Friday, 18 February 2011


I make no apologies for using this photo. I once had a girlfriend and her mother was stabbed to death. A photo of the dumped body was on the front page of Thailand's best selling newspaper Thai Rath. (Update this photo is disinformations. Princess Diana not only survived the crash but her Glasgow Coma Scale ensured that she must have been murdered in the ambulance.)

I have their logo tattooed on my heart. You can see it below with the still granulated blood from a photo that a young man from Taiwan kindly took for me on flight between Bangkok and London. I wrote about here. I also describe more about the event here.

I believe, the knife victims photo was pulled from Thai Rath, as soon as the body was identified. She was a 'society woman' of sorts, a well known writer. However, the practice still continues today with among others the death of David Carradine making the front page a while back.

The case attracted a lot of attention because anybody who knows Thailand questions the shoelace tied from his neck to his penis which isn't classic autoaspyxiation technique plus his hands were tied above him. My guess is he was killed in as humiliating a manner as possible. The post autopsy photo was published too. Strange that we both have heart tattoos.

I was a witness to unhealed lifelong traumas that photos like this published in the media can cause. Indeed, I'm still paying for it to this day. I recall many occasions of heartfelt cries of "missing Mom' with tears so many years after an event I had no part in. 

However I reject the sanitization of death if there is social merit. This is the case in the U.S and UK where dead soldiers are unable to be seen returning from the battlefield, but gratuitous and endless dying is ignored in hyper real gaming environments.

I apologise to anybody upset by this post so far. Today it's necessary. It's because I never bought a tabloid (or cared for irrelevant details) about other peoples private lives. It's  not without integrity as I deeply loathed the prurient obsession of the world with Princess Diana. I knew very little about the woman other than the barest of details that her marriage and divorce were desperately unhappy. 

I admired her worthy deeds such as campaigning against British arms industries selling land mines and caring for HIV victims. I understand she was also about to lend support to the Palestinian people who suffer so much even to this day. I've written many times that the same people who threw flowers on her funeral train went back to life the day after seemingly without self conscience bought the same tabloids that pursued her to death. After all it's not her grief the superficial society mourned. It was theirs.

I awoke the morning of her death in 1997 where I was living in Camden London, and as was my custom the radio had been on all night. I learned the sombre announcement of her death in Paris during the night. Inexplicably and for the first time in my life I started crying for someone I'd never really thought too much about. Only days before, her relationship with a Muslim man had been the latest of her personal and private affairs to hit the headlines and now my internal body alarm was tugging at me to say that all was not right. I guess I'm saying official autopsies were not going to make me any wiser. Many felt the same.

But the programming takes over doesn't it? The same conditioning which works to wonderful effect in repetitive messaging as in much of the fast moving consumable goods world of advertising, conditions us to the point where we doubt our intuition. To the point where we really believe that nature is doing just fine. 

I'm on record as saying anybody who believes the official narrative of 911 hasn't done their homework. But Princess Diana I reserved silence on till today. Just earlier I watched an MI5 officer share, an opinion that finally shifts mine to believe the Princess was murdered. And if the Crocodiles can murder a Princess....then surely you and I are no more important than battery hens?

If the real credit goes to the man in the arena, then in this case it's a woman and her name is Annie Machon. What a truly remarkable woman. I salute you. Sorry I took my time.