Welcome.... 

To my site, where I aim to provide you with my insights, and existential experiences, during my first half century on this plain. It's written "on the fly", with no holds barred, so if you are easily offended, maybe best to stop reading at this point. Remember, offence is taken not given. Everything I say is true, (well, relative to me at least) there are generalisations to certain demographics on the one hand, whilst on the other, there are definite hints to individuals, being careful of course, only to name individuals I have a historical respect for, and are worthy of being named.

I have learnt that the older I get, the less I actually really know about anything, that his-tory is written by victors to shape and control the future, and that for the most part, there is a cure for all of humanities dis-eases. Don't kid yourself that the two royals in the news in 2024 had conventional cancer treatment, they had access to Sir Raymond Rife's beam ray technology. An absolute proven sound frequency treatment, which is non invasive and 100% effective. Of course, scientists and other "experts " have attempted to invalidate Rifes work, and the 1939 cancer act passed in parliament, completely closed the door to anyone attempting to reignite this cancer cure, leaving the sole beneficiaries to all monetary gains acquired from treatment, in the hands of, yes you've guessed it, pharmaceutical companies. Rifes frequency beam ray machine works along the same lines as when an opera singer hits the right note/frequency, to literally smash a wine glass. Every object has it's own unique frequency that it resonates to, resonate enough at exactly it's unique frequency, and it destroys that targeted object. 

Nikola Tesla was another man who knew this stuff, another bloke who's work was suppressed and indeed stolen. Contemporary life, sees an egotistical man make millions running on the back of Nikolas surname, NT would be utterly ashamed to be associated with Musk. Musk is the exact opposite of what Tesla stood for. I urge you to discover for yourself, the life and works of Tesla, another amazing man, completely discredited, in order to keep humanity chained in shackles and dependent on large corporations to supply our energy needs at a very high price.

"Most people live and live, some, a small few, live and learn".

This is My-story, ( his-story). Which all history really is, an individuals (relative) account of past events. 

Words are profound. Words have meaning! Words and language evolve. Be careful on the words you use, and most importantly, look into the definition of words and their etymology. Words have the capacity to free you from the captors snare, or wilfully keep you chained into a life of enslavement. I owe much to a man by the name of Romley Stuart, ( https://youtu.be/ZKZFQEq4now?si=yakK5qQhb5t59RLl) and of course the rest of his channel content, for opening my eyes to how we, as a race, have literally been deceived into consent, to live a life of what is effectively modern day slavery, whereby our strawman names are used as a means to generate vast sums of money, and hand it over to Great Britain PLC, which is then distributed to all it's cronies who operate this legalised scam. Few, very few, realise how much they actually live in captivity with just enough "freedoms" to keep them pacified, along with lashings of bread and circus entertainment (football, rugby, gambling, drinking etc, etc) so they are distracted enough to not want to bother looking into their slave masters.

ABOUT ME IN BRIEF:

Born in 1974 to Bryan and Daphne Cox, I grew up in a happy home, a loving home, the quintessential English, working class nuclear family.

   South Lincolnshire, is my lot in this life since '74. Once, predominantly a farming hamlet where the inhabitants did a good (at least) twelve hour hard days graft,  is now the typical English retirement village, a village where dogs outnumber humans by about three to one, where you have to look down every step you take, in order to not have canine excrement adhere to your soles for the next three months. The main pastime of the average modern day inhabitant, is to walk their little fur baby thrice a day, wherever the molly coddled critter decides it wants to roam. Whether that be over private farmland, estate land, or indeed having a crack at the local sheep flock, where many a damaged head of livestock has been witnessed.

Regularly upon my travels to our yard for collection of materials, I observe curtains and blinds closed at 08.30 hrs in 90% of abodes, where once upon a time the place would have been a hive of activity pre 06.30 hrs, with the locals grafting away at their profession. I fondly remember the smells of freshly started diesel engines,  (yes, that's a man thing!) emanating from the recently started farm machinery from 07,00hrs onwards, wafts of nostalgic niffs not only in odour, but each displaying their own unique misty haze, rising with such serenity amongst the clear morning sky, as the village bursts into life, not forgetting the gorgeous smell of freshly opened silage, where Wally Wright and David (Brady) Bradford, would be working on the local farm. Kids chatted away, actually interacted without phones, patiently waiting for their school bus, while today the little darlings are bubble wrapped up safely and conveyed to programming centres in Mummys fancy motor car. Each little cotton wool clad darling in it's own separate car, clogging up the road network for those (few) that have to work. Now, as aforementioned, the village is a quiet place, a place where folk retire after their excruciatingly painful (sarcasm intended) twenty years public sector work, living in harmonic bliss with their indexed linked, final salary public sector retirement pension, funded by the previous generations hard graft, that is now for the most part, hidden from their view.  The place I call home, like nearly every village, town, and city in England has changed, and it's not a good change, it's now the polar opposite to it's former agricultural glory. Stalwarts such as the former village carpenter, a gentleman ready to help anyone, who in latter days, is (WRONGFULLY) accused by his pretentious and avaricious neighbour, for supposedly making "eyes" at his daughter! Apologies for the contemporary teenage lingo, but LOL, what a knob you are for your unfounded lies against such a stalwart of our village! Ernie and Heather, you'll always be remembered for the honest, hardworking people you were. These are the specimens of people that have moved into our quiet villages and hamlets. Personally, I'll take the old ways, days, and people over the post millennial influx of financial/economic migrants, akin to Ernie's accuser. Each subsequent generation must say and think the same, but it's generally a gradual process of decline. However, I believe the last forty years, it's gone off a cliff with the way society has fallen. Disrespect is everywhere. People "WFH". "Google" wfh if you're of a certain age, as you probably won't know what this means, but basically it's the modern day excuse for portraying you're doing a meaningful days graft, when really you're just putting your hours in. I mean come on, can you imagine back in the day, for example,  all those gents' down the coal mines, or in the Coventry Massey Ferguson tractor plant, WFH! NOTHING would have got achieved, other than a lot of utter nonsensical waste of man hours. Sorry, person hours to be politically correct. 

    I am one of five boys, and also twin to my sister Helen, whom we sadly lost early on. I started work in 1986 age twelve on the local farm, where I was to spend literally every spare hour until the age of nineteen, when I then attended Caythorpe agricultural college to equip me with an HND in mixed agriculture. Married in 1998 to Donna, amazing and most loving daughter Rachel born the following year in 1999. Whilst juggling work, I was a carer to my wife Donna for ten years, during her excruciating illness in which it eventually and cruelly claimed her life. Mourned the loss of my hero father when his bad heart stole his breath away at 17.06hrs 02/02/07. Met, then married in 2012 my soulmate Rosalyn, who has managed to put up with me to date! This ain't no cliché, but I'd be nothing without Ros, she keeps me going! 

  Now at age 50, after 38 years of graft, witnessing society and moreover, England go down the toilet, and generally getting an old grumpy bugger, I have decided to semi retire due to health matters, but I have seen this as an opportunity to write my memoirs, calling a spade a spade! If I offend anyone, well that's just tough! I look around my village and think if you can't beat 'em then join 'em! I still keep a hand in my life long profession, that being agricultural and domestic fencing, which I can humbly say, I have perfected over my 38 years in the saddle. So if you require my services, please don't hesitate to get in touch. You'll get top quality, honest old fashioned service, at a very competitive price. I am Lincolnshire born and bred, so similar to a Yorkshireman, you'll also get told if you've annoyed me! Incidentally, one of my favourite characters from early on was Bill Marvin, a true gentleman in rags. He'd tell you straight what he thought, and a more honest man you'd be hard pushed to find. I'd sooner trust that man in his rags clawing out his beat up Ford Sierra 2.3D, than a sharp dressed man donned in Hugo Boss atire, alighting from his hybrid, on the drip, pretentious Range Rover. A good indication of a local, is to ask about former gentleman like Bill Marvin, David Bradford, John Creasey and the like. Sit back awhile, and listen to the tales of Ginger, he's the bloke to ask!

   Atrophy is rife, from the morals of man, to the crapification (yes that's my word!) of nearly every manufactured product. My life experience thus far I shall attempt to convey,  and I hope will inspire you to look further. 

I suppose I can convey better, by calling on the works of a monk born in the sixteenth century.........

If a person were to try stripping the disguises from actors while they play a scene upon a stage, showing to the audience their real looks, and the faces they were born with, would not such a one spoil the whole play? Would not the spectators think he deserved to be driven out of the theatre with brickbats, as a drunken disturber? Now what else is the whole life of mortals but a sort of comedy, in which the various actors, disguised by various costumes and masks, walk on and play each one his part, until the manager waves them off the stage? Moreover, this manager frequently bids the same actor to go back in a different costume, so that he who has but lately played the king in scarlet, now acts the flunkey in patched clothes.

Thus all things are presented by shadows-------Erasmus.