Glitterati, Literati, Illuminati

 

Some of the worst people I have ever met are celebrities.

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Starlight and stardust fell from heaven, illuminating him. It was one of those rare wide-open spaces in London, We were far from the wide lavender-colored Jacaranda-lined streets of Sydney. We were lost and trying to find a venue.  People were laughing and skylarking. Someone jumped on a fence; there was laughter. It was high summer, and our spirits were higher. The air embraced us with its warmth. Back then, we all seemed to get along.
Of the six or seven men there, he drew my attention. He was an alpha male drawing on palpable strength as he spoke his existence into being. As he spoke over his life, he spoke he dreams into being. I knew he would do amazing things. I knew, I just knew. I just knew. He was in danger though and he didn’t realise. I had to sabotage all attempts for help to save their shot at making it big.

They epitomized the elegance, beauty, and cool alternative vibe of the time. If I had a moment to take a snapshot, this would be it. I was walking forward laughing, enjoying myself, but I could sense someone behind me. As I turned around, I looked back instead of looking forward. He beckoned me over to him. He had a baseball cap on and was walking alone. To the outsider, he looked like an outsider, like a loner. I felt sorry for him. I walked back to him to see if he was OK.

I was wearing a tiny nineties hipster skirt that was so short that you could see it grazing my cheeks. I used to wear it at university with tights. I purchased it from an indie brand on the top level of the Strand Arcade. I bought everything from the shops on level 3. What I didn’t know was that you could glimpse my backside as I walked. Back then, women were forced to be waifs, heroine chic was in, we had to be rail thin for men to think we had attractive bodies, regardless of our ethnicity. Curvy wasn’t considered fashionable. I was a tiny 57 kilos, but I was told that I should be 43 kilos. What they sought and admired was an idealized Anglo-Saxon fair-skinned look with blue eyes and tiny features. No one liked exotic. It was as if men had universally decided that what Anglo-Saxon men saw as beautiful was the only body type and look that could considered to be desirable.

He was shuffling along 10 paces behind us head down, baseball cap on his head.

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Instead of approaching the man in the moonlight, I could sense someone behind me. I turned around. I did not know that he was famous at the time. He is not the one I thought of approaching first.

He looked to be so alone, and aloof, feeling sorry for him I turned and walked over to him.

When I asked why he was walking behind us, he replied,

“I am famous, love. There could be photographers taking pictures.” I turned my head left and right and said,

“ I can’t see any photographers? ”

I looked left and right, is he a crazy person? Why can’t I see them? Is he Ok?  Is he imagining things?

“They hide love in bushes and behind cars; you can’t see them.”

Ok, if you say so.

I remained unconvinced. There was something a little off about him.

He asked me back to his place to sleep with him. I thought about it for a moment and said,

“I want to see if I like you for you. Are there things at your place that show who you are and what you do?”

I didn’t sleep around, and being famous was not enough of a draw card for me. How good could his inner-city home be?

I turned the wrong way. The man with stardust in his hair reached out to save me; I was a cause, and he couldn’t stand injustice. This was the start of it all.
We can’t have her leave the same way she arrived, she knows too much now. Let us create some damage so she can’t speak about it, can’t tell people about it and so that she can’t write again.

I begged to be paid, to get off the floor I was sleeping on in the dangerous council estate, back to the shores of an elite building on Sydney Harbour for me. I begged to be allowed to work in the Australian industry, but he said, “No, then they will know love then I can’t pretend that lyrics are not mine”, “we can’t have anyone know for the rest of your life, tell anyone, and you won’t like the consequences.” Even though other people from the same programme at Sydney University write lyrics and went into the music industry, or were radio announcers on Triple J I was not allowed to be paid for my work because I was in a different country.

The woman I lived with and I called him the little boy from the band. “What is that boy thinking?” “That boy thinks he is a lot more famous than he is.” She was enamoured by the rappers, the DJ’s the producers. They were older, slicker, sexier. I was in mid-twenties, she was little bit older, there was no comparison between a boy, who was as demanding as a young celebrity who was a child star could be. “Wa, wa, wa, wa.” I’m the boss of everyone was what we ridiculed him with. “Wa, wa, wa,” I can have everything I want. “Wa, wa, wa.” I am the most important and the most creative. “Wa, wa, wa.” Everyone has to do what I say and do my bidding.

Everyone in the room seemed to be a little more talented than he was, he was just a little more famous. Everyone was fit, and he a little rounder, standing making demands and commanding everyone and criticizing every famous woman’s weight. He knew the weight of some of the most famous women in the world.

Everyone else, they were gritty, and talented, they didn’t need all the talk, all the forcing. They were the cool kids and he was like that kid who arrived late to the party and now had to be the centre of attention at any cost, any cost to anyone. At first, I was told to not tell my roommate that he was there, that was so it would be easier for him to steal. He was in the back room, and I was forced to walk in there as soon as I arrived. But I didn’t go there to see him. I was forced into the back room, forced to write for him, because he had been planning to leave his band for about 8 months now, and he needed lyrics and their plan together was to pretend that they wrote them.

When I pointed out that it would be fraudulent and the producer wanted to “card” me, the celebrity fumed and ranted angry that his “little secret” that he forcibly making someone work for him …was about to get out. Every time the producer asked to pay me, to card me, to put me under his label, the celebrity became “angry” with him, terse, I could see fear in his eyes. He made him cry, he couldn’t back his tears three of four times and just openly wept. He was supposed to be his alibi. He is dead now.

There has never been an honest review of his work. He says that he knows how to manipulate journalists.

I don’t believe in the Illuminati, but there is a group of people who are so powerful that they are above the law. They are the glitterati, unless four people of good character see them commit a crime no one ever comes forward as a witness. They are not politicians; politicians have to obey the law, be held apart, and set apart. Some people are selected to be worshipped and can break any law and harm anyone; they can make anything up, and those lies can be subtly forced upon people until it is accepted as truth. A lie said long enough, and with force, and disseminated eventually becomes accepted as truth. Even the classic Burson Mastellar case, spreading propaganda for a war, is not dissimilar to PR campaigns that try to get the P Diddys and Cosbys out of jail. It’s narcissistic abuse, but on a global scale, and narcissists are always unstoppable. You can never win against a narcissist. They just smear. These guys are just like politicians, but they have fans, politicians don’t, these fans will kill or stalk and worship something that isn’t even real. Fans ensure that they can reign in a totalitarian-like command center should they wish to. They bring a “halo effect” and are hired for “Referential Treatment”, they infer quality, value, and trust. They educate us on how we should feel about a product or an issue.

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So what should a scrappy young bruiser from the wrong side of the tracks do? He had no other choice but to be seen standing next to as many powerful people as he could. No one despises his success, but it must feel terrible to know that he is the only one who stole his way to get there. It must tear him up and make him feel like a fraud.

Apart from ripping off the taxpayer, in fact, not paying tax on the forcing or the “gifting” and ignoring labour laws to force someone to sleep on a floor. What could a scrappy young bruiser like that do? Never disrupt someone like that if they know someone famous.

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The music industry is the last place that you can be a paedophile and not be caught. I didn’t want them marked by knowing about paedophilia, stand-over tactics, threatening, extortion, rape, being held hostage, blackmail.

We all knew what was going on in that room, those of us who were in it. Men like that use trauma against a woman, they traumatise her, and retraumatise her to dissociate her, they traumatise her to keep her under control. Is that why they had to give pretence and make up a little charade that I didn’t know, that I didn’t ask to join a union, that I didn’t say that I was being asked to have sex.

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He told me that he thought that supermodels were ugly too, “They are not the supermodels that I want in this clip, I want to sleep with different models.” I think they said no. “They won’t let me change the models or have the models that I want.”

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They spent four years rewiring my neural networks to try to get me to commit suicide, I was living outside the city, I had an investment portfolio, I was living a house that I would eventually sell. This meant that I was disruptable, just on the verge, they said, of not being able to disrupt me. It wasn’t Birchgrove, it wasn’t Circular Quay, it wasn’t Cliff Avenue. It was the only that wasn’t blue chip real estate. It was large comfortable home with polished timber floors. We built a cul de sac and my family lived in the cul de sac. It was like a sophisticated version of neighbors with large new homes, stunning timber floors, and ceilings with bulkheads. We had an amazing home, life, lifestyle. I made regular trips to the city and bought a slew of Chanel bags, Prada, Fendi, LV and Gucci. We were regular visitors to Hayman Island. We just would just pop for three or fours day, we had a full time housekeeper and she would take care of our dogs. The house was immaculate, so was were our fig trees, our gardenias, or wisterias.

We had the Avoca two-story penthouse in the best street, Cliff Avenue. We had been spending most of the summer there. We built it with friends. It was in one of the best positions, in the best street. We had the Gold Coast Apartment on the Indy track right alongside Narrowneck. I regretted not buying the harbourfront home I looked at when I was just 20, it was direct waterfront at Birchgrove, that and the Neutral Bay Harbour mansion and the buildings at Balmoral and in Shelley Beach. I regretted it, but held money in my pocket, and in long term deposit. Those properties were “do not disrupt”.

I had a business that was making money. In those days I could walk into my home office and there would be a stack of faxes of $1000 orders from days spas. I also had an office facing the carpark of Hillsong world headquarters, I have never been in the Hillsong building, but it was just a short drive to the water, to the marina and I was making way to Arcadia to buy a property for horses. We met 10 Korean businessmen there, it was literally the toughest market to be accepted into in the world. I wanted to make my own money after not being paid for my lyrics. I had just cut my losses and moved on and worked hard and had recreated good fortune again.

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Never be in a room where people are discussing paedophilia. Always leave the room if a discussion like that begins. Never overhear or be present when powerful men discuss crimes.

Well, if you are prepared to steal lyrics, it’s no surprise that you are not a law-abiding citizen.

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They must have had no other options, nor did they want to be in politics or around people with unblemished reputations. So I hid in that room. I hid it. I hid that I was there, and I ensured that other men did not know about the discussions that took place in that room. So they were not implicated, so they weren’t marked by it. They had no knowledge of it. I compartmentalized. But that kept me in danger and them in the dark, and also perhaps, in danger.  I had to smile, just like a woman, and pretend that everything was ok.

I knew that I would be dead, one way or another if I had stayed. I couldn’t wait to escape back to the kindness and beauty and freedom of Australia.

I told him to never send anyone after me, that it won’t go well for me, I said that I wanted no contact, to send to no one to check on me. “If he is here, I won’t be here.” So this very man was the one who told me I had die.

I had been concerned and stricken thinking that if I get this man out of my life now that he had stolen my work, he would have me harassed to death. There is something odd about that man. It’s only OK to be odd if you are a celebrity. It was accept a life of control, that anyone could have had if you gave up control, if you conceded and said “I don’t care if you stole your work.” I just didn’t find him attractive enough due to what came out of his mouth. He’s too perfect for Australian women. I wasn’t prepared to walk around saying how attractive he is every day to just be safe from rejecting him.

I was going to the gym almost every day as they would not allow me to shower at the apartment but they said that I did not like working out. That it was anti-feminism.

He was so caught up in crime, with gangsters and with drug traffickers and prostitutes that I just could not think of stepping down from my charmed life, surrounded by the top one percent around the world into this shady world, where he would invariably be caught one day. Or so everyone thought. Unless he could run interference and triangulate for a very, very long time.

He told me that he would be done with me by 37 and looking for a young woman, probably not a good thing to admit. I caught him out in it. He chortled.

When they were travelling overseas together there were guns and gangsters, there were friends with rappers in the US, even they were shocked by weapons and violence.  It was a heartbeat away from that.

Some people are above the law, and when they have broken the law they seek out other people who are also above the law. People who other people are too scared to touch. They can’t be held accountable under any law.

Some of the famous had already succumbed to narcissism, rude to people, and were vile if they didn’t have every yes, every bump smoothed in the road; they expected the world to worship them and to bow before them. Getting famous too young can turn people without a healthy home life into narcissists.

I don’t know if fame had changed people, if they had been nice people at one point, perhaps they had or perhaps fame had knocked on their door just too young, resulting in narcissism, and that sense of self that caused some people to think that the world revolved around them. Unlike other child stars he just had never had a wake-up call, no one had ever dared say no, until I did. Perhaps they knew what the consequences were, that they would be attacked, humiliated, ridiculed.

People who are subjected to everything in the narc textbook from love-bombing, to devaluing, from smearing, to subjugating, from self-aggrandising, to the deceit of fraud and stealing. The narc cycle is love-bomb, devalue behind the scenes, drain and steal resources, it was to see everyone in their world, even family members as a reflection of them and not a reflection on them. Withholding payment is a narc thing.

Then, by the time the narc does his final discard, knowing that I was in danger, I ran and I escaped before it, but they followed me snapping at my heels. I didn’t want to be with anyone because I it felt like I would be complicit in my inurement. Even if they have been confronted there is a smear campaign that you can’t outrun because it started the day they met you.

The abuse that occurred behind the “legally open door” was frightening, the man, the producer who was larger than life even cried about his cruelty to me and his cruelty to him and the other men. I was worried about the futures of all the other men, the ones who were protecting me in the other room.

It was like that part in the movie, you know the part, the victim she knows she is a goner, she’s overheard too much, and there is no choice now other than for the bad guys to take her out. To a tee I was held under duress with threat of danger and public humiliation, when I called the police I was told to cut the line, to put the phone down while it was still ringing. If I didn’t sleep with him I wouldn’t make it out of there. My only other option was to walk down lonely series of alleyways in the dead of night in Brixton.

I called two men back home in Australia at university, one was in Singapore, and he told me to call the police. I had been asking for the address so I could call a cab but I was being held under duress. The next day I was still dissociated from the rape and the trauma and on the way to the airport in the van I started to ask to go to the police. Everyone ignored me. It was like those movies, you know the ones, your dead and no one can hear you trying to reach out, to tell them something.

Nowadays, so many women can see through the veil of a narcissist’s game; back then, well, back then, it was just “what some celebrities are like.” Some people say they like narcissists, that they make some of the best performers because they think more about adulation than entertaining, they think about themselves more than their audience.  By the time I returned home and went out one night with another A List celebrity in far north Queensland two weeks later, I had whispered conspiratorially to my sister, “I don’t like celebrities.” You talk to him, and you hang out with him. I hung back and just observed.

This one was normal, though, an alpha, in command. Avoiding most people but genuine to the stream of sycophants and narcissists who follow in stream after celebrities, hoping to hang their reputation and domination of others on an encounter.

When I told him he was ropable and tore strips off me. He was the only celebrity that I was permitted to be around. Why ? What was the drama? How could that be an issue? Similarly when I started dating someone who was just casually buying a boat, he went off the deep end. He was fuming saying “Even I, can’t afford to do that.”

Even a rag-tag narcissist can come in handy for another narcissist; even the lowliest narcissist can be handy to use for manipulation or to manipulate in a pinch. These people are master manipulators, knowing they can turn on a smouldering look or promise a gay male hooker a hint of sex or a hint of an encounter to tell his gay clients about. Not following the pecking order caused me to be attacked every time a good man reached out to stop the narcissist. They were symbols of success, symbols of sexiness, symbols of mattering. For a narcissist, or the soulless sociopaths they attracted, it was not them, but what they represented.

I was in servitude to the other men, the bad men. They will ruin it for him. They will ruin everything lovely about me to harm the good men. The men who are helping. They will ruin me for words, words that they say are theirs. The bad men, they hadn’t finished school; they weren’t readers of literature and poetry, the others were well able to write their own work.

They were like people who consumed junk food but wanted to be seen in a Michelin-star restaurant, dining out and glamorous, being applauded for creativity that is not theirs. Selling it for hard currency. Selling it for the appearance of power.

I started to not like them too. I just couldn’t respect people who knowingly bent an ear to racism, the producer spoke saying that told him “what Australia is like,” and why I was “beneath them”.  He said he was told that they “would have done it to him in Australia too”. But no one had done anything in Australia, they racially harassed me, they stalked me, they had a grudge. They were sitting with my high school stalkers. Nowadays they would have been charged for stalking, defamation, and hate speech. You just can’t say those things to people, and now with social media, there are so many witnesses.

They had rosy cheeks, and beautiful blue eyes. They didn’t believe in women having to finish high school, speaking other languages, reading books, studying, they were pilled at school. Perhaps we had uncommonly beautiful women at school. He said as a celebrity, celebrities could only be with the most popular girls from school, in case anyone found out. They needed it for their image. Well, they were the dunces, the dumbest, the vile, and they were despised, what kind of people would they have been to not disparage hate speech? No, that only worked with the white men, in music industry didn’t it? Hate speech makes women inured and vulnerable. Their loss. They all get the warm feeling of knowing what it is like to destroy someone to take the opportunity for children from them. So convincing is Anglo-Saxon over ethnic that they didn’t trouble themselves to ever question their word, even the desperate, they needed those men, I just scoffed and walked off. They were replaced within a week and forgotten.

Any racist who hasn’t finished school will do. What a big lesson about people who wanted to be famous. I couldn’t wait to get back home to just plain well-meaning people who were already there.

You know that part in the movie, the heroine is injured, she’s being attacked. She knows where the bodies are buried. They say things right in front of you. You know right there you are a goner. You know there is a kill shot coming next. Or a long slow torture. Perhaps they take you into the other room and ruin you in front of them. Perhaps that. A desexing of the woman who they once wanted in front of them. Because she says no and she won’t change her mind. Eviscerated. And just like that, she is gone and onto Mr Big. You try to warn the other men not to help you, or they will be goners, too. But he won’t allow me to be with Mr Big, “it just won’t work for me” he said.

“Now I have told everyone they are my words,” he said.

“I can’t allow anyone to know that I lied; everyone thinks they are mine. They like them. They really, really like them.”

“I can’t tell people now, it will ruin me.”

He took credit for the hit factory.

It was difficult not to fall for them. For who they were and not who people consider them to be. Most of us were in love with one or more people during that long, languid summer. We were in love with all the wrong people. I realise now it wasn’t love, they just enamour people.
Foreboding. Leave for your own safety; don’t be tempted to stay. Not even to be in their orbit. Soon they won’t care and they won’t remember you.

Undiscovered with all the cool chat of young university students. I endured abuse to be able to sit next to them. First, I endured the abuse behind the slightly open door, then the safety moment, I paid with human rights abuses. What a stupid thing to do, to pay with your life. To pay with a lifetime.

It wouldn’t be long before those without world-class gifts or creativity tore the romantic and artistic from the room.

I noticed some of the men were interested in their art, in being authentic, in their music, in their words, in an authentic contribution to the industry. Trading that off with fame, the ones who only desired fame became more famous, the fake, the phoney, the ones who wanted the vestiges of their success when it isn’t actually their success. They knew that fame and not art gave you power; it gave them the power to create a fiefdom to stop anyone forcing them to obey the same laws and human right laws that every other man on earth is subjected to and forced to heed.
I forgot about that summer. I buried it in my mind. I changed but I immediately bounced back when out of danger and away from the abuse.

It is a chapter that won’t define me, but it was the chapter that changed my life. Let him be; don’t allow them to fight for you. They will date goddesses. I could see them just on the horizon. Every time they stood up for me, they attacked me and forced me to do things that I didn’t want to do.

If it’s not on the internet it didn’t happen. No language or music skills, no degrees, no drama or writing skills, few skills at all, I don’t think I had ever become acquainted with a group like this. They were hilarious to listen to for Europeans, and for those with European heritage, Australia laughed at people like this, before they grew their Mosman dreadlocks of blonde hair and moved to Byron Bay to hide the modicum of privilege that so embarrassed them. Little stood out about them, but they hung their value on a suburb and not what they were or what they could do. Some of the others were from backgrounds that are the epitome of pedestrian, but they invented suburbs that they were from, backgrounds, they fabricated connections and they kowtowed. I hid my purse, my value and my background. I didn’t want them using me and used subterfuge to stay safe in a foreign country.

Reaching out the good man tries to save me but I am caught by the centrifugal force of abuse. In a cycle of abuse, even good men can’t save you. To be ok, I needed to live somewhere else, not in 24-hour abuse. I need a quiet place, a hotel perhaps for a few days. I try to do it a few times but I am stopped. They read my mind and berate me when I think of escape or of telling someone. I think about escaping while they are all away at a festival, at a show together, seeing a big band. All backstage. I refuse to go away with them.  I stay behind to make plans to escape abuse. I sit there and make up my mind to escape by going home. Within a day or so of going home, I am strengthened and not having panic attacks due to being forced. When I am not being abused I am fine. Two days later I am on a family yacht, the day before that out with brother of a media doyenne. Should I say anything about the famous men? Terror strikes me, “what if they make me see him again.”

This is an unregulated industry.

Not pretty enough to model so that translated in their minds to having no value. I am told to have surgery so that I look like a model. To drop from 57 kilos to 43 kilos, like the other famous women. Fame didn’t tantalise me, I just simply didn’t understand the attraction to it, Why? Apart from “not being able to disrupt the famous” apart from power, what is the point to fame?

They claimed that I didn’t like makeup. I like makeup, and I was raised by a grandmother who had exquisite taste in clothes. As a teenager I sketched drawings and had items made for me. She was a dress cutter, a seamstress, she made ball gowns and wedding gowns. It is in my blood. But they shamed me for being that way, for having luxury make-up, fashionable clothes, and an apartment on the harbor. That is the very reason that I am targeted. I am not around the well-heeled but the lowly who wish to bring me low. I am under a bevel. You can never be held as better than a narcissistic woman. Especially a beautiful one, especially a blonde Anglo-Saxon one, some of them don’t want to lose that ground. They brought me down to their level and lower, I am now lower than the lowest. That are satisfied with that.

“You can’t be better than we are. We can’t allow them you to see you in that dress. They won’t believe anything we are saying.”

The messenger arrives with a list of all the things they don’t like. One said this, one said that. Well, we have to imbue her with all those things. One had poor table manners. So, right in front of me, they fabricate a routine. Another doesn’t like breasts like “such”, so they become my breasts, so to speak. Another doesn’t like this or that in bed, so that is what we are to say about how she is. The list of dislikes, they say in front of me, that you are all these things. “Don’t you dare wear that dress anywhere near them.” So I wear it to Harvey Nichols. They won’t let the warden in there because she looks like the very scum that she is. She is the anti-madam.

At the apartment, I am not allowed to shower there or wash my hair. Not allowed to wear my makeup. I have to wear the same outfit every day. Not my stylish 90’s slip dresses. Not my fashionable shoes. I put my black slip dress on, and my warden says, “I won’t be able to keep them away from you in that.” I then try on my sexy black dress, “Give me that she yells at me; take it off. My job is to keep them away from you.” She steals my dress to “earn some money.”

Don’t interfere with what God made perfect. It leads to goddesses and being a light; they entertain the broken on earth every night and reassure them. Whatever their woes are, their difficulties, they lift them into heavenly rapture for a night. The frequency in his voice lifts the soul. He makes light dance. If I hear his voice I remember we are wired for love and positivity. Yet I was orbiting inurement, abuse, violence, berating, forcing, coercion, I was in their orbit and they are in another galaxy. I could never afford to be at one of their concerts.
He was the first one to say it was wrong that as the only female lyricist in our group, to not be paid or recognized. I wasn’t permitted to work for other people or to meet them. For me, there were to be no royalties, wages, human rights, animal rights or duty of care. There were only plausible deniability, threats, putdowns, and harm—threats that “no one will believe you; that’s why I have set it up that way.” “No you can’t have a membership to The Sanctuary, there will be a paper trail and you will be able to prove it.”
He was the first to recognize me, not with payment, but by validating me. One day he showed me a poem, a song. I think he was saying, “I see you, I validate you.” His poem was better than the Poets of 68 I studied at Sydney University. I never tell anyone anything. I don’t say a word about those conversations outside the harassment room, the back room. I don’t ever discuss the conversations had by the three men. Everything is their story and not mine. These are not things I say to entertain people. I never have and never will. It feels like trust broken, it feels like breaking a sacred law or a secret commandment. I just don’t want to share it or rub the magic off by talking it about. It’s their story and not mine. I would not do that to my friends, or even my enemies, I don’t need people to know.

They were taking shape but that is their story and won’t be written about here. There are crimes and there are “tells” but in a strange mix of being a party to crimes, the celebrities who commit crimes try to ensure that everyone around them is complicit, they say reporting a crime is a “tell” and not a crime. That’s how paedophilia has been rife for so long, to report a crime is a “tell” and a “sell.”

I hear their voice, and I know that things will be okay. That’s the point. That’s how people are meant to feel when they hear their music. That is what God on high created them to do. It is for other people, and not actually for them. Healthy people don’t want to be worshipped. Some of us care if they are famous or not famous, wealthy or not wealthy, powerful or not powerful.

No one in my circle wanted to be famous; the wealthy and their friends just don’t seek it. How many times did I need to explain that not everyone wants to be famous?

No one here really knows. Those without balance start to think that they must be fascinating and regale you with stories about themselves. Navel gazing and self-aggrandizing, they can’t detect love-bombing, because they are worshipped in the flesh every single second of their lives.

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On the way to Glastonbury, I had to start a fight on the bus.

They were coming for them, they were going to destroy them too if they helped me or were seen with me. I wasn’t permitted to bring skirt or my good clothes. I had to buy things to take to the festival because I was travelling and I had limited clothes with me. They covered up the effects of abuse by saying that I could be autistic. Trama can look like abuse to the untrained eye.

The other Antipodeans, the New Zealanders called me “Princess” and Miss Moneybags. In fact everyone lied, because they were committing crimes to make money I became the target. To give the impression of little money or fashion sense they used Coercive Control techniques. I was forced to wear the same outfit everyday, I wasn’t allowed to shower at the apartment, to do my hair and to do my makeup. I snuck out daily to work out and use the facilities at the gym, as they couldn’t afford the gym I was safe there. I dressed differently when I wasn’t forced to go and see the men. I dressed in the ever present 90’s slip dresses that I still adore. They skimmed across my body, hiding a tiny waist and the exaggerated waist-to-hip ratio that I was so self-conscious about. I thought my little hipster skirt hid the dramatic sweep from my tiny waist down my body.

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, I had nowhere else to live and nowhere else to go so I slept on a yoga matt on the floor. I had a year-long relationship and I had been pressured to break up with another man the week before I met them. Maybe he could have been a mainsail. I don’t want to marry now, not after 13 years of not being believed.

With a man I was safe, without a man I was in the hands of criminals. They were breaking British laws; they flouted them.

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. The more they tried to help the more I was attacked. I was in danger because they were trying to help me. I wasn’t living in a real apartment, I was just sleeping on a floor without a kitchen. 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 it.

The celebrity found out about the gang rape and told everyone that I was bad in bed. He was glib about crimes and gang rapes. It means you are bad in bed when you refuse to participate.

Much like a group sexual assault those who didn’t deserve to be there wanted everyone to pile on. 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. They had more value than a now-inured Eastern European girl who was a long way from home. Everyone told me that my ethnicity and olive skin was ugly. But not in England, a little like Megan Gale, my looks were not considered to be too dark there; it was multicultural in England.

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 makeup. 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 top one percent family. It is easy to inure women who appear to be Eastern European and they capitalised on Australian racism. They were known for holding bizarre grudges and making up defamation about my family. 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.

Narcissists have no issue with other narcissists or sociopaths; in fact, their lack of conscience and desire to be the center of attention and to gain supply attracts like-to-like. Together, narcissists are a match made in heaven. They love to form a group to make each other look good. There are few greater shows than a celebrity couple who are both narcissists.

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. It doesn’t matter where a narcissist’s work comes from. It just matters how much attention they can gain for it, how much money, even when they are fake, they are satisfied. 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.

To get away with fraud and stealing, he needed every enemy, every racist, every sociopath, everyone who had exhibited stalking behaviour. He needed every psychopath.

The first day that I met him I was told to dress well but I forgot. I arrived wearing my little skirt and a swimsuit. I had dresses but that mistake was a big, big mistake, from point onwards I was stuck like that. 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.

The first thing he said to me was, “She’s f-ing ugly. Why did you bring me this f-ing ugly chick. On and on with the vitriol, spouting self-involved poison. 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.” “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. The producer and I looked at them, and back at the little man in the Desert Boots and shorts. What was he seeing that we weren’t?

It wasn’t the Slip In and this wasn’t a meet cute, this was a hellish day that makes me want to vomit. 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 its 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 mortifying for him. He was always the most vicious after suffering a narcissistic injury. It’s a wonder psychologists don’t analyse the interviews he gives.

Many other times he had tears in his eyes. He berated him. 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 took a breath and then started again. 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. “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.

In Britain, almost every 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. There is no greater magnitude of fame than being a beloved public figure.

Spectacular public falls from grace are not what the public enjoy reading about, the public love to worship their public figures, it’s a little bit like a Santa Klaus myth, it makes us feel all warm and fuzzy inside, we revel in the symbolism, the act, the masquerade. Those of us who are lucky enough to experience Christmas with children see it through child-like eyes, with innocence and child-like naivete. When we see Santa, we believe for just a minute that the world is really a good place and that we have a little slice of heaven on earth. We enjoy publicized acts of selflessness and advocacy. Our famous Santa-like figures are above advocacy, above the law, even when they have torn families apart and stolen, begged, borrowed and threatened, harassed, defamed, ripped off, stood over people, threatened to tear bands, families, and friends apart to ensconce their families in privilege. They work hard to stand next to people who will make them “untouchable” and “indisrupt-able.” Women who don’t want to be with him, well, watch out, he can’t be universally rejected, not publicly, he must for his image, due to his narcissism he will always be portrayed as the rejectee and he will have stack of revolting comments to make about any woman who dares turn down an untouchable man who is above the law.

No humility for a man like that, only an ego injury. They can draw a target on a woman and have her raped, and then say they don’t like rape victims. They can have her harmed, pilloried, harassed, victimised all for their satisfaction that she really wasn’t that F able now was she? From rating vaginas, to toilet humour to rating every woman against the professional prostitutes he invited to parties every woman had to be prepared to drop her skirt at the mere hint of a command. His contribution to lyrics is puerile, early work and older work do not match at all. He made as much fun of me as he could due to that gang rape. You have to move a muscle during a gang rape so the guys who are stealing your lyrics have nothing to tease you about. Every bit of sexuality and sexiness was stripped away. He will use what the gang rapists said and the gang rape tape against me until the day I die. He’s told everyone that gang rapists said that I was bad in bed. He brandished. He would say it in front of people. He would tell all the men. That’s gang rape chick. Gang rape chicks are bad in bed. All the men said it in the end. All the men hung out with paedophiles.

He had a sex slave hidden away in a flat who wasn’t for his “use” exclusively. The poor sex slave. She was as we say in Australia “bunging it on”. She had been trained by a high-class brothel to appear to be upper class. She had been taught every trick in the book to satisfy foreign princes and the Middle East. 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.” The men she was sent to see probably didn’t realise that she was an inured sex slave, and 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. 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 felt immensely sorry for her. I don’t think she understood what was happening. 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. So could she. 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.

I had tried as many classes as I could at Sydney, From politics 101, to Women’s Studies, to Psychology. This woman was a sex slave. 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.

Even flirting with other men in the presence of a big narcissist causes them a narc injury, knocking back comments that were not even meant for the narc, were taken as being for him. Most women find this type disgusting if they don’t take their fame into account.

There will always be a million women who still want them because they still believe in Santa. We have to see footage of abuse before we stop victim blaming.

Some men break their toys, and the women who refuse to love them.

Narcissists think that women should be ashamed or shamed for being bullied, that is why they do it. Narcissists never have any signs of regret, they don’t have a conscience, they are for the most part numb so there will be no regret, they know how to escape being held accountable how to sabre rattle and to flex by standing next to important people. Around the powerful these are the very people who traffic and inure people, who demand unreasonable things from employees, who exploit, cheat and harm people to achieve their goal of adulation.

What steal lyrics from a feminist? It was a doddle for him. He said to me when I booked my ticket home what would happen if I told anyone.

Well a lot of people don’t write their own lyrics, even Sinatra. But trying to be a Bon Vivant, the Renaissance Man that he dreamt of being had made him create the illusion of being a Renaissance Man without actually having written any of the poetry. You don’t have to have a degree in poetry.  But then no one else was stealing, they were just writing rap and rap is gritty anyway.

The Ekphrastic poetry tutorial I had in Dan Anderson’s office in 1990 had taught to write about great works of art. The Birth of Venus, a 100,000 year old painting on a rock wall, or a the statue of David. In my mind those statues come to life, and live as immortals.

He desperately wanted to be upper class like the other young men in the room. he yearned to be accepted like them. “It’s not fair, they get to go to all the part-es, and no one makes fun of them he said. They put me in handcuffs, they won’t accept me, they way they do the others.”

He had died his eyebrows and hair to make himself appear to be less threatening to little girls. His label wanted him to appeal to teenagers and the very, very young. 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.

“Honey I am not rank and file, I can slip right back into Australian society.” In fact, I don’t want someone like you.”  He turned to me and threatened me seething, later saying. “We tell journalists what we want to them to think, they can never know the “real” person.” “They have to say what we tell them, or we shut them down.” Back then, that was true, but I had an inkling that we were on the cusp of the democratization of the media and of information. This all happened before, right before the internet. Nowadays, even ancient history didn’t really happen if it isn’t on the internet. Well, things changed, he taunted me saying how will you ever look me up, I just grinned, knowing about the internet, I had been given my first email address, I had enrolled for a double master’s degree to become a journalist and to earn and MBA. No one like me wants to be with a paedophile even if he is famous and offers them the world on a string.

So, I just quipped, “Honey, aren’t you in the White Pages.” Even I was not in the white pages, nobody with money was, because people could just look up a number and there you were, a long-lost friend from school.

One day after a gorgeous four-hour walk, I strolled in block heels and my little 90’s hipster skirt, he growled at my shoe choice, they were a little bit cushioned on the heal so that I could walk comfortably for hours. I would never have occurred to me to wear trainers or flat shoes. That mistake happens quite a bit, because to the untrained and unschooled trauma can appear to be autism, only psychologists who have trauma knowledge and the patient’s trauma history can tell the difference. Causing a suicide can seem like something else too, to the untrained eye, something egregious. They all paid for brain damage. Then they berated me for not working. They all paid for medication, anti-depressants and then said why is she fat? They all paid for poor for a while and then said, why isn’t she wearing high fashion? Then they said, why isn’t her company successful right after they taken away a business from two MBA’s.

For a while everything seemed to be ok. But they came to destroy me twice. Tried for suicide twice. The second time it was 4 years of harassment from 1999 to 2003. I almost met up with him before he died but bagmen, the man from the cage in London with the dog bowl, and the yellow shag carpet in the stark and creepy brightly lit room, well why was he here against my will? I had no doorman to call so I threatened a restraining order. Why was he here. He was

He looked me up and down taking in my appearance, and said, “I don’t like your shoes.”

He stood there looking like a little kid in shorts of all things dessert boots. Desert Boots were for the bogans, the Westies. So I returned the quip somewhat coolly saying, “Well I don’t like your shoes.”

I had travelled through Paris a couple of years before with a friend from Australia who is mixed race. She was admired in Australia, but as a gamine and darker-skinned woman Parisian men went crazy for her. For me it was Italy, Greece, and the Middle East. Paris too, even though I wasn’t rail thin. Parisians were used to seeing other women who looked like me, and I was mistaken for them. Highly educated women from Eastern European countries flocked to Paris, newly free after the recent fall of the Berlin wall. They wore glasses, and dressed in sophisticated muted colours, they rented tiny studio apartments while studying at university. They weren’t overdone. Now my race is equated with sexiness, back then it wasn’t.

I fell into a sophisticated crowd there, with some Australian’s who I had met at the Embassy. I wish I had stayed in Paris. I should never have returned to London after Venezuela. There was a man there, two men, who wantonly destroyed my life so they could get away with stealing my work. To them I was just a random Australian. Like a backpacker who goes missing when a sociopath murders them. One of the ostensibly rank-and-file women who is attacked abroad. I was held hostage one night. It was easy to inure a woman who was travelling and far from home. I didn’t have family there and had no one to check up on me, I didn’t have anyone to enforce the law on my behalf or to ensure that I had basic standard human rights. The one who made all the money from the music and forced labour he attempts to spread the blame now. Of course, he does, stealing pays well, and stealing makes people rich. He pretends he told everyone. Everyone in music knows that a line comes from here or there sometimes, or a song name, but not entire songs, entire verses, not hundreds of them and they don’t prevent people from being protected under labour laws, in our country you can’t prevent people from joining a union. You can in England.

I wasn’t the only woman he inured. Even though it was just him and he is the sole beneficiary now. He made millions from forcing me to work against my will. I did the work, had a degree in literature and poetry, I finished school, I read growing up, I worked while at university and I am the one to pay my university loans. The man who agreed to lie for him, is dead now. It became more dangerous for me once the man who agreed to lie for him died. His alibi agreed to lie for him. His alibi and the man he was going to blame it on, he’s dead. He is now caught, and he can’t scapegoat the person with less power anymore.

The men would not allow the woman of colour who I was in Paris with come to England to the music industry. They only wanted white women and trashy white women from poor backgrounds at that. They once asked a woman from Toorak if she would do the orgies with them. She was tapped on the shoulder as if it were something she should be proud of. She was very attractive and well spoken, but dressed in funky 90’s fashion. She tittered and covered her hand with her mouth, politely declining the offer. The trash would do their orgies for them, and because they did, they got the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them to happen over and over again, to go backstage at gigs and do whatever the men wanted. They knew what it took to get backstage. One asked me to do the orgies, the other said I was too special. I was revolted and couldn’t wait to escape the slime. It felt like there was slime on me when I left. They discussed me as if I was not even present, when they wanted a private conversation they tried to abuse and traumatise me first so that I dissociated; it was dissociation for control. Abusive people, people who demand a certain, they are known for dissociating women who are traumatised. Its been 30 years now they will never pay and they evade being charged with bribery, extortion and fraud, and paying the requisite taxes in Australia. This has come at the cost of the Australian taxpayer.

The funniest thing about this is everyone knows he can’t write his own lyrics, every time he does the critics pan them. The hilarity begins with looking at his early work and how pathetic it is when compared to work he wrote all by himself. All on his lonesome. It isn’t easy to have hits across multiple artists, and songs. He hasn’t but he is the one who lied and took the money from all them while holding under duress.

In Australia, only Anglo-Saxon people become internationally famous. It is all they look for, this was before movies, television, and music started to reflect the many colours and cultures of society. It is fairly well known that Australia’s lower-class Australians harass foreigners, being so far away from the rest of the world, it is just not considered to be normal for them to be acquainted with foreign culture. Some, and those poor women, were certainly of that ilk, just didn’t understand it. They liked women who didn’t understand things.

As for me, it was lovely to be away without someone enquiring every day or two, “Where are you from?” Australians even tease our top sports stars if they don’t fall into line, they can be racially harassed and abused and given outsider status. Race can always be used against someone in Australia. Anglo-Saxon is “right” and “better.” Even if someone is wealthier, from an Asian dynasty, European aristocracy, or Middle Eastern royalty if they are not understood, they are not recognised. People here used to feel compelled to “teach” other cultures to be like them. To be like a superior culture.

I wasn’t bullied at school at all, it was fairly common to have other ethnicities around at Dural. These were gentry, the horsey polo-playing people or racehorse breeding families. Double-barrelled, or highly connected in Sydney, top professionals, top two hundred, top one percent. There was nothing showy about Dural. I dressed in jodhpurs and riding boots on the weekend, before donning Sunday best for church.

There were very few racists at our school because the area was well-heeled and the others were Christian and didn’t believe in racial harassment.  A few outliers were racists, but they were generally the people, who hadn’t travelled outside Australia. I was an accepted member of the student body. I had never had any trouble at school until one of those girls, she wasn’t from Dural, she was a non-descript suburb. She was jealous that a daughter of a old money Russian refugee had the gall to have Arabian horses.

Her dad is an ideas man she said. On her first day she asked for me for a large of money. She was universally disliked, disparaged, teased daily, called a nerd, trash, and an outsider, but as she regarded herself to be a “true Australian” and that others weren’t, the little outsider started harassing people from other countries.

As the wealthiest girl at school, she decided that I needed to hear that Australia should bring back its White Australia Policy, which was abolished in 1972. I was born here but was told to go back to Ukraine. She hailed from a poorer area, a nondescript suburb on a train line. She wasn’t happy that someone like me lived in one of the best streets, with most powerful people in all of Sydney.

The people in our area were educated, well-traveled, world citizens. She was the very worst of what Australia had to offer. People from Dural more or less understood, they knew about the revolution. They knew my great-grandfather had been put up against a wall and shot.

I had language lessons just down the road at a Ukrainian woman’s house, her daughter had now left home but her horses were still there. When I was very young my pony had escaped when we were in Europe and my grandmother found him at a Ukranian’s house, in the next street. Her property had been owned by a famous botanist. There were beautiful gardens.

She told me daily to “give Australia its money back, refugees shouldn’t have money, you have taken Australian money,” and that now her father had to work harder because “you foreigners work harder and now we have to work hard like the rest of the world.” It was the 80’s, the dollar was being floated, she added that Keating was “ruining the country making Australia like the rest of the world” instead of “easy for some” and “difficult for the foreigners.” “We don’t like that it is changing, now its equal and we have to work hard, and you foreigners work too hard for our liking.”

She boasted in the hallway between ethnic slurs, the N word, aboriginal slurs and every vile word that a racist could say back then, that “Dad has said to not say anything racist outside the home anymore because there were so many talented “black” people in the music industry now.” I didn’t think I looked a bit like a woman of colour but I was asked if I am quite a bit. I like anything that gives me context and a time and place and I was taught to respect the culture so I thought it was kind of cool. My grandmother had a term, it was “original inhabitants”, she saw Australia as being a little like South Africa, she couldn’t understand why The Stolen Generation happened, saying what if the government came in and said that they knew how to raise her daughter better than she did. As a refugee, she said things like this, “a child should always be with their mother.” She later expressed her devotion and thanked Prime Minister Bob Hawke personally. I have a photo of her standing next to him drinking tea from a teacup. “You don’t what a country like this means to someone like me.” “Thank you.”

She kept begging my family for money, as my father was supplying money and invested in the fledgling movie industry at the time. Her father was in TV,  and “had some ideas” they weren’t accepted in our circles and they didn’t like that. Their racism alone would have precluded them from being accepted, as you have to do something very well to get into those circles. I wondered if they would make a racist show with the money so said no and refused to make any introductions. They were making racist comments about the kids show that they were making at the time. You don’t give money to people who are harassing you.

I am ethnic and had an exotic look when I was young; it wasn’t the typical look; it was just me, and it wasn’t the in thing. They kept othering me due to my ethnicity and my look. I had fooled myself into thinking that wearing skirts low slung on my hips would hide the dramatic difference between a tiny waist and the butt that women now work hard to achieve. I wondered why I seemed to be getting so much attention. I didn’t realize that when behind me, everyone could see the bottom of my butt peaking out from under my skirt. It seemed strange to me, that the men of colour in that group kept asking if I am a woman of colour.

This is the largest incidence of plagiarism in modern history.

Every day is terrifying for a woman in my position. No one has ever thought of it from my perspective.

When someone asks him to own up to stealing all the funds of the words sold to other artists. He finds a standover man to help him or sabre rattle. He pays someone to make up a good story that is planted about him. He has had the same old game for decades.

He finds a bagman.

He finds a rapist.

He finds a stalker.

He finds a grudge holder.

He finds a curmudgeon.

The poor men who have talked about being forced.

The accuser is always uglier.

He is pretty, they are ugly.

He uses an Inoculator. There is no anti-venom for his powerful level of venom.

He finds someone who will send in the attack dogs media or otherwise.

There are no watchdogs.

It is an unregulated industry. “We want it this way.” “No love I don’t want your naturopath to come over and sort it out, I want it like this. Your words are mine.”

They blame it on the dead man now.

The dead man isn’t contactable.

That is something else to hold over someone.

He loved that the gang rape made it easy to traumatise.

That’s how he stole the lyrics. It was like a button he could push.

When I arrived home he said, “Why are ok?” “Why are you ok every day now?” “We can’t have that love.” “People will know that I stole.”

I replied, “I don’t have people raping or abusing, harassing, belittling and denigrating me here.”

“We intended to crush you love.”

“I love it here.” I was going to have cocktails at the casino with my MBA group that night, at around 10pm. I live on a canal, life is wonderful. I had found my rightful place.”

“I’ve had to pretend that you were in love with me,” he said.

“No one is in love with you,” I said.

“I can’t stand you, I don’t want to be near you, please stop calling me. Don’t send anyone to get in contact with me or check into what I am doing, where I am going or who I am seeing”

“No contact, please.”

So, they had to make it go back to the way it was in London.

The bagman said, “Ooh it’s taking such a long time, why.?”

“You can’t be like this now,” he said. “You are all fine.” Why aren’t you acting “all traumatised” all the time.

“What am I going to do now. I’ve already told everyone they are mine.”

No one of good standing wanted him when they found out.

Hollywood women aren’t allowed to say if he is rude, or if they know about the stealing.

“Remember if you dare tell anyone,” he hissed at me, “You won’t like what happens.”

“There are people here who are more important than you are.” “Everyone has more money than you do and they know more important people.”

“You can’t be with anyone powerful love. I’ve told everyone that you don’t have any friends in high places.”

“I am in a house surrounded by law students. What if I just walk downstairs to tell them.”

“They are all here, they are all downstairs.”

I told him that I was anti-drugs when in England and I wouldn’t be anywhere near drugs, nor the orgies. I didn’t want to be one of their party girls.

So he always finds someone who is jealous of wealthy people. Just like he was of the upper classes.

I told him that my family would try to exclude me from having money if he made up that lie. So he made it up.

So that’s what he set out to do. He made up the lie of lies. That I wasn’t a rape survivor, held under duress, a hostage, a woman who was being coercively controlled. That I wasn’t being abused every day. He told people falsely that I must have taken drugs there. I think he has been a false witness.

The bagmen knew that it was an issue for me.

He likes optics. He likes to make it “plain for people”. He likes the old traditional way of media when no one could take him down on X. We only need one “Truth.” We can have what happened or how ugly she is on the internet. “The truth can’t set you free.” The truth won’t be changed to make him innocent.

It must have come from the girls who did the orgies. They told everyone at school, falsely, along with defamation that has cost me millions, along with other egregious claims that “She took drugs in England.”

Someone called me a year or two ago from school. She laughed saying, “Aw you took drugs in England.” How egregious. I have now pointed out I sue people who say that now, but not that person. If that claim or others have cost me money, it’s got to come from somewhere.

It’s grand larcenous behaviour.

The Mosman, Toorak, Dural women, no. Nor did they want any women from Bowral, Neutral Bay, Paddington, or anyone whose father was a politician, who was a part of the A List international celebrity world. No one with a law-making background, no police. I could rattle off the big Hollywood names and the wealthy and the powerful. He just shut it down when I did. He told the A List friend of the Naturopath egregious lies about me. Then he told the A Lister not to be friends with and not to trust her. The girl from Abbotsleigh who brought the relative of an Oscar winner over to our Cliff Avenue Apartment. The Naturopath, who was prescribing natural treatments for people, there was a hall of fame on her wall. The family I knew well, who used to take me to Bondi, in their van who owned that recording studio. They helped me choose my first electric guitar. An Ibanez, dark polished wood. It was almost too heavy for a girl. I still have it. I was better at piano, I had good hands, and played arias. Every week was guitar, piano, tennis. Private art lessons, riding lessons and swimming lesson at home on our estate. Then there was dancing 3 times per week, tap dancing, private drama and improv lessons, a little bit of tutoring, Sunday School, Fellowship, GFS, and choir. The girls who had father’s who were in parliament. No, thanks love, they won’t help, they won’t do the orgies.

He said to me, “Who was in your street growing up.”

I said, “Who was in your street growing up?”

He asked again so I said. “Why do you want to know buddy?”

“Do you always ask the women you are around who lived in the street they grew up in?”

He said, “Who was in your street growing up, love.”

My naturopath had taught me to say when I didn’t want to answer a question.

“Say: Why do you want to know?” “You don’t have to answer every question you are asked.”

He pressured me and I eventually told him. Then he said, “My information is to the contrary. I am going to ignore it.”

Then it was declared Open Season. Another women she told me, because we harassed you out of business and sabotaged your previous brand, make the logo of this one crosshairs and a target. She met with me at New Farm.

My father invested in movies when I was at high school, he wanted to move across into the business of managing bands, and entertainment, he was a patron of the arts and sent someone on scholarship to the London School of Music. I told him that. He said he would be taking everything, and wouldn’t let me work in the Australian industry “or everyone would know”, I couldn’t write lyrics anywhere for anyone. “Otherwise they will know that I didn’t write the

easy sex. They simply couldn’t give it away. Nobody wanted it like that. You would be tainted by them if you touched them. It was a forever mark.

They all ended up with Epstein Barr. It was for the girls who don’t have bright futures or an education.

You can dance on my grave all you like. I won’t tap dance for you.

I tried to educate my way out of the situation studying PR, Global Media, Persuasive Communication and Journalism. It’s tough to explain seeing through the veneer of celebrity Hollywood teeth.

He said to me, that I wasn’t permitted to meet Clive James. I loved reading Clive James, I read all his books. I like the books on his time at Sydney University. He said he would be meeting Clive James instead. He is now considered to be literati. Everyone applauded him. What a surprise. “What a clever young lad.” He is a rarity, so talented. “And he hasn’t even finished school.”