You can’t force something to love you.
I am that leaking tap.
That ticking clock under the floorboards.
It’s a bit like a snake swallowing its prey whole.
You can clearly see the outline of a dead body inside the snake.
The snake is choking on its prey.
The chalk line is visible.
The snake isn’t fooling anyone.
Brood of vipers.
But that is human trafficking.
He’s always extorted me with the threat of a pile on.
Never be a part of a pile on.
Not for the trafficking girls.
Never be a part of a gang rape.
They are one and the same.
No one wants to set the captives free.
They had multiple trips to Byron after having helped to set this in motion. No one cared about being set up and all the trafficking. They are fakes too. They are phoney.
When no one believes you about lyrics, no one believes you about rapes.
I was over Byron when the Mosman’s moved there, and grew dreadlocks as a veneer. It’s a cop out. The Mosman’s became prostitutes. They said that it was for easy money; they said ‘normal people’ money isn’t good enough for narcs, so they just became Byron Narc hookers. Everyone thought they were pathetic. Everyone.
A Byron address doesn’t make you cool. You make you cool.
They were not cool enough to be in London with the musicians.
But they helped to hide that I was trafficked.
They just want to be looked at. Everyone thought they were uncool.
I pointed out that you could see Balmoral Beach from their childhood bedrooms.
Have you met Wayne, the guy who claims he can levitate? Go ahead Wayne, levitate.
Where are you from in Sydney Wayne?
“Sorry I can’t divulge that.”
“Why?”
“My parents are in the CIA, so it’s confidential.”
“Ok Wayne. I’m not going to believe you can levitate unless I see it with my own eyes.”
He offers to teach me to levitate for a small fee.
We all know a Wayne.
They regurgitate things they have read in books and things other cool Byron’s say. Ok, I’m going to move to Byron and quote other people and pretend I thought of it. My word, the spiritual narcissists all move to Byron, don’t they?
Or they start churches.
Or become celeb-rit-ees.
I always double down. I pirouette around the males in music in London.
Releve, releve, releve.
I’ve got their measure. I’m so disappointed in them. It’s unhealthy.
Everything is from his perspective.
POV.
The male gaze.
I am the only one there with the female gaze covered.
Certainly, the only feminist.
The only woman in the room who has completed Year 12.
The only woman in the room who has a degree in literature.
The only person in the room with a degree.
The only woman who owns a garden apartment on the Lower North Shore.
The only one with pedigree.
The only person who has lived at the most prestigious address in Sydney, The Quay Apartments.
Where is that mean boy and his co-conspirators? The issue didn’t go away because you ignored it.
It inured someone.
At first it works for me.
I am descended from Rachmaninov’s.
That means that I am Russian gentry. I am all intellect and feminism, but they try to Anora me.
You see the communists wiped out the aristocracy and took all of their assets.
I am one of a surviving few.
Like the last of the Mohicans.
Like the fall of the house of Medici.
I am the daughter of a refugee.
My grandmother says that there were musicians in the family. Whether it is the actual composer, well, how could we know,…a relative perhaps?
It gets wings in the room. I am excellent at what I do.
They are selling my lyrics or greasing wheels all over town.
I help to create British Breakbeat. When Vin says what do you think of Drum and Bass. I say that I like it but to slow it down, break it up and make it more like a heartbeat.
Do people in the family play by ear, do they write symphonies as children?
Yes. Of course, they do. But they also do on the other side of the family, the Ukrainian family,
Daughter of Jakov, Daughter of Constantin.
When I am seven, she doesn’t hide her disappointment that I can’t play an instrument by ear, she has been working with me on her Rachmaninov ways from the age of 3.
But grandma I am playing Chopin I say.
Off she walks to be alone and to have a cigarette, on our vast property of rolling lawns, next to our billionaire neighbours. Our horsey, polo playing, thoroughbred owning “neigh”- bours.
You see at first it works for me, but she was stateless at one point, and they say, well they dare to say that she would have been in a sweatshop in China. She is very prim. That’s why I am a slave they say.
She describes the War and Peace gentrified system, that her siblings and parents were a part of.
Gee, I think, it may have been safer in the USA. She does say that we should have moved to England or France, that they understand us there.
But Europe is terrifying after the “Var.” We don’t want to live at Bondi.
Her foster father was a Headmaster at a school.
She insisted that I learn Latin as a child. But not French.
Oh zeze Australian’s zey think zey are speaking French, but I assure you they are not.
Out of the qvestion. No grandchild of mine vill speak French with ziss accent.
Ze French, ze French zey vill just laugh at you.
When I was four, she told me to read Tolstoy and to earn a degree in Literature.
I did.
I disobeyed the property developer father. I don’t make money for a living.
I told the rude boy that I wanted to be a playwright.
That I wanted to be in politics.
That first I would like be in politics, but I would also start a successful company.
I told him that I was “right on track for it.”
But he said nothing good for you love. I’ll destroy you. You are so formidable that I never want you to do anything again.
“People might work out that I stole me lyrics.”
That I knew lots of politicians, that I was raised around them.
First politics, then playwright. Yes, that is about right, about right for a degree feminist from Sydney University, who lived at the Quay Apartments.
He said well, that’s the danger love, that’s the danger.
Gee, gosh golly gee, that’s not a me issue, that is a YOU issue. As we say in Australia.
So I can be a slave because he says that my grandmother was most likely a slave.
Correctomundo.
Little slave girl in a room of horrors.
You see I understand the Epstein situation.
It was explained.
He explains it like a Bond Villian setting a trap for James Bond but leaving before the job is done.
Should I say a few more gosh, golly, gee, my goodness you are a celebrity.
Or should I just continue saying, I can’t understand why you are saying these things, because 7 million pounds, doesn’t sound like enough money to actually “own people”.
You see the wealthy don’t believe in owning people.
He explains to me with a larrikin grin that he is above the law.
He says this to all the new men.
Welcome to the club. You are now above the law.
He is a part of the above-the-law paedophile club.
You see love, the paedophiles always help with owning things, and people. He said.
He said that they were going to arrest him for stealing a Bentley.
Him in handcuffs. I am scum he says so they put me in handcuffs.
Me, in front of everyone.
It were so embarrasin.
I was just driving it around drunk. At a par-ee…they all fink that they are be-er than me.
I don’t know how to drive so I didn’t drive it on the road.
I ask him if he is a skinhead.
I am serious.
His face is mean and always contorted into mean looks…that is unless we are on the receiving end of his contrived celebrity “Blue Steel.”
What do abusive men do?
Smear campaigns, no she can’t write. We can write. Until every record flopped. After the ones that I wrote.
Do they fabricate, pay for, accumulate, and disseminate egregious defamation on their target?
Do they exploit, target, eviscerate their prey?
The shipped in the ne’do wells from outer Sydney in for the smearing Hunger Games to commence.
You see, the first time that I knew that it would all go wrong is when he started an expletive-loaded rant about me having grown up in a street with a High Court Judge.
Leaning in menacingly.
Now yer listen to me love he yelled at me, I am told that YOU are going to try to tell ME that you grew up in a street with a High Court Judge.
Now (he said is in thick northern cockney) you are not going to tell me that now are you, love?
Most days I just sat there laughing at him.
I was being trafficked; I don’t actually work for him.
Perhaps rudeness will have me expelled into the outer regions of Paradise.
Listen bud, why don’t you, more to the point, tell me who lived in your street where you grew up. You are the crime lordaren’t you?
I am not a crime lord because pretty women do what I want and say what I say for me.
No one wants to be a with a vile paedophile, heroin addict who forces alt rock bands to sleep with him.
There is a trafficked woman under one arm, and a heroin needle in the other.
Mmm that’s not better than an educated man who doesn’t need a lift on the Lolita Express because …well why? Because his family already have their own jet.
He is upset that he has never been on a private plane. He wants to gentrify and to entertain with my witty lyrics.
Besides I drawl, you only have seven million pounds, goodness, that’s not very much I quip.
Particularly for this sort of behaviour.
There is no amount of money that makes me think that it is okay to own people.
I say that the great and the good in Australia, have more rules and not fewer.
Tsk, tsk. Wealth actually brings more rules and not fewer.
How can he not know that?
Oh, he has only met celeb-brit-ees.
Oh, you haven’t met anyone who is actually importantanymore.
Oh, your team just keep you around new to money celebs, and sycophants.
Oh, you don’t know how the wealthy behave do you?
He says they want to take over from the billionaires and politicians because “we the celebrities” don’t like being told what to do.
“We don’t want anyone above us.”
In Australia, and goodness, around the world people with 7 million pounds don’t think that they can own people. I’ve never heard of such a strange thing.
You see, everyone that I know is richer than you, and they don’t act as though they can own people and take over the world.
Why would I date someone with less money than the people that I currently date?
Oh, but you want your name in “the papers.”
That’s the lexicon of the wannabe celeb-brit-ee.
The Australian elite…you see they don’t own people. They certainly don’t want their name in the papers.
No, no one that I know wants to be famous.
They are too rich for it.
The most telling thing is that when the first 5 or 6 tranches ran out, he couldn’t replicate it.
Love because you are a trauma survivor, don’t think I won’t have them force you to break. And later. He said that me being raped was the best darn thing that had ever happened to him.
They weaponize their worshippers. Fans are for, Sick em Rex.
He said that people who don’t want to be famous or who don’t have the safety of public fans trolling other people for them just don’t matter.
People who aren’t famous don’t matter he quips. Only people who are well known have power.
No, people who are wealthy don’t want to be well known.
Well the paedophiles from now on, want to be in control, and if you don’t have a profile, you just don’t matter.
“We are changing who matters and who doesn’t.”
Fall in line and obtain a profile people.
He said that he wants the people who don’t have degrees to take over telling people what is right.
Oh so the paedophiles are taking over now?
Stupid people?
The famous people?
People without an area of expertise?
Or who haven’t obtained a degree or similar?
Yeah I am stealing money so that I can pay people to get people to like me.
But you are so unlikeable.
Yeah, but that doesn’t ma-a.
No it doesn’t love becoz I will ask em to just find out what people like and we will just pretend that I am all those things, and I say whatever people to tell me to say.
You can just pay to be worshipped he said to me.
He said that he wanted to choose who is worshipped.
Idol.
He said that he would choose who is worshipped in Australia.
Who did well in Australia would be up to him, he said.
Australia could only do well when he decided that he could do well he said.
We done wan Australia to become a world hub for music, we wanna keep it all in Britain.
Brittania Rules.
That’s why he must force the alt band to sleep with him.
They are scared of him. They say no. It is years later that they are discovered.
He tells me that their way into the industry is by sleeping with him.
He sleeps with men, women, trans…alas underage victims.
He is hypersexual. They hide the paedophilia with sexual comments about pretty women.
They give celebrities phoney importance.
Now they feel …super important, and that they, and only they, not politicians should be listened to.
Because then he owns them and then he can tell em what to do and they have to do as he says, and they can’t have him arrested.
That’s why the rappers must sleep with the White Supremacist outliers, you see, I will tell em that they are popular and they will sleep with them. Then I own everyone, he says.
We always want to be with the popular girls in music.
But they are the geeks. The social pariahs. They are well known for using the N word, and you want the men of colour to sleep with them.
Expletive.
Yes, that’s perfect love, then I will own all the “black men”. Because they would have slept with an N word user. But why don’t you want the pretty, and popular women here? Why don’t you want wealthy women here, or GPS women? Some non-racists, well-connected ones? The posh ones from my St Trinians style boarding school, the Tara school, the daughters of the elite.
Sorry, you don’t want anyone pretty, wealthy, or important here?
Well, that’s not our plan love.
Because they will talk down to me love, just like you do, no, no GPS women, I just want poor girls who are scum because they will tell me that I am good and stuff. They do what I want for importance.
I don’t want anyone here who knows judges or politicians because they will catch me and charge me, I’ve promised to keep the judges, and politicians daughters away from the paedophile network or they won’t help me to steal me lyrics.
Because we could all be caught by someone.
You see love, the paedophile network all help us to do illegal fings.
We can do illegal fings because they help us.
He said that he just didn’t want to have a reputation as a lunkhead anymore. Lunkheads don’t get the big bucks he said;creatives and artists are paid more than singers, he said.
Pretending to be a creative who can write increased the money he would be paid and the size of his contract.
He said that he can trick the label into giving him more money if he tells em, that yes, these are his lyrics that he has written.
We don’t know what we are going to do with you, he says.
Well, you see, we may have to stick a heroin needle in your arm becoz I already signed documents saying that I can write me own lyrics. I could get into a lotta trouble.
So you are going to rip off a public company with shareholders then?
You can’t rip off a public company, I say. That’s taking shareholder money.
This is fraud.
Vin Medley is silent. Ghostly pale. The rude boy glares at him to ensure that he doesn’t intervene.
He said that the cabal said, to steal more lyrics than less, and then he would get away with it, and I suppose distribute it amongst the cabal.
I said that intelligent people would catch him and take him down.
He said that the stupid people were going to take over from the important people.
Steal more money for PR plans, scattergun PR, image creation PR.
It just didn’t make the fraud worthwhile. He said that it made him money so that he could keep the money that he stole. So that he had a better law firm.
He said that he wanted to pretend to be a clever man.
Like the clever alt band who were at university.
That it didn’t really matter that he wasn’t really that.
He said that he would weaponize his fans against royalty,
That he would turn the monarchy into a democracy.
That royalty have to do everything he says.
Everything had to suit him, and because of the cabal, he got to decide who was in favour and who wasn’t.
Oh, like anti-trust.
Oh, like sedition.
Big words.
I don’t know big words love.
Then how on earth can you give pretence that these are your lyrics.
I just wanna sound clever like the university students.
Another day, he waltzes in, complains bitterly about not being the centre of attention in his band, then says, that he has a bone to pick with me. His management think that I have too much influence over him (because he is holding me under duress to traffic me for my lyrics…total narc opposite of what is happening), my management have called you, wait, it’s a big word, that I done know.
What, a Svengali I splutter laughing.
Yeah, that’s the word.
A Svengali hostage. Scheherazade.
I didn’t want to have to have sex with any of the men.
I was disgusted by the racists and their acceptance of the racism.
They would have been sleeping with a trafficking victim.
I couldn’t wait to escape that back room.
Unlike them I wasn’t there of my own free will.
How egotistical to think someone like me would sleep with men collaborating, complicit and helping with trafficking.
Having that lovely Anglo-Saxon skin, and blue eyes, not golden eyes and skin like mine.
Oh well, no harm done checking on what the sociopath wanted carried out for him.
It only took a lifetime away, a generation, and a life, a musical and Russian gentry dynasty.
The Rachmaninovs.
Well, I asked the paedophile network, he said. They always help with owning people you know.
They like to help their paedophile members with fraud, and I’ve checked with the Cabal and because you are Australian, Russian Gentry, and because your grandmother was stateless after the fall of the Romanovs, they have greenlit trafficking you.
Russian women belong in brothels he chortels.
My eyes are golden like flames, and lick with fire.
His eyes flicker with demonic purpose.
Good works don’t mean they are good people.
Jimmy Saville.
Virtue signalling.
Yeah I’m friends wif Jimmy
Jimmy says that you are too ugly.
On the way to Glastonbury, I had to start a fight on the bus.
They were coming for them, as they say.
They were “taking them down” at Glastonbury.
“I don’t want to do it.” The rapper said. “I don’t want to do it, but I have to, they are too talented and a lot more gifted than I am, and I have to stop them before they become more powerful, or we are all going to jail. I have to stop his career before it starts. We’ve got no choice. It’s them or me.”
I say to him have you ever considered just giving up the whole music industry thing, and you know, just becoming a model.
The unsigned DJ wasn’t happy.
He says, exasperated, no, because everyone knows all I have to do is one Aga Doo.
Ah yes, the industry standard, Aga Doo.
I’ve already written 40 top tens in the back room, before the boys have even emerged from their Teepee.
I wasn’t permitted to bring my mini-skirt or my good clothes.
The skirt was so short that a man walking along behind me walked into a pole. Truly, it was actually quite awkward.
The other Antipodeans, the New Zealanders called me “Princess”.
In fact, everyone lied because they were committing crimes to make money, so I became the target.
To give the impression of little money or fashion sense, they used Coercive Control techniques.
A reverse make-over.
I was forced to wear the same outfit every day, I wasn’t allowed to shower at the apartment, to do my hair or to do my makeup. I snuck out daily to work out, and use the facilities at the gym, as the hooker couldn’t afford the gym, I was safe there.
They said that I was totally against working out, looking nice or going to the gym.
I worked out more than all the men.
I dressed differently when I wasn’t forced to go and see the men.
I didn’t have headshots, I didn’t go on go-sees, I laughed when he suggested that I pull some beers at the Queen Vic.
I wanted to be in politics I said.
I dressed in the ever present 90’s slip dresses that I still adore. When I wasn’t there.
My trafficking uniform skimmed across my bottom, exposing it to the men.
It skimmed across my body, hiding a tiny waist, and the exaggerated waist-to-hip ratio that I was so self-conscious about.
I am a freak I say to the hooker.
Yes, get out of my way, you are taking my business.
Only the men of colour like me, she says.
Oh, so you are a hooker?
What? I am being told that being a woman is ugly because Vin and the star prefer each other in bed, and children. Or what have you.
I thought my little hipster skirt hid the dramatic sweep from my tiny waist down my body. They forced me to wear a skirt that exposed my buttocks.
To me, I was hiding my body but to them I was a piece of ass.
In the lead-up to Glastonbury, I was harassed around the clock.
I was yelled at and berated; they had figured out that I was in a fairly constant state of trauma, and that with abuse, control, and harassment, they could control me.
They could control what I wore, what I said, if I showered, if I wore makeup, if I had nowhere else to live, and if I had nowhere else to go, so I slept on a yoga mat on the floor.
I couldn’t get away.
I was worried that they would destroy him at Glastonbury.
The alt band.
I knew one would marry a Lady, one an A-Lister, and the other one a model.
I never watch them, go to their concerts (gee I can’t afford to because they are so expensive), I don’t google them, I turn the TV off, I don’t follow them or look them up on social.
Here take my phone and check.
I warned Vin, that he knew too much, just like I did, and that he was crazy to think that his life wasn’t in danger.
Vin was in shock, sitting there, the big producer, rocking back, forth, not allowed to speak.
Some days he would howl at the way he was treating me.
Trafficking me, setting up a situation in which he was threatening me with craziness, or the appearance of it.
They sold the lyrics but then the star from the naff band just laughed at Vin, scoffing.
“Your name isn’t going on anything mate, because she can prove that she knows you.”
By the time I got to Glastonbury, I was a survivor of abuse, and I just wanted to hide, but there was no way to get home, even though I kept asking to go home.
I was being trafficked to be at Glastonbury against my will.
The more the alt band tried to help the more I was attacked.
They put me in so much danger.
I was in danger because they were trying to help me.
They painted a target on my back.
I was raped or abused every time that they tried to help, so I learned to sabotage everything.
I fell on my sword to avoid the hands around my neck again.
I wasn’t living in a real apartment; I was just sleeping on a floor without a kitchen.
There was a hole in the floor in a council flat in Camden.Urine in the elevator.
I had directly on the harbour at the Quay Apartments. Check my feed.
They led me to an apartment once. I would have my own room and a bed. It had polished timber floors. The hooker took me there.
When he asks if I saw the apartment, I say yes.
He tells me that I am moving in there. I look for a way out.
May I have a cleaner, (verification that I live there). No he snapped. Then he chortles in a sleazy manner, “my whore got me on a cleaner.”
Can I bring my Shetland Sheepdogs over from Sydney please?
No, he snaps.
Can I have a backyard please?
No, he snaps.
No, no, no.
You are not allowed to leave again once you walk in. You are never allowed to leave the apartment again, No one can see you. No men except me are allowed there. No one is allowed to visit you there.
I say can I just have the money please so that I can rent my own place and live in safety as I am being molested, strangled and forced to have sex with one person there, who later holds me hostage for him.
No, because then you can prove that you wrote them.
The man they paid was speaking Farsi.
It was terrifying, I had to start a fight to save them.
Stay away, or they will harm you too if you find out about all the crimes and try to stop them.
I had never experienced bullying before but a racist from school who became my stalker and who tried to have me knocked from my perch lied, and said I was racially harassed, unpopular, and bullied at school. The flew some ladies of the night over to smear me, they wanted to be there, they weren’t trafficked as they boast about, they have cooked up stories and created false lives based on the orgies in this room. They are nondescript Anglo Saxons without means, careers or education from Sydney.
They had more value than a now-inured Eastern European girl who was a long way from home.
He tells me that Russian women belong in brothels. So do they. They are free Anglo Saxon women.
They were not capable of writing top ten hits.
I am DJ Anoushka now, using my own lyrics. They deactivated me. I can’t earn royalites. I am worried that someone stole my poetry from my blog.
They were going to deny it to everyone.
Everyone told me that my ethnicity, and olive skin was ugly.
But not in England, oh how freeing, a little like Megan Gale, my looks were not considered to be too dark there; it was multicultural in England, after all. But I am not really a model type. I said that I wanted to use my mind and not my body.
But I am to be cast as the ugly olive-skinned woman who doesn’t go to the gym, and who doesn’t believe in blow dries and make up. I am the ugly dark skin trope.
That is because …why?
Because I had a blow dry once per week at school and the white supremacist nerds hated that I did?
Chief geek white supremacist came up to me and said you dirty little jew, my dad said because the dirty little jew gets a blow dry and facial once per week that I can now too.
You are the N word she stomped at me. N words are taking all of our money.
Keating has destroyed the country, she hissed at me.
Before everyone laughed at her and said to try sleeping with another geek why don’t you?
Or do they say that I don’t like doing my hair because I asked the star if I could have a blow-dry once per week?
In Australia, she is not hot. She was teased for being a geek. Rude and narcissistic, she was despised and vile. Her behaviour and racism inspired hate. A dime a dozen who needs a sexual conquest boast to appear to be popular, finally.
I was told that my skin tone gave me a lower class than other women, and they did everything to make me appear to be lower class, right down to not being allowed to wear the clothes I wanted, to be able to do my hair, and use my bags of French makeup purchased at Harvey Nichols.
They are my lower class, those of little money, those of no education, white superiors.
I was forced to have sex, I was forced to be the inferior ethnic girl, even though I was the only woman there who was descended from European aristocracy, and the only one from a top one per cent family, elite family.
With all the elite business owner friends and family.
This whole bloodline thing gives me the heeby jeebies.
It is easy to ignore women who appear to be Eastern European, and they capitalised on what they called Australian racism. For trying to take down a social network, for sociopathic behaviour, they told me to go back to where I came from, to give Australia all its money back.
They were an ideal choice to use to withhold money.
Fraud.
Grand larceny.
Embezzling.
Germany. Berlin.
Bringing labels down.
Bankruptcies.
Mmmm trafficking.
Celebrity is a hotbed of narcissism and attracts hopeful young narcissists who lack talent and who have earned themselves few other chances in life.
Narcissists don’t earn; narcissists take.
Narcissists are not that creative; they don’t possess a creative soul.
For a narcissist, they create things to help them look good and not art; to them, art doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter whose art it is.
People without a conscience, who cannot create their own path do well in the music industry.
It was not until he had to write his own things that the lowest level of talent was exposed. From lying and saying he wrote his own things, and then being put on the spot and having to “suddenly write for himself’ it was at that moment that they knew, that people had been telling the truth all along, that he didn’t write his own things, and now the critics were laughing at him and wondered where the magical pithy lyrics had gone.
He brandished that no one would notice when the lyrics switched from mine to his.
He writes limericks.
I brandish that people will know that you didn’t write your own work when you take over.
He said that he would pay so that no one noticed.
Plus Vin can write his lyrics.
But Vin is dead.
Go on put one of your poems on your CD so that we can all witness the standard at which you write lyrics and poetry. Go on. What’s the harm?
He doesn’t have a conscience.
The redemption arc was written when he stole his work in 95.
Vin is dead, and he can’t write his original style lyrics again.
I am in Australia, and at one point needed a Protection Order.
“She speaks in lyrics,” he said to the star.
“F she is f-ing ugly, I can’t believe how f-ing ugly she is. What did you bring me this f-ing ugly chick to F for.”
She’s not here for that, she is the lyricst. Said Vin.
A Cinderella in a short skirt and no makeup attending a party every day who wasn’t allowed to wash her face, wash her hair, wear her makeup I was forced to look inured, and poor, so that they could continue on with the inurnment.
Then he hissed at the producer.
“What is this place? Look at this f-ing place. What if I am seen in a place like this. Wat if I am photographed in a sh*thole like this.”
“Look at all these f-ing ugly normal people, look at them.”
“What the f**k? What if I am seen with these f-ing losers.”
They were upper-middle-class, and looked cool, hip, and fashionable.
They looked as though they were going to a rave later that night. Or a cool club.
Vin, and I looked at them, and back at the little man in the Desert Boots and shorts.
He looked like Fred Savage but he had a vicious mouth.
It wasn’t the Slip Inn, and this wasn’t a meet-cute.
Turning on a dime, his mood was domineering and tyrannical; everything beautiful had to be presented to the king on a platter, especially heads that had to be severed for him.
“I chose this place because it’s nice,” he said. “I thought you would like it.” He was in shock and fumbling. Later I saw him make the producer cry a few times. He didn’t stop until he made him cry. He got him under control. Because I didn’t like him, want him, and rejected him on repeat, sometimes just in front of the producer, other times in front of everyone his narcissism made it even more mortifying for him. Vin, God rest his soul, would rock back, and forth, back and forth. I wonder what killed him?
He was always the most vicious after suffering a narcissistic injury.
It’s a wonder psychologists don’t analyse the interviews he gives.
The tiny empty celebrity ego monster next to the big man. He had to kowtow, he could ruin careers, inure women, he could force people to do anything, and did. He owned a sex slave.
He could disappear people.
He owned other trafficked women.
How many other women are in those apartments?
I tried to warn her to run.
I wanted to walk up to her, and say.
With all of my feminism from Sydney University in the early 90’s, my literary degree in Australian, Russian, America, and English literature and poetry.
I wanted to say.
“I think that you are owned.”
The bar wasn’t elegant but it was slick and cool.
I had body dysmorphia and at just 57 kilos and at around his height of 5’7 I wasn’t at all fat, I had a low BMI.
“This is the lyricist; this is where the lyrics are coming from,” he said. “She’s got a degree in literature.”
“Look at all these ugly F-ing normal people in here,” he fumed. “What if I am seen with these ordinary f-ing people he said, what will people think of me, it looks bad and I don’t want these ugly people in my line of sight.” He got up and told people to the front and the right to “F**k off,” and then stormed out.
I was in shock and dissociating, as a survivor of a violent crime, I just wasn’t OK.
I learned later from someone who I know socially, a psychologist, that paedophiles dissociate little children.
He said that it was his little trick.
Later he said, shaming me over being able to dissociate me over a gang rape.
“You know what you are like. Because I can do that to you, I can make out that you just made all this up, and that you are crazy.”
Hey, wasn’t that such and such, that joke from the band, they said in shock.
Good riddance.
I’ll tell him to F off if I see him again they quip.
Before the fraud, and the solo act, paying the PR team with slavery and trafficking funds to “make believe about him,” and to “make people love him,” “find out what people like and help me to pretend to be all those things, and to think all these things.”
In Britain, almost every new celebrity narcissist dreams of getting their family members into or near the royal family.
People are lovers of self, lovers of their own reflection, and lovers of self-service.
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
There is no greater magnitude of fame than being a beloved public figure.
He had a sex slave hidden away in a flat who wasn’t for his “use” exclusively.
She would be told to sleep with people.
Blackmail. Extortion. Oops mate now you can’t go to the copscan you?
Do you like me now?
“Init she the best that you’ve ever had mate.”
“Of course, I had to give the brothel some money for her.”
The poor sex trafficking victim.
She was as we say in Australia “bunging it on”.
It was not a real cut glass accent.
Now, after Epstein, I don’t think that she was 16.
“The paedophile network are always good at helping to own people”
She looked 17 but he told everyone that she was 19.
If he had said 17, I would have quizzed him like a feminist.
I lectured him on consent.
Because you are famous, because you hold the power, they might think that they have to.
I was worried about the women after me, who he captured.
She clawed at me when I tried to save her.
She eviscerated me.
She is the pretty white skin, not allowed in the sun. Because Britain has a problem with too much sunshine.
I am the ugly dark skin, not 16, but 24 who grew up in Australia sunning myself at Bondi and Avoca Beach. We had the best place there.
Tom and Nicole lived in that street.
He said that it only mattered “what you said to important people, and how you treat important people or people who can tell someone”, or who can tell the media.
They are the only people that matter love.
A psychopath, with dark triad paedophilic personality traits, yes, they think that they can traffic.
She had been trained by a high-class brothel to appear to be upper-class.
I was told that she had been taught every trick in the book.
She was the best of the best, he said.
People congratulated him for her. Because she is the best.
Poor thing. She despised me but I did try to help her.
I made the money.
She made the men obedient.
I am so glad that I approached her. So glad.
I least I attempted to say the words.
“I think that you are owned.”
He told me that he had rescued her, but she was still inured and had to sleep with people so he could “have a favour done,” here and there.
The men she was sent to see probably didn’t realise that she was an inured sex slave, an indentured servant.
Beware of men bringing gifts; beware of men bringing you a sex slave.
She was more beautiful than any model, and could have almost been a supermodel.
He complained about supermodels. He said that ******had a mole on her chest.
“She didn’t bloody have the mole on her in the magazine.”
“It’s not in the Fing photo.”
“It were disgusting.”
“It ruined everything.”
“It were revolting.”
How dare she.
Dripping with jewels, she had pale milky skin; she wasn’t allowed to get the sun on her skin, so it stayed soft and pale.
She was forced to wear special perfumes, clothes, and lotions and got into trouble for not looking immaculate.
She could be called upon like a Sultan in days of old, beckoned to a man that the Sultan wished to impress or have something on, she could be called to sleep with anyone at any time.
I was Scheherazade.
Can I please go and sit with the soldier, and the alt band now please? Please?
Please don’t get me? Please? Please I begged. Please don’t do that to me so that I am too traumatized to speak before I leave the room. They dissociate on purpose and make me work dissociated.
I felt immensely sorry for her.
I wondered if she knew what was happening.
You can’t put a Jeanie back in a bottle.
She wasn’t privy to the conversations he had about “his whore” behind the “door that was slightly ajar.”
Because the “door was slightly ajar” I could technically walk out anytime that I wanted to.
But they would sit right up against me and threaten me. Dissociate me.
I walked up to her, young Sydney University feminist that I was to suggest she leave and just get a job as a shopgirl.
When I approached, she hissed at me.
She was decked out in runway clothes and Van Cleef and Arpels.
I had no makeup on, my hair hadn’t been blow dried, I was in a little skirt.
She slashed at me with her talons.
She was an inured woman, and the thing that irked me the most was that she wasn’t allowed to get the sun on her skin. In Britain. Because Britain is known for its sunshine.
It’s right under the hole in the ozone layer.
The Ekphrastic poetry tutorial I had in Don Anderson’s office in 1990 had taught to write about great works of art. The Birth of Venus, a 30,000-year-old painting on a rock wall, or the statue of David. In my mind, those statues come to life and live as immortals.
He said he had died his eyebrows, and hair to make himself appear to be less threatening to little girls.
The industry had so many overtones of pedophilia at the time, and because some got away with it, others just thought they were above the law too, as it appeared as though everyone was complicit in what was going on in plain sight.
He said to me, that the paedophiles didn’t want paedophilia to go out of fashion so they would disrupt the government to ensure that it was still unprosecutable.
He knows I don’t like him; he knows I like the others. They are clever, they don’t put women down, they are dignified, witty, classy. They don’t criticise the female body. They aren’t sexist. They don’t steal their work. At least they don’t then. They are at university.
The don’t call out “flaws” on supermodels and say “it just ruined everything.”
Does his label know the reason that he can’t produce the same success again is that he didn’t write his own lyrics.
The witty ones, the clever ones…there is a marked difference between his early lyrics and his later lyrics.
I am now DJ Anoushka but at the time, I wasn’t permitted to learn to DJ.
Because I was to be trafficked for work, and sadly, that human being that he purchased from a brothel, she saved me from being sex trafficked.
There were just too many scams going, too many threats of police, and royal intervention to save people.
He said that he needed to be seen with Princess Diana to ensure that he wasn’t charged with paedophilia. That he could exploit HRH to “wash his optics”, yes he would look clean then. It would be unbeknownst to her. She was a pawn who was being use.
She dropped his acquaintance at a friend’s house as soon as he was photographed going into a brothel.
Vin, who is now dead, says I’ve got the guitar solo.
The atmosphere in that room was sickening. I didn’t love either one, both were terrible men. Vini slept with trans people, men and had four girlfriends. I warned his real girlfriend. She wasn’t a trafficker. I said make a run for it so that you don’t contract HIV. She wanted me to get into the car with her. But we would have ended up back with Vin. He was quintessentially 90’s, he epitomised it.
They both admitted to paedophilia. She didn’t know that. It was paedophile confession time.
I forgave him for stealing from me and the price he paid a long time ago.
Vin slept with the trafficked woman.
I do wonder what I, and what the world will be told I think, want and feel now?
The story has been concocted for me.
I am like a little trained monkey.
Honey, but they have never met me.
It is very much the story that you would concoct if you stole lyrics and needed to hide that you stole them. How you would hide the trafficking of women. Sure, they traffic women they used to say in 2003.
It is based around torture and humiliation.
We are not human beings.
I just didn’t want to be with him.
I helped to create a false persona that my friends in Australia would like. Before I knew about the assaults, and before I was told that he was going to force the straight men in the alt band to sleep with him. Before it was trafficking. Before he bought the human being. He said that owning someone is what all his friends do and that it is the very height of opulence. Now he was one of them.
He wants a knighthood, he said in 95 that he wants their children to marry royalty.
I won’t be paid.
I won’t be freed.
I begged for an NDA but he spat at me.
“No then you can prove that you spent all this time with me, and that I stole from you.”
“You’ll be able to prove everything.” He hissed at me menacingly.
My family always say, if only you had never gone to England. This man has lied to my family, and has paid someone to say, that I took drugs in England…no I didn’t, that’s how he covers up the you need to die 15 times. He had left footed me with my family.
“I can’t have anyone important finding out, or anyone who knows important people.”
All the times I have been told to suicide is mistranslated to being on drugs in England. That’s the lie that they tell.
He just doesn’t want me to have the opportunity to tell anyone.
I suspect there are other women who shake and want to vomit when they hear his voice.
But you have to be voiceless.
They would be scared too.
They know how it feels.
He says that he has to send a bona fide dog molester to kill children so that their children are safe with their glamour, and their inheritance.
Someone tell the stars to stop having dogs raped for the comfort of their progeny because then they can’t say … gee look at her ugly dark, swarthy looks.