“All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.”
Time had passed and our relationship was so dead and buried that it wasn’t even pushing up daisies; it was ancient, arid history. I had forgotten about my chat with ‘Harry’, where he had informed me of the Gypsy Boy film with such condemning sanctimony. I had expected to see something in the media much sooner but it was silent long enough to fade to memory. As social media grew, I reconnected with everyone that had ever been a part of my life, the good and the bad. We were all older and a little wiser. All forgiven, forgotten and rekindled, in a blend of avatars, images, mutual friends and distant but familiar names. Occasionally, as is only natural, I had looked for the Gypsy but couldn’t have waded through as many of his namesakes as there were. What became of him? Did he stay on the run? Did he go back home to the traveling community and give up on the dream of his story? Was he reconciled with his family? I had no idea and I couldn’t even hazard a guess.
Absent minded one day whilst surfing the net, looking at information about a traveling girl I knew and had seen on the television, I unwittingly uncovered a trail of information that lead to the actual publication of the Gypsy’s memoirs. He seemed to operate under a pseudonym, taken from a character in one of his favorite 1980s movies. There were no images of him online but I was sure that it was him, my ex-boyfriend, my first love, The Gypsy. I didn’t know what to expect at all but I knew that it concentrated on his early life as a gypsy boy. He had done it. All that had gone to pass between us was because of the pathological priority that he had placed on his story and the coldness with which he treated me because of it. All the details I have written about in the previous parts of this blog, they all lead here, to his story. I didn’t want to publish an article in one part. I wanted the facts to breathe and to document exactly what happened from the moment we met, to the moment we parted and how I coped and adjusted to life without him.
I ordered to read, the book. At this point I was very naive about this work. Unaware of the length he would go to in stripping back the truth, and I was totally unaware, of the utter travesty he had created. I had to remain objective, I didn’t know if he still hated me the way he seemed to last we seen one another, or if he had developed a level of maturity and didn’t hold a grudge at all. I had no way of knowing how he felt but one thing was for certain, he had grown up, achieved his dream and I was quite thrilled about it either way.
The story had almost changed beyond recognition. Family members and neighboring travelers were brought to life with such flair that they were actually an admixture of fictional imaginings and stolen elements, taken from other people. Other people’s anecdotes too, were not safe, having been harvested and used as his own. For somebody that had never read a book, who was so frustrated with their limited ability to read, or to write. It was a questionable but impressive and outstanding achievement. Whether he actually wrote the book or it was ghost written for him is irrelevant to me, because his imagination leaps from its pages. It was indeed ‘His Story’ and it had grown, evolved and blossomed into being as he had always dreamed it would.
– Ambrose Bierce
From day one his story was all that mattered to him and I was now holding in my hands, over a decade later, the end result of all I had gone through with him. There is no denying to get his story ‘out there’ as he had always wished for, was truly remarkable but as I will outline in this final and personal account of the man behind the pseudonym, he misrepresented his own kind with grotesque caricatures and exaggerated truth to the point of pure fiction, whilst taking critically acclaimed credit from behind a curtain, as a non-fictional, inspiring and brave writer. An apt nod to his favorite movie of all time, where it is later discovered that the Wizard is a humbug, a charlatan, and a fraud, who tricks people into worshiping his alter ego and pseudonym, The Wizard of Oz.
“A charlatan makes obscure what is clear; a thinker makes clear what is obscure.”
— Hugh Kingsmill
Even though he commandeered my life all that time ago, to use me the way that he did, I held no grudge and whilst reading the book, he had been hauled so vividly back into my mind and my life, that I found him on Twitter to tell him that it was incredible. That I had to ‘take my hat off’ to him. I did feel that I needed to apologize to him. I had always desired ‘closure’. I didn’t handle the pressures he put me under very well at all. I was too young. Had Harry given him my message as outlined in PART6? Now I could ask him and perhaps he would say something to finally give a little respect to our past. Such as ‘don’t worry about it, we were so young.’ He couldn’t still be that difficult, self-obsessed character, collecting He-Man figures and obsessed with 1980s movies and television. He was a grown, successful and mature author. Perhaps he had finally exercised his demons in this book and become a man? If I could have long forgiven his lack of compassion and his manipulative, cold use of my open affections, then surely there would be no grudge held against me on his part. If there was it would be illegitimate and petty.
Over on Twitter, he robotically blessed and thanked me before realizing it was I and then un-followed me, deleted his posts and remained mute. Oh dear, awkward and mildly embarrassing. So I also unfollowed him. I didn’t want to think too deeply about that, so he doesn’t want to talk, that could be for a myriad of reasons and that was entirely up to him. I presumed that he would have been in a place, mentally, that was strong enough to acknowledge me and let bygones be. I thought like this because I didn’t know enough about the man he had become at this point and his story had been furnished with a suitably convenient ending, which implied that he was on sound foundations.
According to the book, in kitsch unsophistication, he had entered into a civil partnership and ‘married’ wearing Ruby Converse trainers. Alluding of course, to Dorothy and her famous ruby slippers. He was now a successful author, happily married and (rather bizarrely) working as a teaching assistant in London but the more I looked into him, the more I learned that was contrary to this. His Tweets were definitely not that of a married man and most certainly not an employed man. I wasn’t sure what was going on but I learned that there was a second book on the way out and it would pick up where he last left off, just before he had met me – when he was a gypsy boy on the run from his family. Perhaps this was why he wouldn’t speak to me? Because he knew a book was on the way out which would document his time with me.
The second book arrived. It sat on my dining room table for some time. There was no precedent. How does one read a book such as this? Do I take it away, somewhere neutral and read it there? Or do I allow it to permeate the fabric of my home, my bricks and mortar, letting it seep into the life I have made for myself? Would I turn scarlet and my face burn with acute embarrassment as he recounted our time together, perhaps in graphic detail? The chair I always read in, would it be tarnished? What would he have written, would there be any trace of fondness and objective humor in relation to our disastrous relationship and would he admit to using me and detail how he yearned to say goodbye in secrecy?
I remembered the exaggerated prose and almost poetic verse used in his first book and I wondered. Here he would be talking about me and about things that I was there to witness, people that I knew very well, the home that we shared and the life that we lived. This would be my yardstick and I would then be qualified to scrutinize his work and see exactly how far he was willing to push the truth. What I wasn’t expecting was the total lack of integrity, honesty, and principle. My respect for his achievement and my humbleness at his success evaporated with each turn of the page, leaving throughout the work, nothing but a distasteful conceit. What I know about publishing could be written on the head of a pin but as a consumer of books, I’m pretty sure that there is an unspoken trust between author and reader. That in a non-fiction book, the author will depict, relay and portray events, people and noteworthy occurrence, as best and as close to the truth as is possible to the author’s recollection. The protagonist of fictional work does not stay with the reader, move and inspire the reader in the way in which a protagonist that is believed to be real, would move and inspire. Through compassion, understanding, an affinity, and feeling of being on the same wavelength, the reader invests time, empathy and interest beyond that of a fictional work and develops a deep connection to the author. If the story is not truthful and plays out with the author’s whimsy, at his convenience, and with dark inconsistencies, then they have been fooled by an unethical, unprincipled abuse of that trust.
It is abhorrent to contemplate that this is common practice within the publishing world but make no mistake about it, the gypsy’s books have been written with means intended to deceive. What he has written is not in accordance with fact or reality. Influenced less by literature and more by trash culture, the author takes the reader on an incredibly absurd, far-fetched, and implausible journey of self-discovery and ‘coming of age’. He takes the reader through every gay cliché and blatant allegory, often alluding directly to prominent films in popular culture. He emulates and hints at camp and instantly emotive films and television as if they were his very own to mirror. The accurate, genuine, precise, real and right are all abandoned here in this work. The truth is void, perverted or ignored.
“That’s not a lie, it’s a terminological inexactitude. Also, a tactical misrepresentation.”
– Alexander Haig
It would be exhaustive to look at all that has been written across both of his books, so before I move onto his family and what he has done to them, I will look briefly at parts of what he wrote about me personally and my relationship with him. I was of course, aware that he couldn’t name me and would need to make his characters ambiguous enough that lawyers could not be called in, so I was not too concerned with how he portrayed my character and more concerned with how he portrayed events. It speaks volumes of his own character, mettle and nature that he chose to depict me in his book as an ugly 6’3” ‘Lurch’ type creature that his friends had nicknamed, Frankenstein, with hands as large as dinner plates who was a self-obsessed maniac, clinically insane, certifiably mad and even had an evil laugh thrown in for good measure. What a keeper.
ABOVE: As I was back then. Frankenstein, or his true inspiration?
He writes that he was a “love-struck rebounding fool” that fell into a relationship with me. I don’t see how this could be the case, as you cannot be love-struck by the person you fall into a rebound relationship with. In contrast to what was written, exactly how I met him (through Harry) and how our relationship started, is explained in PART1. He goes on to write that the flat I had secured for us to live in was dirt cheap. Where the landlady had a passion for doing her own bad decorating and it was covered in Artex. It was odd to read that he thought it a fixer-upper and that he gladly took on the job. Odd because that is a line from Poison Ivy in one of his adored Batman films, which he watched in that flat all of the time and odd because it was quite the reverse – as documented in PART2
According to his writing, it wasn’t long before he realized that I was certifiably mad. He wrote that I spent hours poking myself in the mirror as he watched television. The photograph below shows, the television was right in front of the dressing table, where I cleansed toned and moisturized and in fact it was I that educated this gypsy boy in that ritual, how utterly bitter of him to write in that way. This comes across to those that know the reality, as such spitefulness and virulence. Oh, how he must have resented me, yet shielded it so well that I was totally unaware.
ABOVE: Where I would spend hours at a time standing, prodding at myself in the mirror as he watched television.
He went on to write that one morning I walked into the kitchen, sat down at the table very calmly told him that I had discovered “for a fact that neither me nor anyone else around him was real and that we were all just a figment of his imagination” and he expressed how he nearly “choked on his cornflakes”. Asking where did that leave him? In unadulterated ignorance, that’s where. The thing about this paragraph that shocked me, is not that he wrote that he was ever civilized enough to sit at a breakfast table but that he had held onto and remembered something I had said to him that demonstrated his inexperience in such a breath-taking manner. I was simply quoting the late Bill Hicks who had said, in a then-recent stand-up routine, that “all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.”
This was perfectly normal, healthy teenage development and to look at the philosophical and metaphysical, to seek knowledge and understanding of the world around them, individually and collectively, is what all teenagers should be doing.
Yes, I don’t doubt I did come out with bizarre theories, imaginings and questions that didn’t make any sense, because that is what thinking and learning teenagers do. I was so perplexed by one book I had read that I wrote to The Queen, as she was implicated in this book, I thought it right to inform her.
ABOVE: My letter from The Queen regarding my bizarre theories, imaginings, and questions that didn’t make any sense.
I had looked at religions, joined a Gospel group, Christian workshops and spiritualist churches and I devoured books – all in the hopes of saving myself. I had lived a full life before I even met him, and I perhaps should have been mindful that this behavior would go over the head of somebody, who was so sheltered from a normal culture that he was just learning to read and practiced his written signature each day. I had a thirst for knowledge and understanding. We were quite evidently on different wavelengths, and all he had was hunger.
He then wrote about the fire. The fire that devastated me and threw my life into altogether new realms, as described in PART2. Perhaps to unnecessarily spice up his story, he wrote that I was an arsonist. That I set the fire on purpose and that I laughed in his face as I admitted to it. Arson must be an easy crime to commit in the Gypsy’s imagination. Evading the landlady, the firemen, the insurance men and the police reports must be a doddle. Also, my sister lived directly above our flat as also described in PART2, so if he had have thought on, he could have added attempted manslaughter to my list of credits.
I cringed and recoiled with embarrassment for him when I read that our flat looked as though the ‘Marshmallow Man’ from Ghostbusters had just exploded all over it. Great mounds of melted Artex were splattered all over everything. He also makes many references to his ‘Flintstone Flat’ being burnt down. Using the Artex he describes, as a reason for the nickname but in fact, the Artex comes from the temporary accommodation provided by his friend Anka (Described with photographs in PART3 and PART4) and it is also worth noting that Artex does not melt. He goes on to lay claim to elements of my sister’s bitter experience with an ex-boyfriend.
She had finished the relationship and so he took her leather-bound photograph albums, containing images from her travels around the globe and he burnt them in the garden, in a metal bin whilst the gypsy looked on and smoked cigarettes. They were her pride and joy and she was devastated. The gypsy used this inspiration to write that when I had ‘deliberately’ burned the flat down to rid him of any sign of his gypsy past, all of his photographs were destroyed. He sickeningly wrote in great detail, how his old photographs fell apart in his hands, a charred and burned crumbling bundle of images, forever to be confined to his memory. This included a myriad of colourful characters that he had made up from lots of different elements, some my own, but the reality is that he only ever had one set of images and they were all, of himself.
There were no images of his mother and father or in fact any of his family at all. Just thumbnail images of a photo-shoot he went to just after he ran away. He attended a shoot with no intention of buying a print because in those days, small thumbnail images were given for the customer to select from and he thought that they would do. It is those images that he framed and hung on the wall of his house share along with one photograph of myself just before we moved in together. As is common in a split, things get lost and misplaced and he ended up keeping one of my journals (taking it actually) but I held onto his bundle of photographs. Actually, he would have been at this photo-shoot when he appallingly wrote about having to spend weeks in the boot of a car. When we actually split up, I ended up with a tiny bundle of images of him.
BELOW: The only images he ever had
He writes in such a one-dimensional black and white way that it amazes me. It’s like taking a peek into his actual imagination. I had a good look round and it was disturbing. All of this has to come from his memory because he couldn’t write at the time and because of this, I could see grains of truth that have blossomed into perverted prose and stolen anecdotes. I know where he has taken things from and how misrepresented they are. I could dissect it all. It’s an unnerving and disturbing read when one actually understands how the author came to that verse; one can only read on in disillusionment and disappointment.
I was starting to feel very sad and heavy-hearted for him. He wrote that I had done this on purpose, burnt our home down, because I was sick of his story. I most certainly was sick of his story. I did tell him that. I outline this in PART4. How I simply did not have the emotional maturity, or the intelligence, to deal with the immense pressure that he put me under. His longing to have his story shared with the world was bypassing people’s feelings. He had no respect, personal interest, concern or love for me at all and I couldn’t take it anymore. His story was and still is, it would seem, cancer deep inside of him. Of course, I was sick of his story. I don’t need to pour over the rest of what he wrote about me and our relationship because it is total nonsense and would become boring for you. So I will jump to our parting. I outline in-depth, in PART5 exactly how he moved on and left me but no surprise, his version in the book is somewhat adulterate. Such as the letter I wrote. In a childish attempt to keep some pride and to hurt him like he hurt me, I wrote a poisoned letter. I didn’t mean a word of it but included in it were the nastiest things I could think of to write. I’m really sorry that I did that. I am sorry that it hurt him so much that it manifested itself in his book as a neatly addressed gift with ‘Fancy calligraphy’ that contained a ‘Brick sized slab of meat’, which on closer inspection turned out to be the tongue of a cow.
I also note in PART6 how I visited his new place of work and begged for his love. This transcended into his book as picking up a plate from the nearest table and threw it at me like a Frisbee, following it up with another and another, as he shouted, did you think I wouldn’t find you? I was astonished by this deplorable and feeble balderdash. I wondered how any editor could let such obvious claptrap pass without correction. The video below demonstrates from where he pilfered that unoriginal, laughable and lazy anecdote, as Krystal Carrington picks up plates and throws them each like a Frisbee:-
As I have already outlined, he takes the reader through every gay cliché and blatant allegory alluding directly to prominent media in popular culture as if they were his very own to mirror. His blatant use of Dynasty is a very good example of how stolen elements of low-brow entertainment from 1980s’ movies and television provided him with a foundation on which to weave his own unimaginative and perverted story. Such as a Beaches inspired death scene and an Oliver Twist inspired gypsy in awe at St Paul’s cathedral and let us not forget a Christmas telephone call from the actress Bea Arthur of The Golden Girls fame, at Ian Warrens? Among many others are Batman, The Goonies, Mary Poppins, a multitude of Disney cartoons and of course, The Wizard of Oz. Once the reader is conscious of this element and aware of how far he stretches the realms of possibility and truth in all other areas, the book reads in another way entirely.
As far away from the self-styled ‘Pig-Boy’ of his books as one could get, he was devastatingly attractive, with intensely beautiful eyes and lusciously long eyelashes that made his charm irresistible. He narcissistically adored the ABBA track, Angel Eyes, as he felt the lyrics applied to him. He wasn’t wrong, he could take your heart and you would pay the price. So it was comical for me to read that he only realised how attractive he was when his broken nose was fixed after an attack and he writes about how there was this great reveal, as his friends gathered around with cocktails (Note parallels to the television series Dallas) and he was passed a mirror to peel off the bandages and reveal his new face to a captured audience, writing that it was the first time he had ever felt handsome. Preposterous.
I think that it is deplorable of him to use something that affects people so badly, for his own gratuitous and unnecessary use. His work is peppered with outrageous violence and abuse that simply did not happen to him. The use of violence and referencing to ‘Queer-bashing’ that he uses, to get him to the great broken nose reveal, was taken from somebody else that really was injured. This was another stolen anecdote which he didn’t even witness himself but heard from a third party, his landlord Ian Warren.
With this particular incident, he recalls wearing a hideous leopard print top, which the abusers pulled and ripped apart as they shouted, faggots shirt. The fact is that he lived in that skin-tight leopard-print lycra shirt. Below is an image of him wearing it with me. I have many images of us both wearing it at different times. This is why he remembered the shirt at all and could include it in his story.
“The folks who know the truth aren’t talking. The ones who don’t have a clue, you can’t shut them up!”
There is nothing in these books that have not been caricatured, perverted and exploited by this seasoned charlatan and his work is an absolute travesty, not even a T-Shirt is safe. Yet one of Britain’s most successful television presenters can be found in an online video, practically pushing it onto a vacant looking famous Australian singer with such childlike naivety, that it was adverse to common sense. Excitedly trying to give her a brief synopsis of the incredible story and informing her that he was bred to be the next King of the Gypsies… but all he wanted to do was watch Dallas and Dynasty. Preposterous.
The television presenter also has a radio show on the BBC’s main station and together with his reality television producing fiancé, whom the Gypsy knows through his bar work connections, and I would say his emotional crutch, have pushed the story onto every notable person with an audience and reach that they have access to. Which is an immensely impressive and influential group of people. The latter one would presume, the brains behind the operation, and is adept at turning the spotlight onto the mediocre and turning it into a marketable commodity. Together they are producing the film adaptation of the book/s. My knowledge of this is limited but it is terrifying.
What I do know is that the people around the Gypsy are one of two things. They are either taken in by, or they are in on a lie and falsification. A fallacy. I am of course familiar with the presenter’s work and I have seen him in action, in real life. He comes across as a man with a strong moral compass and a sense of loyalty and I suspect that he would fall into the former category but it is pure conjecture on my part. I do not know the people that now surround him.
It is very clever marketing that the gypsy concealed his identity but in reality, there is a much more covert reason. It was to his advantage in all ways, to remain hidden behind his pseudonym. Perhaps even his Twitter account is a PR tool? This would at least explain the vacuity and crassness of his tweets and what would appear to be an arrested development, with his repetitious reliance on low-brow entertainment from decades past.
I listened to two radio interviews with him. The juxtaposition was startling. Recorded in relatively the same time period, one with a downmarket set-up with loose professionalism, where he laughed and joked (even about the violence he was subjected to) and burst into song. The other was with a seasoned, stoic interviewer, on a specialist BBC show. After realizing that his usual quips and charms were ineffectual to the distinguished interviewer, he opted for the defense mechanism of tears, saying very little with full conviction he let the tears shield him from further interrogation relating to the gaping contradictions in his story and in particular, about his father.
He also writes that there was a contract out on his life. Ordered by his father. There was never a reward of any kind out for his return, as he had so dramatically written because he had waited until he was 18 to run away. He couldn’t be taken back because he was an adult… and not the young boy he claims in the books. It is made up. He saw plenty of Travelling folk in Blackpool. One of the fortune-tellers that worked next to me even approached me and told me that he didn’t love me. She said, “He’s only out for himself the lad and he’ll cause misery”. They would all look at him and he would look back with this knowing stare but he tried to laugh them off. But my point is that he was NOT hiding in fear of his life and he was seen by plenty of travelers on a daily basis. He just preferred to stay off their radar.
He knew he was running away with a story because he had been planning it since he was 15. All of this is highlighted throughout previous blogs parts. His father was strict but no different from any other father, working-class or gypsy, not a great deal of difference. Old ideals where men are men and men fight for dominance and stature and he couldn’t bear the thought of telling his father and the masculine men around him that he was gay and so he hatched a plan to escape and he changed more than names, places, and descriptions as time passed. He invented a story that is only very tenuously based on real events, most of which he was merely a spectator to.
Unlike many gay men that have to face these things with real courage and bravery when coming out to their family, he ran away and kept running. In an act of great cowardice, without even giving them a chance to accept him, he bolted. Hell-bent on another life as far away from his upbringing as he could get to without having to face them. There is nothing inspiring and brave about this. He achieved his dream and has archived it forever in the written word. It is an impressive and outstanding achievement. ‘His story’ has grown, evolved and blossomed into being, as he had always dreamed it would, but its price comes at an Alpine height. For me personally, having read the second book, I didn’t turn scarlet and my face didn’t burn with acute embarrassment as he recounted our time together. Rather I was off the hook and nothing resembled the reality of our relationship and nothing mirrored what I knew to be true from living with him. I closed the book shut with a thud and stared into space, not quite believing the disappointment that I felt for him. Despite all of this I felt the unexpected urge to hold him and to hug him, as this mammoth journey he had been on came to a sad, ineffective and dismayed end. A fleeting testament to the fact that I had once loved him so very deeply. It was all for nothing, all that he had ever done, to himself and to other people in order to get his story told, it was all for this disappointing travesty.
His civil partnership hadn’t lasted long and he actually writes that it was his story that finished it off. Himself confirming what I have always said about him, that his story was and always will be cancer. With every piece of praise he receives, be it faint of sycophantically, for every person that is moved by his story and believe what they are reading to be factual, his integrity bank plummets deep into the red whilst that cancer deepens and spreads.
He has exactly what he had wished for. I absolutely without a doubt hope that it is what he thought it would be. That he feels it was worth it. Perhaps he has people around him that know what he has done to confide in, perhaps he is reconciled with some of his family after all of those years and they applaud him for pulling one over on the Gorgias – or perhaps the only person who has knowledge of what he has done, stares back at him from his own reflection?
I wrote these blogs because every single word in them is the truth and nobody can deny me that. I wrote it because being inactive is not in my nature, and he poked a sleeping lion – I wrote it to save the inner child in me that he stole from under my feet thinking I was voiceless, and knowing what it would do to me – he did it anyway, with a giggling glee.
He made it my business when he took elements of my life as his own. When he wrote about me, my childhood and my relationship with him did he expect that I would stay silent? Perhaps my voice is a scream in a hurricane, ineffectual and lost, but as long as I know the truth is sitting here – I am appeased. I have followed truth above all else all of my life and it leads to the contentment of one’s soul. I can only begin to imagine the demons that he has created for himself, and they must surely keep him awake at night, but at least he can soothe his anguish and fill in the cracks, with stuff and things and whimsy.
THIS BLOG WAS RE-EDITED IN RESPECT OF COMMENTS RAISED 12/11/11 (PARTICULAR UPON MY MOTHERS DEMAND THAT I DO NOT DISCUSS MY SEXUAL ABUSE HISTORY) BUT I HAVE SINCE BEEN ASKED TO INCLUDE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION, WHICH COMES DIRECTLY FROM HIS OWN FAMILY…
“David. You mentioned, people have stated he has support from his family! This is untrue! These books have been nothing but damaging to the family and it gives me nothing but heartache to see the consequences on the family of these books.
As for the rest of the Gypsy Community, the books have just helped paint “gypsies” in a very bad light generally fulfilling the stereo –types of being dishonest e.t.c. They do nothing to help address the already very prejudiced attitudes towards gypsies in our society. First of all, I would like to upload a Forensic Psycho physiological Veracity (Polygraph/lie detector test) Examination Report.
This will help catch everyone’s attention, to show I am clearly a family friend and what I am about to say over this site, has serious substance. If anyone doubts a Polygraph Test are not credible enough, let me just point a few simple facts, the company used in the report I am about to upload, is the same company that The Jeremy Kyle show uses.
Also the US federal government agencies such as the FBI and the CIA and many police departments such as the LAPD use polygraph examinations to interrogate suspects and screen new employees within the US federal government, as well as Canada uses Polygraph tests. Polygraph tests ARE conducted in Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, Northamptonshire, Rutland, Staffordshire, Warwickshire, West Mercia and the West Midlands on all Paedophiles, rapists and other sex offenders.
And very soon it will be throughout the U.K, FOR ALL SEX OFFENDERS.
Now I am sure you know what this Poly Graph Test was for:-
When the first book came out, it was massive shock to everyone who knows the family, but also to the Gypsy Community and one of the biggest shocks was the lie about Mark Stevens and his Uncle. The Comments about Mark Stevens, being sexually assaulted by his uncle Reg Stevens, (Joseph in the books) was extremely disturbing and this has been nothing but sickening for the Family to think, that Mark, could write such lies about his own family.
Paedophiles in a travellers Community is unheard of, this just would not be acceptable and the likely hood is, anyone in such a community would simple disappear! I know it is unacceptable in our society as-well, but in our society, Paedophiles would go to prison for a couple of years, then would be living in amongst us in our community again. This simple would not happen in a Gypsy Community, anyone Guilty of such a thing, would simple vanish, rightly or wrongly, but they would disappear! Reg Stevens, done the best thing he could possibly do and probably the only thing you can do when accused of such a disgraceful act and that is do a lie detector test.
This was to help me, put the truth our there about these books and to go on such sites as these and put the real story forward.”
– Philip Stuart (Family Spokesperson)