There’s a stocky Slovakian who likes to pace past my doorway, each time making prolonged eye contact with me. Sometimes I wave over enthusiastically as if I hadn’t seen him for years and is if I liked him. He pisses in sinks and gorges on scraps from the bins. He steals boxer shorts and breaths through his mouth. I often wonder why he is here, in this place and just in general.

To gain admittance to this enclosed utopia you have to transgress in some shape or form. I like to think that the ‘Slovakian scavenger’ was once a chef in his home country who sought revenge on a brutish underwear merchant who stole his original pants. Instrumental violence has left him in a medium secure unit in England where he can barely understand anyone and has no option but to hang around out side of my fucking room. I can smell him.

I had six steroid injections in to my lower back today so there will be no waving. In fact I’m contemplating shutting that door, it’s just I like to hear whose approaching. I can tell. The monosyllabic Chinese man is light on his feet and also paces. One man sings random Christmas songs, and most importantly the staff/serfs have various keys or alarm devices jangling.

If you lay on a bed all day and have insomnia you soon notice every sound on the ward. Everything runs like clockwork. It’s more like a processing facility. The serving hatch and meds hatch open and certain doors open at certain times, you notice the routines and patterns of everyone. The only random things are the farts emitted and they linger due to no airflow.

If you are familiar with medications, I take Tramadol, the max dose of Pregabalin, a little bit too much Clonazepam, and a smidgen of Olanzapine alongside Zopiclone and Aripriprazol. Some of these are controlled drugs. They make me smile, stagger and bump into things. I think I’m in love with them. I am currently not allowed leave as I complained to the Psychiatrist that when I was recently given Morphine, as well as codeine phosphate, I was signed out for five hours and didn’t really know what had happened in that time. I did call him a privileged slave which may have had something to do with his decision to remove it.


Some believe that when you see dark smoke like entities around your bed upon waking, you are being visited by shadow men. Demons. Some believe that when you become conscious from waking you still carry the residue of a dream with you and can sit totally aware of where you are but experience hallucinations, usually in a state of paralysis.

I usually get startled at first then laugh and mock these hammer weilding things, which makes them angry.

I get sleep paralysis, OBE’s, false awakenings, hypnopompic and hypnogogic hallucinations, lucid dreams, and I dream predominantly in dialouge which I write down. I describe the setting, the characters and what they say to me. If I can get to the level of conversing with them, then I think that I will be asking my subconcious questions, which excites me. At the moment I’m the observer.

These characters have been stereotypes, Jungian archetypes and some friends as well as random celebrities

I drifted off one night and dreamt that I was in the passenger seat of an American pickup truck. The driver looked at me and said “He’s ingenious… like a rat” another character, out of 36 in one restless evening was a god. (Pollytheism seems more plausible than monotheism to me, although I am an atheist, I entertain the Sumerian creation story)

In the dream I was on a beach looking up at white clouds and blue skys. I heard “How can this be your dream?” in a soothing voice with lots of reverb from an unseen entity. Not sure what god it was, hope it wasn’t Moloch.

With the amount of painkillers and benzo’s that I am on at the moment, the staff have noted that I sleep in the same position for very long periods, so they wake me up and I stretch and change position. Which is appreciated as it stops the pain in the mornings.

I’m fascinated by dreams. My sleep pattern is irregular and I am allways drifting off in the day. A bit of Modafinil would help I reckon but I would prefer Methylphenidate.


I do like fun. I have changed my name by deed poll before and my pseudonyms I enjoyed choosing. I’ve had a lot of nicknames, or aliases as they’ve been refered to by professionals. The sillier the better. Hubert Von Wolfhausen was one I toyed with for a while. Jeff Pudding, I liked, but my current one Rex Fletcher is my favourite. My nicknames in the past were

Mammoth head

And maybe a few others that I’ve forgotten. I’m pleased that Mammoth head was replaced by Paradise by a guy called Lummox. I think anyone would feel a little ego boost when walking down a high street you here someone holler ‘Paradise!” and you turn around smugly. Yep, that’s me ladies.

The only fun that I’m not too keen on is the unit’s annual ‘Fun day’ as it’s called. I stock up on nicotine and water and hide away when this sad event takes place.

There’s a ‘Guess how many sweeties in the jar’ competition, faded bunting, cakes, fizzy pop and a vicar, who when I’m high on pharmaceuticals, I talk to about King Sargon of akkad. She humours me.

The fun begins.

Hoards of overweight sedated fun seekers get ushered in from the other wards into our compound and congregate around the cupcakes. Patients sit and wonder when the fun begins. Has it started?

My fantasy of an ideal fun day would to be woken up by a mute oriental woman dressed as a clown.

I’d stretch, put her back in her room then put on a white suit (I am paradise) I’d locate the nearest legalised drinking saloon and swagger in, ready for fun.

The staff here do try their best but there’s different approaches displayed by support workers. The middle aged women tend to mother the chronics treating us like children. The NHSP’s who are mostly Nigerian just look at you and do not tend to interact.

I get given quite a wide berth and get away with a lot. I hardly get a knock on my door or asked to participate in anything. I’m either grumpy and aloof, mainly because I am in physical pain, or gregarious and superficial when making an effort.

If you treat a seven year old like a three year old they will not respond well.
If you treat a group of criminals in their thirties and fifties like seven year olds, they will politely decline ‘magic sand’ ‘fairy liquid bubbles’ and ‘smoothy making groups’. We are not retarded aliens, we want the same as most, to be able to socialise, smoke drink etc.

I am indifferent to the fact we have two rabbits called Moppsy and fucking Floppsy. This place looks like a nursery school.

Free bird

I have trouble humouring someone that I do not care for or am indifferent to. I have trouble engaging because it stirs up a lot of emotions. Occasionally I think to my self ‘just take part in a few things and get out’ so I try, but it’s all or nothing. I stand at my door, take in a deep breath of Slovakian B.O and faeces, and slip on my ‘good patient persona mask’ I then throw myself into everything. I compliment a person who I don’t consider a person, just some putrid piece of meat that is desperately clambering up the hierarchy in their own slimy way. Or I show my face and instrumentally display that I can get on with my peers in front of analysing eyes.

I smile, chat, play Scrabble and go to the social club. I take part in everything. I become everything that I’m not and it leaves me defeated. I did this recently, kept it up for two days then had a mini breakdown under the stress of it all. To be told that you are good at putting glitter on Christmas stars with glue by a twat ,without going to broadmoor shows a lot of will power.

Opiate withdrawal and playing Scrabble crushed me and I could not stop crying which, in it’s self I didn’t mind, but I did consider my death.


The plan is, and always has been, for as far as I can remember, is to make a decision hopefully when I’m past sixty to blow my self to pieces.

If I’m suffering with pain or slowly dyeing from a terminal disease. I would spend what money I have on a rave in the woods. I would dance and get merry. And when it’s morning at about 4am when it’s quietened down for a bit, I’d go for a walk to the middle of a field with my speaker and put on Lynyrd Skynyrd- Free bird.
That first guitar note evokes such a feeling in me. I would scatter my self as the sun comes up.

Again, this is not due to a depressive episode. I do want to live for as long as possible, not in a transhumanistic sense. I don’t feel like a modern day Gilgsmesh with a ‘Special mission’ I just want that last bit of control over my life. It is not morbid. It’s logical.

I’m a euthymic, content person currently battling with pain. I have osteoarthritis and I’m aloof, shy and selective with whom I deal with, but harbouring no suicidal ideation. Homicidal -yes. Give me a world with no consequences and I’ll be down Sainsbury’s buying Viagra and 2stroke petrol for a chainsaw. You would truly see my id. But for now they’re just fantasies and grudges never to form. I’ve always wanted to push someone off a bridge, casually spark up a cigar then raise an eyebrow like Roger Moore. It ain’t gonna happen.

Person Centred Care

‘Person centred care’ is a popular phrase across the board at the moment. It gets linguistically regurgitated by persons unaware of how wrong it really is. True, things can be tailored to suit you and you’re preferences. A depressed male who gravitates towards football may have leave, if deemed appropriate, to watch his local team play. An elderly lady with Bi-polar may get escorted leave to a theatre if that’s her thing.

To my understanding there is a kind of generic list that is built upon assumptions of professionals as to what us patients are in to, and they are all pro-social activities or experiences that seem to be mainstream and state run. Examples that make the multidisciplinary team cum in their undergarments when a patient, after overt arm bending and prompting, says that they would like to do, are

Sports-nothing to dared devilish though. Golf would be suitable.

Experiences and activities-Cinema, bowling, fishing, visiting farms, beaches, a random town to visit with your fellow dribblers. Museums, bootfairs, snooker, etc.

Education- adult education courses, open university, self help groups external from the unit.

Employment- usually voluntary work. This is the key. They do not want aimless schizophrenics. Boredom can lead back to troublesome behaviours, drug taking is the main one. Also isolation, depression etc. So what better than to fill our time with menial work. We will then feel valid, worthy. Personally I’d feel like a mug as I trimmed a hedge at a zoo for free.

These may be valid and interesting but there is still an aloof waft of control and tick boxing looming over the happy mental patient as he climbs into the unit vehicle with his ticket to see a Walt Disney show.

Walt Disney is a frozen nonce and the only thing that has been interesting for me is fixing my vehicles, that I without warning placed in the bike lock up. My trike, which I know the Doctor doesn’t like and my Goped that to be fair, I’m allowed out on but its a grey area.

I have trouble with grey areas. Everything is or it isn’t, I can or I can’t. I have black and white thinking, an all or nothing way about me, in every area of my life. I’ts always been that way I could give a hundred examples.

Going back to person centered care. If I were to go to the sports hall every Tuesday at 9am and stand on the treadmill, I’m sure that there would be a laminated sign Two foot in front of me with a half arsed selected typeface promoting the unit cafe’s offers. It would say

free coffee with every cookie…please come in, anyone come in. We need the numbers you docile cunts!

And I’ll stare at that for twenty minutes at a slow pace. Tick!.

Now if I were to walk in the woods unescorted, the tick is less visible and as faint as a line on a urine test result. Lightly marked in a pale crayon instead of a strong red biro. Because it’s unorthodox.

“Christ! there’s hidden dangers. This six foot two skinhead offender is vulnerable. He might get a twig in the eye!” They would say.
“Its odd, he might not be walking at all! He could be jacking up skag with a wizened ageing hobo under a rotten branch!”

This hobo who I would grow to admire would be a ‘antisocial peer’ and I would be forbidden to sit crossed legged and hear his melodic flute playing. After all I should be fucking walking!.

Basically they’re not in control when I’m in the woods and they don’t like it. After about six months of going up the woods I mentioned that I am actually with a mate or my family. The response was ‘Oh the team thought you were there on your own”

But even if I was, it sickens me that on my reports it probably says ‘isolates himself in woodland’ Cunts! I socialise away from the unit everyday and I’m rarely out on my own. I keep my friends and family separate from these nosey serfs.



I was once under the impression that my central nervous system could handle fifty grams of a Russian tranquilliser. Phenibut. Thats about a years worth at the correct dosage. I had tried it a few times and it was relaxing and mildly euphoric, similar to an English benzodiazepine. This was at doses of a gram or two.

It was Halloween and I had been drinking energy drinks throughout the day as well as my Tramadol, which was for an earlier injury involving a Thai lady who disappointedly stood on my back, which exasperated a previous injury where I winded my self pulling a wheelie, that worsened another injury where I jumped in a river landing on a rock…you get the picture, This was all in one week and my backs fucked.

Anyway, Halloween, fuelled by about ten cans of relentless and approximately two table spoons of Adrafinil I necked a tub of this eastern European wonder stuff and invited my sisters around who were both teachers and hardly drank. We watched a weird documentary and I decided to smoke again. I had a few roll ups. It was like I had never given up. I was hypomanic, which basically meant in short, I couldn’t shut up or sit still. They left.

Adrafinil is a CNS stimulant where as this Russian one was a CNS depressant. The energy drinks and Adrafinil could explain my psychomotor agitation, elation and impulsiveness and enthusiasm and focus on the documentary and as much as I try to put in words what happened when the tranquilliser kicked in, I don’t think anyone will ever grasp what happened in my swelling brain. I’m surprised I remembered it.

I got on the bus located a seat and tried my best to stay on it. By the end of the journey I felt drunk. I had slowed down and held on to the pole the entire way. I was in Canterbury.

I made a B line for a taxi, told the taxi driver that I believed in taking care of my self and got in. The black contact lenses were making my eyes itch and I slurred incoherently at him for a while, never forgetting to assure the driver that I usually take care of my self. I hadn’t had a drink for about seventeen years or taken illicit drugs or legal highs for the same period, just large doses of Adrafinil. I needed him to understand. I got out and greeted my friend who does understand. I laid on his carpet.

instantaneously I was on a hospital bed in Canterbury cathedral surrounded by women. They called me by first name. I assumed they were prostitutes which I had seen in the past. My solicitor was there with my sisters by my side. I struggled a bit because I had tubes and a catheter stuck in and up me.

I had a severe headache but after a while It subsided. One lady kept pointing at her badge and explained that I had been in a coma since October and that I was in intensive care in a hospital in London. I found out that at my friends house I had to be restrained because I kept head butting the floor and table.

When the air ambulance arrived the medics had to Google what I had taken. And I was airlifted to London. I had a Glasgow coma score of four, which is the seconded deepest.

The sound muffed a bit and I heard deep demonic grunting and what sounded like giant cogs moving and pistons. Directly opposite me in another bed lay a geriatric aborigine lady accompanied by a human/bird hybrid witch doctor with a long slender beak looking like Thoth. My vision was blurred but I still stared at them for hours. The women kept asking me if I knew where I was.

By this time I was adamant that I was in Canterbury Cathedral. I began to hear babies crying alongside the deep demonic grunting, growling and machinery noises.

At one point in my stay three scientists in lab coats wheeled in a huge machine with an interface. It looked like something from an old Star trek set. There were dials, coloured buttons and a four foot high vagina flush with the grey metal front. It was left there slightly to my left. For some reason it didn’t phase me. I would occasionally look over at it.

A chubby nurse tended to the tube in my arm. She was harsh and quick and the bandage felt tight. I asked her if she had seen the film ‘Misery’.

In my delirious psychotic state I attended a Masonic ritual, had the most strangest shit and witnessed a birth of a silicon based head which was forever morphing into other sand structures. I was wheeled down a slope and on the way I began to panic. I didn’t know where I was heading to. I knew that there were either two things that were going to happen to me.

1) I was to be cut up and my organs harvested.
2) I was going to be genetically modified into an androgynous slave/pet for a group of wealthy Asian businessmen.

Out of the two only possibilities I was hoping for the latter. I didn’t want to die. I’d rather serve green tea and get buggered occasionally.

I arrived into a dark ward. And decided to escape. I lifted my legs up and down on the bed for a bit to strengthen them. Then got in the wheel chair. In the bath room I slowly pulled out the catheter and tore my jap’s eye.

I went berserk, picked up a drip stand and pinned a nurse against a filling cabinet. I thumped a few more before three huge black security guards appeared. The first thing one of them did was punch me on the nose and I gave up and washed the blood off me.

I was interviewed by some psychiatrists and I told them everything. I was transported to a PICU ward. It was so hectic. I had Clonazepam four times a day. And spent a month on a section 2. I spoke to my sisters about my experience and they reminded me all of what I was saying was linked to the documentary and the music was listening to on the day I suffered the brain damage.

When they read out my experience in court I tried not to laugh. Everything else was so formal then I heard ‘metallic vagina’ and I had to lower my head so they couldn’t see me giggle.

I’d give Phenibut a 3 out of 10. It’s relaxing but a bit scary at times.

Moderate psychopathy scoring high in the affective and interpersonal realm

I never really know what day it is because it doesn’t affect me. Every other Monday there’s a ward round which I sometimes attend for five minutes, then I’m off to put my head between a black ladies thighs in a Hilton hotel. Weeks, months, years are just labels. I have a bit of time left and if I’m reading, writing, film editing or making music in my room I’m content.

The Babylonians of ancient Mesopotamia didn’t number their years. Instead they would attribute something momentous that had happened to it. The year that followed would be called the year after this event. So 2018 we named ‘Year of the HDMI issues’ as it was such a pain in the arse, an inconvenience and pervasive in the latter half. 2019 might be ‘The year of Dr Singh’s nervous breakdown’ or possibly just the year after the year of the HDMI issues. I simply do not know yet.

‘Conduct disorder’
‘Moderate psychopathy scoring high in the affective and interpersonal realm’
‘Antisocial personality disorder’
‘Post traumatic stress disorder’
‘Schizoaffective disorder’
‘Paranoid schizophrenia’
‘undifferentiated schizophrenia’
‘Generalised anxiety disorder’

They can’t make their minds up. I’ve heard them say ‘Aspergers’ ’emotional incontinence’
‘matches the criteria for schizotypal’

In years to come the ICD10 book will be clumped into the same category as eugenics books in some online database. I hope that ‘unfit for the future’ does as well. That proposes that we genetically modify our selves to boost our morality. An ominous suggestion that would probably be selective and inevitable. I think you need a few psychopaths in the world. Just a few, we cant dispose of that Machiavellian gene quite yet, we might get attached by Moloch and end up offering our new borns again.


A few months a go I was having fun, riding off road on my Goped, humping hookers in ‘syphilis towers’ Which is just off of the high street. I was up the woods around a fire listening to metal with my mate as he drank Hobgoblin beer. We had fun up in London then I would return and sign back in to this sad place. I had more leave than I could use in the week, close to discharge. Someone fell from a window on to my head, I got aggressive and lost it all.

It’s probably important that I mention a few things about my self. I am odd. For a long time I believed that people thought and saw the world the same way that I do but were less open about it. I see my self as a defective lump of meat with energy and a short life span. I know that may sound self depreciating but I have no emotional tag attached to it. I need stimulation I have few commitments and few responsibilities. It’s great waking up each day and deciding what to do or where to go. I love my lifestyle, but the mental health system doesn’t. It would rather that I was cooking three times a day, taking part in pathetic cup cake baking groups. They want passive puppets that go to tedious choir singing or social club groups and are unaware of the painstakingly obvious fact that this setup is a tick boxing exercise, a business and a pantomime. They want us to have structure in our week and remain subservient. Control and conditioning transforms us into model citizens.

“No takers for swing ball” I’ve just heard an occupational therapist say to someone from down in the communal area.