I recently returned to the UK for a week. I spent a couple of days in Hastings, and the rest in London. I had been there several times in the past. Just like every other town and city in Europe for the last 15 years, the police pointed me out to security guards, and they or the police, in turn pointed me out to staff, to mock, intimidate, abuse, and threaten me – somebody suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. Just as in shopping centers from Oxford to Athens, the security guards in the Hastings Priory Meadow Center would abuse, mock, and intimidate me on each visit. Several years ago on my last previous visit to Hastings, I went into the Boots store in the Priory Meadow after staff and the TSS security guard had clearly appeared to be recognizing me and acting abusively, with my smartphone recording in my back pocket. I captured the security guard grinning behind my back, apparently oblivious to me recording him, and saying something to the woman at the make-up counter, to which she looked at me and laughed. I uploaded the video to YouTube and within a week or two, it had been taken down with no explanation other than as a response to a privacy complaint, presumably by the Met/Sussex police. In the following months, the police then doubled down on their torture and used it as an excuse to go into dozens or more shops and point me out to staff with encouragement to abuse, insult, and threaten me.

The head of police in Hastings, Sussex is Chief Inspector Jay Mendis-Gunasekera Jay.

The head of Sussex police is Chief Constable Jo Shiner

According to the Criminal Justice Act of 1988, a police officer who commits the offence of psychological torture shall be liable on conviction to imprisonment for life.

On this visit to the Priory Meadow Center, my first in 3 years, there was a different member of staff apparently acting as security guard at the Boots pharmacy, and he did not have a TSS security uniform on. A young black male, he visibly recognized me as a I walked past. Every subsequent occasion I walked past, he was standing there and looked anxious when he saw me, but each time tried hard to look stoical and disinterested. That can’t be said for the security guard patrolling the center. An older black, rotund male, I saw him a couple of times, and on each occasion, he did the classic theatrical ‘I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at everybody’ routine, whilst trying and failing not to smirk.

The security company that patrols the Hastings Priory Meadow Shopping Center is VSG Security, and their CEO is Raymon Grocott.

A Hastings Priory Meadow security guard

A Week In London

I spent the rest of the time in London. I stayed at the Hotel Ibis, where the psychopathic pigs had clearly pointed me out to security on a previous visit, and I had consequently been abused and mocked, and even threatened by them, whilst trying to care for my cancer stricken dying mother. On this occasion, the police, finally now aware after 15 years that some of their senior officers are heading towards prison for life, had clearly advised them to be more circumspect. A female Muslim guard, who I had not seen on previous stays, clearly recognized me and looked almost ashamed.

I had a couple of disturbing experiences walking along High Street Kensington. Twice a police car stopped in traffic in front of me in the direction of Hammersmith, and the driver and his colleague, made not only no pretence of the fact that they recognized me, but laughed at me. One was particulary disgusting. A fat female evil looking pig openly stared and laughed at me theatrically. They may be telling security guards to lay off the torture, at the request of their bosses, but individually they are still clearly rotten to their sadistic inhuman core.

After finally, and grudgingly getting rid of the evil and incompetent Cressida Dick, the Met Police have chosen a man named Sir Mark Rowley as their new king of the stye. I will be spending a couple of weeks in London shortly. Of course, it will be interesting to see if there is any change in the behaviour of the police towards me there. Will I still be pointed out to security guards? Will over half of the police cars that pass me in Fulham and West London theatrically laugh when they see me etc.? In other words, will this be a clean break from the past, after nearly 15 years, or will Sir Mark Rowley get his leadership of the Met Police off to a grand start by instantly criminalizing himself under the Criminal Justic Act of 1988, and thereby face the possibility for the rest of his career, and life (like his three predecessors), of being convicted and sentenced to a possible life imprisonment?

I intend to contact the Law Society before I get there. I will also print out and put in a stamped and addressed envelope my letter to the the Right Honourable Greg Hands, and post it if there is no change regarding my illegal torture.

Meanwhile, I just returned from a week in Germany. For the first time in nearly 15 years, I felt a definite change. Quite a few police officers, even in the centers of the two cities I visited, did not appear to recognize me. Similarly, with security guards in the big department stores. I have visited Germany quite a few times since this began in 2008, and as you might expect given that nation’s history of sadism, the pigs in Germany have been among the very worst of all the countries I have visited.

My elderly mother died in March after a number of pain filled weeks in hospital. Obviously I can’t even put into words what effect this has had on me, and how devastating it has been, to watch the most important, and only important person to me, slowly die in pain, not being able to do anything for her.

And then of course, with all this going on in the background.

One evening, for example, I had come out of the hospital after sitting with my mother for half the day, completely exhausted and emotionally spent. I popped in to the Sainsburys Local across the road. As I was approaching the self-service checkout, a male member of staff was on the phone and looking at me intensely. He got off the phone and continued to look at me intensely with a smirk on his face. After I paid and as I was passing him, he sarcastically said – “you’re welcome”. He did exactly the same when I again went in there a few days later.

As of 2022, the store manager for Sainsbury’s Beaufort Street Local 295-297 Fulham Road, is Darren Miller.

When I arrived back in London in January to be with my terminally ill mother, it was apparant that the CIS security staff at Fulham Broadway had been informed of the fact, as they were clearly trying very hard to supress smirks every time I passed them. When I was sitting in Starbucks, the transgender security guard responsible for Wilkos, was talking to a woman who appeared to be a member of staff employed somewhere else in the center. He kept looking at me as he talked to her, as did the woman, looking very sympathetically at me. So after 15 years of making complaints about the police pointing me out to security guards and members of the public, the psychopathic sadists appear to have invaded my private grief, the most difficult time of my life, and informed those very same security guards who have been involved in my torture for the last few years.

Perhaps the worst though was at the Co-op store in the North End Road. The police have pointed me out to not only the security guards, but also to apparently every single member of staff, who sadistically ‘let me know’, and mock me, as in hundreds of shops in 12 other countries, for ‘not liking to be looked at’. As elsewhere, through the incitement of the Met Police under Cressida Dick and Owain Richards, the male staff and security make a disturbing point of staring at young females. This has been taken to a more than just disturbing degree in that store though. I managed to take a photo of the security guard staring at what appeared to be a 7 or 8 year old girl in there. An overweight male member of staff by the name of ‘Sasa’ made a theatrical point of staring at the asses of two 14 or 15 year old girls as they were checking out at the tills at the same time as I was. A white Muslim woman who wears a headscarf is the most sadistic. The day after my mother died, I went in there to get some groceries and snacks. As I was standing at the self-service till, she theatrically craned her neck to look over at me, and then laughed. On the night before my mother’s funeral, myself and another brother and his wife, who had just come down to London, went in there to get some things such as tissues for the next day. As I was at the self-service till, a male staff serving them, craned his neck over looking at me. I don’t know what my brother and his wife made of that.

And then of course, I think understandably, I began to become a little ‘paranoid’ as regards my mother’s treatment in hospital. Would even the Met Police under Cressida Dick, and Chief Superintendent Owain Richards, be so evil, depraved, and corrupt enough to actually point me out to the hospital staff treating my mother? As related in previous posts, they clearly did not stop pointing me out to security guards and pharmacists at the Fulham Broadway Boots branch in which I had to collect my mother’s presciptions when she was suffering from her first bout of cancer in 2020. After that, myself and my brother switched to the Superdrug in Fulham North End Road for her prescriptions to be sent to. In January, when my mother became very ill again (we didn’t know yet it was the cancer that had returned) I collected a number of prescriptions for her, and disturbingly, the pharmacists behaved very oddly when serving me.

In the hospital itself, my mother was treated with appalling brutality by the nurses. My mother, wracked with cancer, was delirious for much of her final weeks. However, in one quite lucid moment, she told me that the nurses did bad things to her, and demonstrated this by squeezing the skin on her arm. I witnessed myself how rough and brutal they were when it came to changing her sheets and ignoring her screams, even trying to physically force food into her mouth (she was refusing food as she wanted it to be over with as quickly as possible).

After my mum passed away in the middle of the night as I and my brother held her hand, we had to wait over an hour for a doctor to come to formally certify her death. When the doctor did come, a black young female, she was appallingly callous and disinterested. As I walked out with my brother, both of us completely heartbroken and spent, we thanked her and she coldly said “you’re welcome”.

My mother grew up in Glasgow. I had never visited, and shortly after her death, as a way of coping, I decided to visit for a few days. Glasgow was much nicer than I imagined, but perhaps the unusually clement March weather helped. Police officers appeared to recogize me. The most unsettling incident happend when I popped into the Centeral Station to buy some snacks in WH Smiths. It was the night of the Poland Scotland football friendly, so thousands of fans were arriving at the station for the match. As I walked in, the Station master (I saw his badge) was with several colleagues. He very much indicated that he recognized me immediately, and said something to his colleagues who all looked over at me as I walked towards WH Smiths. So, I’d just spent the previous weeks watching helplessly as my mother, the most important person in my life, died slowly in hospital in acute pain from cancer. I was visiting Glasgow to process the loss and a way of coping. And it appears the sadistic psychopaths saw fit to point me out to not only police officers in Glasgow, but the Station manager (who is a man named Derek King). The chief of police for Glasgow is Mark Sutherland.

I spent most of the following couple of months in London, aside from the trip to Bath described in a previous post. In London around 70% of the police officers who pass me in their cop cars or pig wagons make a theatrical point of laughing. One driver of a police car who passed me in Brompton Road made a theatrical sad expression at me and then laughed.

At the same time, it appears that the psychopathic perverts intruded upon my private grief by informing security guards, for example at Fulham Broadway, of my mother’s death.

In an attempt to get over the intense grief at the loss of my mother, I decided to take a short break to Bath. I had never been there before, and thought the relaxed and civilized atmosphere of the Georgian spa town would be just the ticket. It certainly did help, or at least for the first couple of days it did. Especially as I hardly saw a police officer, or a security guard, so the plaguing thoughts of the bent psychopaths were at rest, and I could focus on relaxing and processing my mother’s death and my new life without her, the only person in my entire life who will ever love me.

However, on the day before I left, I began the morning sitting in a Starbucks cafe. As I sat drinking my tea, I looked up and noticed a male and female PCSO were sitting opposite me. When he glanced up at me, a look of sheer fright took hold of his face. I was unperturbed. Most likely it was nothing to do with the torture of the last 15 years. Surely now, the pigs aren’t still pointing me out even to PCSO’s in places I have never visited before? So I didn’t give it a further moments thought. Later, I was sitting in another cafe watching the world go by, when a different male PCSO and a female walked past. The PCSO looked at me and appeared to say something to his female colleague, who then looked at me. Again, I gave it little thought, although this time it perturbed me a little more.

Then late in the afternoon, again I was sitting outside a cafe, facing a road. A police car stopped at the traffic lights so it was directly in front of me. The male driver glanced at me and immediately gave a look of recognition and then clearly turned to his female colleague in the next seat, said something to her while giving an evil smirk, and then both looked at me. I almost jumped out of my seat and cried out ‘what the fuck??’. Both of the officers then looked away, the female down at something she appeared to be reading and the psychopathic male driver looked to his right until the lights turned green and they drove off.

The Chief Constable of Avon and Somerset Police is Sarah Crew.

Under the Criminal Justice Act of 1988, a public official such as a police officer who commits the offence of psychological torture, is liable to a life term custodial prison sentence.