TV in Cardiff.

But with his recent revelation that he may be Transgender it was the launch of Brewdogs new beer No-Label on Friday that I would loved to share with him, because only in London would a brewery produce a sex-change beer to celebrate inclusivity.

Nothing like that would ever happen in the pitiful slurry that calls itself the capital of Wales.

I just hope my absence from his life is merely a phase and we will, not very long from now, once again rekindle our relationship as Father and son, as I love him dearly and miss him every day.

It's the little things that make all the difference....

It's ironic, I haven't posted here for nearly 2 years, not because I haven't wanted to, but because health and circumstance prevented me from doing so.

And today I do so, because an act of unkindness has nearly pushed me right back to committing suicide.

I haven't slept more than 5 hours in the last 72 hours. Grabbing snatches of sleep between return journey's on night buses traipsing to and fro Heathrow Airport.

I haven't eaten in 2 days, instead spending the last of my remnants of cash on beer to allow me to keep going through the pain and panic attacks caused by the lack of sleep and to stay using the computers here in the Hoxton Hotel where I'm currently located.

I've been frequenting this venue for months now. I'd built (or at least I'd thought I'd built) good relations with both management and staff alike.

I'd left my holdall in the left luggage for a few days. Having a Louis Vuitton bag when you're on the streets, makes you a little bit of a prime target. A fish in a barrel waiting to be skewered. So laying it somewhere protective for a few days helps inordinately.

It's also a weight and when you're struggling with my health condition CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) carrying a few extra pounds can change everything.

So it was moments ago, without a by or leave, receptionist Richard just dumps my bag at my feet and says I cannot store it there anymore.  I'd been sat at the computers all day, not being particular productive (almost organised a film shoot for Thursday, developed a new idea for my campaign with Museum of London next year entitled #UniquelyLondon and assisted with a friends legal woes, but still nothing spectacular), feeling extremely weak and waiting for the weather to subside so I could attempt to do something.

That one action, took away everything, suddenly in that instant I can no longer move, it's a burden too much, all my clothes will get drenched, the weight will prevent me from getting anywhere, I can't take it to the theatre and I can no longer protect my straw boater if needed.

The lack of any interest to why they were holding my bag never entered the equation, it was a fait du complis and onwards I trek....

From hell to high water...

I'm sitting in St Katherines Dock and the heavens have literally opened.  It's hammering down with rain and I'm exhausted.

I've just left my solicitors Jones, Hodge & Allen, having just been told my case against the Met Police for wrongly taking my car in January of this year, is no longer financially viable.  I chose to go down the No Win / No Fee route as opposed to Legal Aid and therefore unless there's almost an iron clad guarantee of a win, then solicitors just won't pursue these type of cases.

Even though my solicitor knows I struggle to get around because of my Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, find these things incredibly stressful and prefer to do everything by email, she'd orchestrated a meeting at her office to simply inform me that she would no longer be pursuing my case.

Apparently she felt that I wanted information and explanation.

I didn't.

That would be like asking someone if the corpse was definitely dead and then getting a lengthy explanation of what resulted in the persons death, the height from which he fell, the angle which he landed, the damage which was done etc. rather than the simple answer of "YES, HE'S DEAD"!

We weren't breaking-up after a 6 year relationship - she was ceasing to pursue my case, so an email would have been fine.

The facts, as explained elsewhere, remain the same, the DVLA did wrongly apportion a conviction to my licence, acknowledge their mistake and remove it, but before doing so, the Police confiscated my car believing that I had no car insurance (no licence, no valid insurance) as defined by their Police National Computer (PNC).

The impact of the removal of the car on my life was huge - it was after all my home.

But this is where things go awry. The monetary assessment of a case of this type is primarily made up of loss of items (in most people's eyes the least important thing, they can always be replaced) not on the impact the event has on your life (the loss of hope resulting in your suicide for example).

It turns out, as with so much in our life these day, we've consumerised everything, right down to our emotional distress.

I have got most of my stuff back and the car was on finance, so my solicitor asserts, the maximum she could claim for emotional distress based on the removal of my Human Rights and as defined by case law is a £1,000.00 (4 hours of solicitor time).

So it makes no economic sense to pursue the case.

But my question would be, where's justice gone in the legal system?  How come we put the highest monetary value on the thing that is least important to us and the lowest value on the thing that is most important to us i.e. Life?

But on a larger scale than just myself, what is worst still, the DVLA can continue to be allowed to just apportion convictions to anyone they like (it's a great way to avoid speeding tickets in the future by the way - when you send the "who was driving element" of your speeding ticket back, just give an actual name and dob from somebody on Wikipedia and apportion that person with a false address - the court system will then all happen automatically and some poor sod will end up with your offence on their licence - no investigations will have taken place, nobody will have checked if you were telling the truth and the victim will be none the wiser because all correspondence will be sent to the made up address you created until the conviction appears on their licence).

And the Police remain protected from their own mistakes, they are allowed to lie in their statements even if that contradicts the evidence they took in the statement you provided to them.

And the court system is allowed to run on an automatic process with no human involvement whatsoever.

It should be pointed out, I've never claimed to be whiter than white.  But the real irony is whenever as a child I went to do things that weren't always on the right side of the law, I'd get away with them because I'd planned too.

The things I've got caught with weren't offences but genuine mistakes.

Take my Drink Driving offence - I hadn't had a drink in 24 hours when I was stopped. I wasn't even driving dangerously.  I was driving past the place of work of a girl I'd recently separated from and zipped past a few cars in order to get past it as quickly as possible, I hadn't broken the speed limit but, as the police officer who pulled me over put it, I passed other road users in an aggressive manner (which by the way was not illegal).

I was driving in London in the 90's of course I was drivingly assertively. That's what everybody did. But he stopped me on that basis nonetheless and asked if I minded taking a breathalizer, I said I didn't, but to my horror and surprise, I failed it.

It turns out that because of the break-up I'd been drinking huge amounts of alcohol to deal with it, had barely eaten and this had all accumulated over the preceding week. So even though at the time of the stop I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol for over a day, my body hadn't got rid of the accumulated damage.

The medical officer at the Police Station who took my blood actually apologised to me, as the amount of alcohol was so slightly above the legal level, he said if he wasn't on site, another hour would have probably passed and that ,would have more than likely, been enough time to put me under the limit.

But I wasn't under, I was over.

And, sods law, it was just when the legal system had brought in the mandatory ban for any drink driving offence (which seems to have long since disappeared), so mitigating circumstances were not being allowed.

More ironically still was, I'd been previously breathalized and passed on a green light having consumed an entire bottle of champagne.

So all of this seemed ludicrous to me and just added to all the problems I was already having at the time with the break-up. I Lost my licence, lost my car, lost my job etc.

I mention this, because this too was a reason my solicitor felt she couldn't win my case.  Whilst someone accused of raping someone is allowed to protect their previous convictions going through the criminal court process (including other previous rapes and child molestation), trying to make a civil claim against the Met Police means they can bring in anything to protect themselves, including your offences that may have taken place nearly 20 years earlier, which they would use to demonstrate you were a person of poor character.

Equally my solicitor claimed that the impact of say being arrested for the first time was the most emotionally damaging. I couldn't contest more. If you get arrested in your teens, it's almost a rights of passage thing, something you do in your youth, a story to tell your kids, but if your arrested as an adult, the situation is far more distressing and emotionally damaging. And far more likely to be an incorrect arrest.

So your history counts against you, your circumstances count against you, your solicitor counts against you.

Britain wake up please - before it's all way too late.

Your sleepwalking into having your freedoms taken away from you and there's hardly a word of dissent.

It's time to speak up and I'll do my best to scream this stuff from the roof-tops.

In a country where people can be paid millions for being an idiot using Accident Claim Legal services it seems astounding that proven errors of both Police and other Public Bodies can go unchallenged - I pity us all.

Another year...

It's hard, this living thing.

Day after day, I'm forced to witness more stupidity, more inertia and more lack of compassion.

You were all probably told, do unto others as you wish to be to done unto you, right?

Well why the hell didn't anybody tell this to those who work in the Public Sector.

My life is seemingly torn down the middle.  On the one side, amazing people with dreams, hopes and aspirations.  Not of wealth or careers but wanting to make fundamental seizmic changes to society.

And on the other corporate drones, Public Sector bureaucrats, little minded commissioners and process driven funders/

The funniest thing is, people who would have read my tweets over the past month, would think I'm living the life of a king. Trips to Amsterdam, Theatre, Cinema, Restaurant, Galleries etc. Work with some inspirational people, all of it.

But the reality is, I now have absolutely nowhere to live, no money (I was reliant on state benefits but they've screwed up) and am now struggling to continue to live in the City I so love.

The people around me are doing their best to support me, but it feels unfair and unreasonable to impose.  Hence the living in the car, but with that option removed, what do you do?

Everyday, I try to figure something to keep going, Vigilia has been in development for 3 years and I genuinely think it's our breakthrough project.  But as with everything we need a break and that doesn't seem to be on the horizon.

Having had the phone stolen, I've discovered how few real friends I really had. It's hard dealing with that one. Suddenly coming to terms with people you sacrificed everything for in the past having made no efforts to check I'm even alive (Lisa Evans (first love), Tamara Thomas (friend in constant need of support) & Alex Laurie (mother of my son)).

I'd gone to Amsterdam/Edam because friends had a house there, I could cook, accommodate my son there for half-term and it would only cost about £300 all in for nearly 2 weeks.

The irony, my son decided he didn't want to join.  I suspect this had more to do with his mother than himself. But it was his choice.  He's 13 nearly 14 and I believe he's got to learn to fight for the things he wants.

He has a lovely nature and doesn't want to upset his mother. Cannot criticise that. But his Mother's influence means I'm getting to see less and less of him. Though I did ensure I wrote to him everyday whilst I was out there.

So I ended up in a beautiful house which just reaffirmed all the things I already knew.  Environment is critical to me.  Suddenly I'm able to control my health (though still ended up having 5 CFS crash days out of the 11 I was out there), eat healthily (there were no junk shops of any kind in Edam, a Greengrocers, Butchers, Deli & Bakery) and exercise, first walking, then cycling.

I took the time to reflect on what I was going to do.  It allowed me the space from having to chase morons to do their jobs (Police, DWP, O2, Apple etc.).  And I had a dawning realisation that I cannot survive in a country that is obsessed with stupidity.  17 years of a Labour Government has created droves of idiots, who don't challenge, cannot think and adhere to rules for comfort.

I've found some amazing people in a group of early 20 somethings.  But nearly without exception they're all talking about leaving the UK to achieve their goals.

I think we're going to see a brain drain in this Country unparrallelled