Stabbed In The Back By The Spy Who Said He Loved Me

In the summer of 2001, I had the privilege of hosting a stand-up comedy gig for legendary comedian and political activist, Mark Thomas, at the Studio in Beckenham. Little did I know that this occasion would prove integral to my recognition of a spy who said he loved me, a decade later.

Since we both turned up very early, we sat in the green room chatting for half an hour before the gig, during which Mark told me a shocking story about a man he had thought of as the brother he never had, who turned out to be an MI5 asset, charged with surveilling his entire existence.

This occurred for one very simple reason – Mark had rattled too many establishment cages with his classic Channel 4 series, The Mark Thomas Comedy Product, which exposed corruption at the highest level. Needless to say, the show was axed despite critical and public acclaim.

Mark then said the following words, which sent a shiver up my spine:

“The most devastating thing about it all was the fact that when I confronted him about the years he spent deceiving me, during which time we even went on family holidays together, he was still insisting he will always be my best mate! I mean, how the fuck could he possibly think that?!?”

Despite the fact that I had no idea why this would prove so relevant to my own experience at the time, I have since become extremely grateful to Mark for providing me with an invaluable frame of reference.

Without that, I would never have so easily accepted that deep cover surveillance operations are an unavoidable occupational hazard for everybody who publicly exposes establishment corruption.

In other words, from the moment I raised my head above the parapet to start talking about institutionalised criminality in November 2008, having already been tagged by MI5 as a “potential subversive” in October 2001 because of testimony given to me by the first 9/11 whistle-blower, my default setting was “don’t trust anybody until they have earned it”.

Forewarned Is Forearmed

It is, nevertheless, with the deepest regret that I must now report that at the end of last week it became obvious that one of the people who has been involved in The Great British Mortgage Swindle since 2011 is a Secret Intelligence Services operative.

From the day he appeared, as if from nowhere, to impose himself upon me at the Sunrise Festival, where I was talking on the subjects of individual sovereignty and banking fraud, I knew he was either a real life version of Arthur Dent from the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, or an SIS agent, playing the role of ‘Mr Nice’.

When I told him that the day after we met, he calmly replied that he would probably think the same in my position. However, he also promised he would prove that he wasn’t an agent by taking me to meet his mother at his long time family home.

Since such words are cheap to those skilled in the dark art of deception, I made my excuses and we bid each other farewell. As I walked away I knew that this would not be our last encounter, especially when he had already proclaimed himself to be my “greatest fan”.

Beware Those Who Come Bearing Gifts

Around ten weeks later, having completely ignored the mobile number and email address he’d given me, I was frantically searching the internet, in search of the cure for my daughter’s sudden outbreak of an autoimmune condition called Cold Urticaria.

Being a raw food vegan at the time, I had read a few things about the miraculous effect that Chaga Mushrooms has on the immune system, but it was only available to buy online in the US back then, so I started looking into the possibility of harvesting it off Silver Birch Trees in the far north east of Scotland.

Right on cue, or should I say, having read the terms of my insecure internet searches, guess who turned up at my home, never having been given the address, with a bag full of Chaga Mushrooms for me and my family.

Plausible Deniability

However, such was our genuine gratitude when our daughter started a very quick recovery from her condition, within just a few hours of drinking Chaga tea with honey, my wife and I decided that he had earned the benefit of the doubt, at least in the short term.

Nevertheless, I still remember thinking to myself, after asking him how he knew where we lived, that his claim he could pretty much find anybody on Earth if he wanted to came closer to ringing an alarm bell than providing reassurance.

When I was later invited to meet his mother at the family home, as promised, it became obvious that, in the event he is an agent, either his mother is as well or she hasn’t got a clue that he is.

In other words, the type of evidence offered to substantiate his true identity was merely superficial, so I made another mental note and started looking for more substantive evidence of who he really was.

The first thing I discovered was that, as of the end of 2011, the only internet pages relating to his name were automated entries from the electoral roll in the noughties.

Given that he claimed to have degrees in Ecology and Forestry and to have traveled the world in the early part of his life, pictures of him and mentions of his name were conspicuous by their absence.

Using Generosity As A Weapon

Over the course of the next three years, there were regular visits, when more medicinal gifts were made, each of which we accepted in the spirit we were told it was given – with a loving heart and an open hand, as he was very fond of declaring in those days.

Nevertheless, our initial appreciation started dwindling rapidly, when it became clear that he appeared to be using generosity to impose himself upon my time, irrespective of how busy I was.

When this started encroaching upon my family life, I gently tried to tell him that he wasn’t welcome if he didn’t accept that he couldn’t just turn up at our house whenever he wanted. Were he genuine, he would have simply respected that.

Needless to say, he continued to plague our lives in much the same way, until he turned up one day without warning and I refused to let him through the front door, telling him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t welcome.

Somewhat predictably, we did not see each other again until the next important event I was due to attend.

Assassination Attempt

As I have already written about in this blog, in the Autumn of 2014, after presenting evidence before a Grand Jury, which proved:

a. Parliament did not have the jurisdiction to abolish Grand Juries in 1933; and

b. all EU-related treaties, statutes, bills and acts are unlawful;

I was poisoned with a huge dose of Shiga Toxin producing E-coli bacteria, which I consumed in a drink, bought for me by an assassin posing as a friend, who quickly disappeared from my life when he was rumbled, never to return.

Nevertheless, the spy who said he loved me turned up at the venue for the Grand Jury proceedings, without being invited and without being given the top secret address. This meant that there was either a tracking device on my car or we had a mole in the house.

In addition, he stayed over with Michael and I that night and was told when he arose the next morning that my instinct was telling me that I’d been poisoned, as I was starting to feel desperately ill.

My would-be assassin had already done a moonlight flit without explanation, after I raised the issue of an attempted assassination the previous night, when he turned white in fear and ran for his bed, never to be seen again.

However, the spy who said he loved me appeared to panic momentarily, as I told him that somebody had poisoned me, without naming names. When I looked into his eyes I saw nothing but fear – fear that I was on to him.

The Balance of Probabilities

It was clear that he thought I was accusing him of poisoning me, on the basis that he did not protest his purported innocence like an innocent man would have done i.e. only after being accused of a crime they did not commit.

Furthermore, the relief he expressed when I told him it was the other spook I suspected was that of a co-conspirator, who just had a very lucky escape from detection. There would have been nothing to relieve if he didn’t have a guilty conscience.

All I could think about was how he and the assassin had been sitting together during the Grand Jury hearings the previous day, seemingly thick as thieves.

On the balance of probabilities, the spy who said he loved me was there to act as a decoy, if required, so that his accomplice was alone with one of my drinks for long enough to spike it, without anybody else witnessing the crime.

Moreover, it seems likely he was there the next morning expecting my body to have succumbed to the poison overnight, given that nobody had ever ingested such a vast amount of Shiga Toxin producing E-coli bacteria and lived to tell the tale.

Imagine his surprise when he rose the next day to find me and Michael discussing the probability that somebody had laced one of my drinks with the type of poison used by the secret services to murder people.

To put this in perspective, the only other way that I could have ingested that many Shiga Toxins would have required me to eat a kilo of disease-ridden steaming turds.

Prophesy of Doom

It should therefore come as no surprise that, upon my survival, the spy who said he loved me desperately tried to persuade me that making the story of the failed assassination attempt public would provoke my enemies into having another go.

Ignoring his prophesy of doom completely, I went ahead and told the story on this site because I knew the opposite of what he claimed was true – publishing it made another assassination attempt exponentially less likely.

Furthermore, I also knew instinctively that my supposedly greatest fan was not who he claimed to be, so I pulled him closer to me, in order to make him think there was no chance I suspected him of complicity in the attempt to kill me.

For the safety of everybody involved, I told nobody. Not even Michael or my wife.

I also made sure that I leaked a plethora of misinformation via insecure phone lines, so that my adversaries would never truly know what I was going to do next.

Damning Evidence

Since then, the damning evidence I have amassed against the individual in question is copious, so I don’t propose to attempt to give a full explanation now.

However, suffice to say, whilst pretending to be The Great British Mortgage Swindle’s No.1 fan, since the failed assassination plot, he has tried and failed to:

1. Frame Michael O’Deira and I as accessories to a fraud committed by a man he worked hard for three years to set us up with, knowing that he was a fraudster and neglecting to disclose that fact.

Needless to say, we terminated our affairs with the fraudster in writing, as soon as we found out he’d committed the fraud, resulting in the spy spending months desperately trying in vain to get us to change our minds.

2. Drive a wedge between Michael and I by telling lies about each of us to the other.

Neither of us fell for any of it and none of it is worth even commenting on.

3. Sabotage the production of the film by begging to be allowed to help, then totally messing up in the extreme.

Everything he contributed had to be redone at the expense of extra time, money and energy.

4. Sabotage every event we have organised, including numerous screenings of the film.

He even turned up at the premiere, when he hadn’t been invited because of the problems he caused previously and he took the opportunity to mess up interviews with the audience afterwards, by filming them in the busiest corridor of the cinema.

By which time there were numerous rumours circulating [in the place he has spent most of the last twenty years] that he is a secret intelligence asset, some of whose well cultivated associates have been arrested and convicted of various crimes, on evidence only he could have provided.

For this reason, many of the people who have lived there since 2002 will immediately know exactly who I’m talking about, as well as some of the others he has callously betrayed.

Fools Mate

Nevertheless, he played the role of a well meaning, big hearted but disaster prone fool very well, so I knew it would be impossible to convince anybody else that there was method to his apparent madness, without substantiating evidence.

So I played him at his own game, by directing his performance as if it were part of a stage play, knowing that any decent director can detect almost imperceptible moments in any actor’s performance that don’t ring true.

In simple terms, when I directed him to play the man he claimed he was, his performance was too earnest, which is a sure sign that an actor is overcompensating because the director is not convinced by their portrayal of a character.

Conversely, when I directed him to play my sociopathic, arrogant and myopic enemy, obsessed with money and engaged in a treacherous and potentially fatal deception, his performance was reminiscent of those actors who love to play themselves more than any of the characters they play.

It naturally follows that the name of the real life play I was directing is ‘Fools Mate’, the finale of which transpired over the course of his last three visits to our home last month.

Final Three Visits

On the first visit, he became oddly angered by the fact that I had allowed a collection of leaves to accumulate between the bonnet and windscreen of my car. He did so on the last two visits as well.

When I asked why he was becoming so agitated on the last occasion, he blurted out the excuse that he’s heard it could interfere with the signal from the car’s computer to the engine.

But no amount of research can unearth such a problem ever arising for anybody else during the very long history of the model of car I possess.

However, such an accumulation of leaves is easily capable of preventing a tracking device from working. Funnily enough.

If there was a shred of doubt of his duplicity beforehand, it evaporated in that instant, like the cold, crisp, Winter air, emanating from his pulsating nostrils.

The Finale

Once inside the house, all I really had to do to get him to reveal more of the player behind the mask was tell him to his face that I know him far better than he will ever know himself.

To which he replied, in a narcissistic fury he simply couldn’t resist:

“You haven’t got a fucking clue who I am Michael and you never will have.”

At which point, I told him to get out of my life because he had just confirmed he was no friend of mine, when the mask very obviously slipped off his face.

This happened because he just couldn’t stop himself from attempting to establish his supposed intellectual superiority by alluding to his eight year deception, which he realised he had implicitly confessed to, as soon as he saw the contemptuous expression on my face.

Defamation & Malicious Falsehoods

Refusing to leave of his own accord upon my second demand that he do so, he started shouting aggressively when I began to remove him.

As I escorted him from the property, before he caused my nine year old daughter any distress, he was furiously alleging that:

1. Michael and I are useful idiots, being set up by the Treasury and Anthony Stansfeld to get 12 years for criminal fraud, on the grounds that…well, he didn’t have any.

2. We have no understanding of mortgage fraud because there is no mortgage, as its all done under an undisclosed trust, created for the purposes of stealing the promissory note, despite the fact that no trust ever arises out of fraud by non-disclosure.

3. His superior intellect allows him to see the bigger picture, which we can’t see because we are intellectual midgets, as shown by our inability to see that the Black Pope [and not he who cannot be named] owns and controls everything under trust law. Apparently.

Triad of Spurious Allegations

This triad of spurious allegations is, of course, exactly what Steve Knight [He Who Talks Shite] and other agents have been saying behind our backs for years, so it is nothing new, as well as being entirely without merit.

I am therefore offering He Who Talks Shite and his ilk the opportunity to put their supposedly superior thinking to the ultimate test: lay their arguments that I am wrong in an adversarial contest on my YouTube Channel and I will respond point for point.

In the impossible event that any of their cases are proven, I will replace all the TGBMS Grounds with their postulations and issue a public admission that I got it all hopelessly wrong.

However, in the certain event they lose, they must agree to give back every penny they’ve taken from people who believed what they told them and issue a public retraction of the statements they have made on the subject.

Agents Need Not Apply

It’s a safe bet this genuine invitation will be refused, on the basis that my arguments have already been proven to be correct in court on numerous occasions over the past five years.

Whilst He Who Talk Shite types are almost always too cowardly to risk looking like the flimflam merchants they undoubtedly are, even though I’m happy to take them all on in a single debating contest.

Nevertheless, nobody will be able to claim that I didn’t offer to take on all-comers in the public space over the applicability of the TGBMS Grounds, even if none of my detractors have the courage to accept the invitation, given that I can decimate each of their arguments in a single sentence.

For the avoidance of doubt, agents need not apply for the position of my gladiatorial adversary, in what will almost certainly become known as TGBMS Blood-Sports, if He Who Talks Shite and his ilk are brave enough to accept the challenge.

Spooking The Spooks

Going forward, it is more than likely that there will be a rat-hole of agents lined up to take the place of the spy who said he loved me.

However, their predecessors have failed to kill me, frame me, defame me and discredit my work, which won’t exactly inspire confidence.

They’ve also failed to break the unbreakable bond of brotherhood between Michael and I, in addition to failing to prevent TGBMS from catalyzing the class actions to end mortgage fraud.

In their position, they’d be wise to consider that we are subject to protection which not even the secret state and an army of spooks can subvert.

Furthermore, it is also possible that, given Anthony Stansfeld is a former head of military intelligence, his support of our cause has resulted in the termination of almost two decades of the expensive surveillance of my entire existence.

In more simplistic terms, I knew the moment I shook hands with Anthony and looked him in the eye that he already knew everything there was to know about my life because he’d read or been briefed on all the intelligence the state has on me.

That being the case, he can only have offered his public support, as well as his agreement to let me interview him about mortgage fraud, having concluded that I have done nothing to warrant a full time SIS operation to monitor my every move, for nigh on twenty years.

True Friendship Is Much Rarer Than Gold

Regardless of how he reacts to reading this expose of his treachery, I fully expect the spy who said he loved me to scurry back into the shadows from whence he crawled, with the intention of reinventing himself in some far off destination.

Nevertheless, I cannot end this statement of the facts without expressing what is almost certain to be my most abiding memory of the entire episode.

During our final exchange of very heated words, he turned to me with crocodile tears steaming down his cheeks and said:

“Whatever I’ve done, whatever I do, I will always be your friend because I love you. You’re me marrah. And the truth is…I’m really scared that somebody’s going to kill me. You don’t want to know who. There’s more than one of them.”

Which I took as the nearest he will ever come to apologising for his wrongdoings, whilst letting me know that he intends to scarper very soon because of the enemies he’s made along the way.

To which I responded with these final words, as I escorted him out of the house for the last time:

“Friends don’t stab each other in the back, which is exactly what you’ve done. Everything you’ve said is a lie. Now get out and don’t come back!”

Not long after the front door slammed shut, I asked my thoughtful daughter how she would react if she knew he’d been a spy all along.

Referring to his bumbling act, she replied:

“It was just too bad to be true.”

Enough said, oh wise one of single digits. After all, she should know, having witnessed it all first hand, including the attempt to murder her Dad.

Epilogue

In the event the traitorous wretch is ever foolish enough to impose himself upon our lives ever again, he will be publicly named as standing accused of being an accessory to attempted murder.

I’m also certain Anthony Stansfeld and the Treasury Select Committee will be extremely unhappy to have been falsely accused by him of conspiring to frame Michael and I for crimes we haven’t committed, irrespective of the Official Secrets Act.

Whatever else transpires, from henceforth everything this creature of a dishonest age says about absolutely anything will be known by all who suffer his rambling rhetoric, as the despicable gobshite of a traitor to the people.

There is nothing left to say except the TGBMS Class Actions will proceed as planned to the service of the draft claim forms next week, which speaks volumes about the abject failure of the spy who said he loved me to destroy my life and works.

May he spend every day he has left on this Earth ruing the day he conspired to rob my daughter of her father by stabbing me in the back.