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In the swinging sixties a sexpionage spy scandal took place called the Profumo Affaire unfortunately two of its players were amateurs and didn't know what the rules of the spy game were ; one was sacrificed as a scapegoat and the other Christine Keeler lived life under a long dark cloud until she died and all because they were enlisted by MI5 into taking part in a Russian honey trap for Queen and country which went dramatically wrong . Dr Steven Ward a brilliant osteopath and gifted portrait artist was demonised and double crossed to the point where he took his own life with an overdose of sleeping tablets the poison chalice , Baron Profumo who was the cause of it all retired in disgrace cleaning toilets and working for a charity where he was eventually awarded an OBE to pin next to the MBE and bronze star that he'd won as a military hero in the war . A wax statue still stands of Steven Ward in the house of horrors at Madame Tussauds a terribly cruel homage to say he was only doing what the British secret service ask or no doubt ordered him to do . The scandal also brought an Iron Curtain crashing down on the conservative government of Harold Macmillan .

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The green eyed monster of sin that secret schadenfreude which we keep hidden away so deep within usually it's only seen in children as their rival for survival and parental attention the lowly leftover instinct of our anthropic ascension , however this terrible traits can also be witnessed later in our lives when when the male begins to assert it's dominance as the procreation stage arrives .

A poem about a miserable old man who people nick named stan he once had a palace and a kingdom then unfortunately lost everything and was reduced to that of a normal man , alas such a tragedy to fall down amonst we the mere mortal clan .

A poem I wrote for a terribly crippled girl called Daniella she lived in agony all her life but there wasn't a day I didn't see her gorgeous smile or hear her wonderful laughter , she has a soul so big and beautiful it certainly casts long shadows of perfection over my own Quasimodo anima and many others .

A tune I wrote in fourths and fifths to give a semblance of the ancient church music they say that you should never play these intervals but they sound reasonably good if placed in the correct invertions. all rights reserved

A poem i wrote for the fire and brimstone preacher who baptised me in an ice water stone trough a wild religious Celt with raven hair alabaster skin and husky dog blue eyes a true blood line of the ancient Bretagne .

A little poem I wrote about our Neo Omnipresence that seems almost God like in its power and control , the all seeing eye that invisible entity watching over everything we say and do.

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