Books by Nathaniel J. Harris


Available from Amazon and discerning independent dealers.



“.. One of the UK’s leading authorities on the darks arts.” – STARBURST

“An absolute favorite teacher, author & practitioner of mine, Nathaniel Harris. He has also played a pivitol role in exposing Satanic Ritual Abuse in his hometown of Bristol, England as well as bringing awareness to the U.S. and beyond. His history, knowledge and expertise is very very broad… ” – INVΘKE, Portland

“Nathaniel Harris is the real thing.. Rest assured that you are in safe hands with Nathaniel as your teacher.” – Pat Mills

” .. A powerhouse of magick.” – Kenneth Grant

“On par with some of Crowley’s works, and I do not say that lightly.” – Mick Norris


I can be contacted by email at

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Cover Up, Crime

I today received a 2 year court order warning me that I could be jailed if I do not remove my entire website. As you can see, the website is still here – my reasonable excuse being that I have been bullied off of social media, this is the only place I can continue to advertise my work, and (as police are aware) I am being bullied by an extremely pretentious paedophile ring. This court ruling was based on a Judge’s negligent and lazy decision, itself based on the PERJURY WITH INTENT TO PERVERT THE COURSE OF JUSTICE committed by someone identified to us and to police as having been in Colin Batley’s paedophile ring. As per this ruling I have temporarily complied by removing all posts naming this individual, as well as a large number that did not – the Judge not having spent the time to fully consider and comprehend all the evidence presented to them, nor the magnitude of the situation and the danger his decision would bring to myself. Hidden on this list of individual posts created by the perjurer was the address of the website itself, and I do not believe the Judge was aware of this. At no point did the Judge specifically tell me to take down the entire website, and I had agreed to temporarily remove posts naming them. There is to be a second hearing in OCTOBER and the case is not yet concluded.

This same perjurer spreads lies about me on the internet intended not just to cover up their own crimes, and to damage my credibility, but which have already resulted in physical violence against me as well as death threats. The risk of removing all posts defending myself against their defamation, slander, and libel are thus extremely high. I am in no way in contempt of the court when I say the Judge was not aware of the full situation, which is nothing like anything he will have had to deal with before. This post is damage limitation, practically and legally, which I cannot do without at least alluding to the source of the defamation.

ALL the above were part of my parent’s social group. Yes, they all knew each other..

Their lies included a long list of the usual false accusations against myself for which there is no evidence whatsoever; including but not limited to accusations of harassment and threats. The person making these accusations is themselves guilty of harassment and threats against myself, as well as spreading defamation that has severely damaged my reputation and life. Their defamation has been shared on Reddit lists with thousands of people. There are also posts like this from Twitter troll James Hind aka ‘Satanic Views’, who feigns incapability of critical functioning and / or is knowingly and deliberately defending these same extremely sadistic paedophiles (thankfully there are new laws coming that should help shut down anonymous / fake accounts that spread such defamation). Their following at the time of publication is 619, with all posts visible to the public, even those without social media accounts of any kind.

‘James Hind’ has no rational reason to claim I am dishonest or that those I have exposed are ‘innocent victims’. I have already been cleared of such dishonesty in a court.

I shall also EASILY have the decision overturned at the proper hearing, after a fact finding – wait and see. Hind knows (s)he is a liar and loves to think their abusive posts ‘trigger’ me. I do not know who they are but I do know they are directly linked with the paedophile ring. I am patient and know this short sighted psychopath will one day be exposed and take a terrible fall. It is posts like theirs which will aid in having the case overturned, as it shows I am indeed the victim of harassment and not the perpetrator. It also shows they are directly linked to the ring – and encouraged to make such posts by the very person who has accused me of the crimes Hind is guilty of (cyberstalking, harassment, defamation, bullying) – since this information is not what I had at the time of their post made public.

New laws will hopefully soon be in place to prevent the use of anonyomous accounts to cyber-bully and spread defamation. Accounts like Hind’s will be closed down – and although there will be little to stop them making more fake accounts they will at least have been exposed for the fraud they are. Fingers crossed they might even go to jail.. although I suspect a going to jail for cyber-harassment is the least of their Satanic paedophile worries.

Why no mention of the coming hearing and the fact finding, Hind? The case is yet to be concluded. Perhaps this information is not included because it does not support your paedophile protecting lies. The reality is that the guilty are screwed big time by their own actions. It just takes a little patience. It just so happens I have beaten this same shit in court before, despite their initial lies having an effect they were exposed and their previous victory overturned. Just as one day Hind will be exposed. No ruling has been made that my allegations are false or malicious and the court order is temporary. I’ll bet Hind won’t ‘report’ on that when I beat the lies.

No that is not what will happen. We will go back to court, yes, and once there I shall offer evidence that the person who brought the spurious complaint has been trolling me with a sockpuppet / encouraging others to publish defamation. This will prove they are at best a hypocrite and an unreliable witness.

Whoever this ‘Hind’ moron is they have been posting persistent defamation of my name for a loooong time. The only reaon legal action has not been taken against them is that we cannot prove who they really are.

Most of those that join with Hind’s defamation and abuse are also sockpuppets. It is likely they are controlled by the same psycho, or were also in Batley’s ring. No sensible, rational, and critical thinking individual can fail to see there is substance to my allegations – nobody without investment in covering up for Batley’s cult ever have difficulty understanding this. Even Jasmine’s boss knows about our problems.

James Hind also a blog with so many posts about me they have their own tagline:

And WTF is this ‘Satan Hunter’ bullshit? I am not a Christian conspiracy theorist. I still publish occult books. Even Angela Power-Disney understands this, even if she thinks I still practice Chaos Magic (have I not made enough posts and statements otherwise? WTF is wrong with these people?) You’re not ‘adding up’ at all Hind.. and how did you find out about the court results the same day as they were delivered to myself and the ‘complainant’? Literally within an hour or two? Are you just perhaps the same person? James Hind is a fake account taking its name from a highwayman of Oxford folklore.. are they perhaps Mogg Morgan, also identified as having been in Batley’s cult? You do realise this order only defends TWO of those identified, right? And even then only because of a highly questionable legal loophole. I can also still tell you it was the entire current leadership of the Illuminates of Thanateros, that my parents Ann & Adrian Brynn-Evans were involved, along with their friend and Jasmine’s ex-partner Peter Pracownick.

The Hind account is not the only account that has been trolling, threatening, harassing and defaming me. They are all anonymous accounts, putting me at a disadvantage since everything I post is in my own name.

The court hearing itself was by telephone due to Covid. Despite the government website stating quite clearly that there would be the opportunity to present document electronically, and that details of where to send such documents would be given on the day, the Judge denied me the right to present my evidence. Additionally, despite the paper against me being a 100 page diatribe of lies, which he had clearly not read properly since they simply do not ‘add up’, I was restricted to a mere 10 page reply with 10 pages of evidence. Thankfully this has prove enough to present the evidence required to prove the case bringer a liar – neglecting to mention they are a leading figure in a black magic cult clearly implicated in a very real paedophile ring, members of which are already in jail – all of which there is significant evidence for, even with unfair the limitation placed upon me.

I am in the process of appealing the Court’s decision, which acts to place myself in further danger and protects the paedophiles from exposure. I am a professional author and artist who has already had their career damaged by the bullying and harassment of the very person who applied for the ruling – this person being guilty of criminal conspiracy and extreme child abuse. While I have removed any articles naming this person I will not concede to a ruling that is not only a miscarriage of justice but which could also severely damage my income as well as leave me undefended against a barrage of online defamation largely originating with the liar that brought the court case in the first place.

I have also registered a complaint against the Judge for proceeding along a false premise he should, if he had been as careful as the responsibility he is given requires, have been able to see through. Since the proceeding was recorded this should be cut and dry.

It is bad enough having to deal with all the defamation and bullying I have suffered on and offline from these people, all of which will be presented as evidence in my appeal. There will also be a drawn out case in which the liar should – when evidence is presented – be exposed to the court as an unreliable witness who has committed perjury in an attempt to pervert the course of justice. This in itself could prove invaluable when seeing the guilty’s eventual prosecution.

In 2013 it was found in court that I am not the source of the disclosures on which the allegations are made, and nor are these disclosures the only evidence. The Judge said we had been failed by the system. It became clear that we were innocent, and that those that had been brought in as witnesses were all unreliable. No gagging order was placed on me with regards to speaking or writing about the case. I will not accept a gagging order based on an ill informed decision made by a Judge who does not know all the facts. However costly it becomes I will fight such decisions all the way.

If and when Hind’s true identity is revealed we shall of course be taking legal action against them.. and more besides.

I have said all I need to and the ruling will make no real difference. The only reason my blog ever goes on about these Id-IOTs is in response to them having a pop at me. Without it I would just be getting along with writing I can earn money from. If they had never abused anyone I would have remained as a clown (Circus and nightclubs.. I was never a children’s entertainer) and would never have written another occult book. I would literally have wandered off and left them with ‘the field’. I am quite inclined to do this anyway since the kids they abused are now adults – they no longer need my protection and must now stand up for themselves rather than keeping schtum and making me look bad for trying to help in the first place.

All I want is for this to be over so I can get on with my life. I am 51 this year and time just seems to go by faster.


Updated 23.20 – Hind doesn’t know when he’s been beaten and is still spreading defamation.

  1. Hind’s tweets are illegal defamation intended to confound serious disclosures of a very real proven to exist paedophile ring. 2. He most certainly DOES have connection with the ring, as has been proven by his own blog posts, many of which repeat the same defamation as they do, and some of which even names them as his source, as well as interacting with them online. If there is no connecetion then HOW DID HE KNOW ABOUT THE COURT RULING??? Did SATAN tell him? What a dumbass liar. Again, it is clear ‘they’ (it is not at all implausible the account is controlled by more than one person) have a vested interest because nobody is that obtuse by accident 3. His blog posts just seriously undermined the very court case this moron is ‘celebrating’ as a ‘success’. What a moron.

I think most people reading this will see I am being rational and not having some kind of ‘melt down’. What hubris to think I am posting this for any other reason than it proves I am the target of defamation and a hate campaign linking directly back to the paedo ring. Hind has NO PROOF AT ALL to justify their stance, whereas the links between those already jailed and those we identified are easily shown, along with a growing amount of other evidence, of which the James Hind account’s defamation plays a small part. It is so stupid it is almost funny.. even while the situation remains so grave. Hind takes SADISTIC delight in imagining they can ‘push my buttons’.. just like the person they are defending. Hmmmmmmmm…..

As for Ann Drogyne – she must surely be intelligent enough to know I don’t go off at ‘randoms’, and it is suspect she should support this idea since it originates with the paedophile ring. This is the same person who made a video about me calling me ugly and misquoting me as claiming I had slept with hundreds of women (I said I had a lot of lovers when I was still young and pretty, but never said what genders they were.. they have included the entire spectrum including TWO born intersex lovers. I love people for being people and don’t really care what genders they are.. and I’m not sorry if that offends any mad Xtian anti-LGBTV bigots). She also made false claims that I trolled her accounts and had to be blocked over YouTube. Sorry Ann, I have never had any interest in you apart from that you are consorting with cyber-bullies while claiming to be a campaigner against the very same behaviour. And this was in response to my video with Attwood (thankfully now removed since association with him causes more harm than good) where I had been candid about our case and was clearly suffering just having to talk about it. “If you’re going to put yourself out there you have to be prepared to take it” she said – as if I was ‘putting myself out there’ for any reason other than to expose the criminals that put guns to people’s heads and force them to rape children on camera.

She is well aware that cyber-bullying can drive people to suicide and sides with the worst cyber-bullies imaginable – extremely pretentious paedophiles and their ‘defenders’. Thank Gods she is no longer a police officer. I am certainly not upset that she doesn’t find me attractive and have no idea what she would find fascinating about me under any circumstances. I do however know her narcissistic arrogance will be her own downfall and I am glad not to be her. The comments under the video on YouTube say it all..


UPDATE 16/07/2021 – Further misinformation that needs addressing, should any of Hind’s black sheep care to bleat and different bleat..

The complaint was logged yesterday (Thursday). It should take around 20 days to be processed. Is Hind claiming now to be able to divine the future? Because I don’t think much of their talent! ROFLMPO (rolling on the floor laughing my paradigm off).

Richard Huckle – Britain’s Worst Paedophile Who Was Murdered In Jail

Crime, Paedophilia

A few things stand out for me regarding this case;

Firstly, just how many of the extreme paedophiles work with children – Huckle himself, but also the ringleader of ‘Love Zone’. Such positions of trust not only provide access to children but the betrayal of trust itself seems to be a huge part of their kick. This means trust has to first be gained, and it seems those who dedicate their lives to the sexual exploitation of children often become adept at garnering misplaced trust. At least two of those we know to have been involved in the ‘Satanic’ paedophile ring of Colin Batley work closely with children, while others they are involved with (not identified to us.. but not necessarily innocent) work in ‘care’ and social services.

Second, that Huckle was also known to ‘teach’ children in India but no follow up investigation was made by either UK or Indian authorities. When we met Colin Batley he also said he spent a lot of time in India, as do a number of those we know to have been involved with his cult, at least two of which advertise themselves as ‘Tantrics’. India seems to be a popular destination for paedophile ‘sex tourists’.

Thirdly, that Huckle was ultimately caught because he was sharing child abuse images and films online. It seems the online paedo problem is so huge, with many making themselves ‘low hanging fruit’, that investigation teams spend most of their time on the easy targets. Those who are smart enough not to share images over the internet remain unlikely to get caught since without this what proof can there be beyond the disclosures of the abused – which are only very very rarely (bordering on NEVER) treated appropriately by police / the Crown Prosecution Service?

Fourthly, I believe Huckle is only named as ‘the worst’ because the true extent of the Batley cult crimes have yet to come to light. Regardless of what certain liars insist, the cult did indeed abuse children in ritual and those rituals were most definitely ‘Satanic’ – with Batley and cronies revelling in their acts of ‘evil’. One day they will be caught – they are too high profile and too arrogant to get away with it forever.. note that sentences for child abuse have been INCREASED since Batley’s prosecution, meaning those of his cult would have served MUCH les time had they handed themselves in in the first place rather than waiting to accumulate further charges of conspiracy, perverting the course of justice, encouraging others such as to ‘troll’ and spread defamation about those speaking up about them, etc. and their clear lack of remorse. It might not be a popular opinion but my fingers remain crossed that the death sentence will be returned for scum like Huckle.. certainly, nobody is unhappy about his murder.



“This an intriguing tale of Satan worship, drug abuse, obsession and murder that had me whizzing through the book in no time at all. The prose is written at a break neck pace which never slows as we follow the strange and meandering tale of Nigel, a young boy whose obsession with serial killers is taken out of text books and into reality. The knowledge and research of the author is well done here, from the serial killers to satanic practices to drug abuse. I always like to be taught something in a book I read, and this offered some intriguing nuggets of wisdom throughout its pages, although I wouldn’t like ask where all this knowledge comes from. 🙂 Highly recommended. I loved it.” – J R PARKS, SINISTER HORROR COMPANY

“Have a taste for the extreme? You found it within the pages of this story of a hapless writer who becomes the unwitting instrument of a serial killer’s twisted desire to impart his knowledge of and experience with killing in the form of a “confession.” Nigel Skinner possesses a ghoulish mind and certainly ranks high on the list of the most sadistic characters to ever grace the pages of horror fiction. Author Mortlock’s plotting is superb; his ability to write scenes of blood and gore are grisly and engrossing, and the story moves at an almost frantic pace to its utterly terrifying end. From start to finish, I found this story gloriously repulsive and impossible to put down.
And what makes this story truly chilling? That nagging thought that stays in the back of your mind throughout that the events so aptly described could actually happen. And, long after you have finished the story, the equally troubling thought that many such events have happened countless times in the past, and will likely happen again in the future. A pair of truly frightening thoughts.But good horror fiction breeds those kinds of thoughts, and this is a perfect example of it in its purest and bloodiest form, and by a writer that knows all too well how to leave you shivering in dread and loathing. Nicely done, Mr. Mortlock, a genuine Five-Star effort. – RICHARD RAVEN

As a young teenager, still seeking an outlet for my baulked instincts, I discovered a passion for literature; Patrick Süskind’s Perfume, Gillian Flynn’s Sharp Objects, Tana French’s In the Woods, Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me, Rex Miler’s Frenzy and Slob, Colin Wilson’s The Killer and The Collector, Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs and the Hannibal Lector series, Debra Webb’s Faces of Evil, Dan Wells’s I Am Not a Serial Killer and the John Cleaver series, Ian Banks’s The Wasp Factory, Poppy Z. Brite’s Exquisite Corpse, Woony Lea’s Jack Knifed, Stephen King’s Full Dark, No Stars, Brett Easton Ellis’s American Psycho, and not forgetting the original Psycho by Robert Bloch, to name just a few outstanding titles in this fine narrative tradition.

A particular favourite was Simin Wolfe’s Satan’s Apprentice. It is, in my humble opinion, an undervalued classic, even if some critics do say it goes too far. Easily identifying with the main character, an outsider to society like myself, I was carried away by the lyrical prose of mutilation and murder. This book, more than any other, was a huge inspiration to me. I would not be who I am today if I had never read it.

All the best serial killer fiction is inspired by real crimes; not just books, but also films. Psycho and Texas Chainsaw Massacre were both based on Ed Gein. As was Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs, with other details being lifted from the crimes of Bundy, who faked injury to get close to his victims, Gary ‘Green River’ Ridgeway, who violated his victims with foreign objects and dumped them in the woods, and Jerry Brudos, who dressed in his victim’s clothes. Harris has also written a whole series around Hannibal Lector, who was based on Dr. Alfredo Balli Trevino, a physician who murdered and mutilated his lover and his best friends, and probably many others. Plus the movie of Silence of the Lambs came out at the same time as Dahmer’s arrest, with the press tying his legend to the movie.

Serial killers have generated huge incomes for the entertainment industry. Scorpio, the killer in the first Dirty Harry movie, is clearly based on the Zodiac Killer. The Scream killer, with his ghost faced mask, is based on Danny Rolling, ‘The Gainsville Ripper’, who like Bundy and Stu in the movie killed with the intention of getting famous. More recently, the killings of Dennis Rader inspired the TV series The Fall. There are countless other examples.

My appetite for bloodthirsty literature gew fiercer still. I sought out books on real murders; ‘True Crime’, countless ghoulish biographies, and wherever possible the actual testimonies, confessions, diaries, and anything else said or written by serial killers themselves. I was surprised to learn just how many real life killers are, like me, keen readers of fiction. Wherever they mentioned books they enjoyed I made sure to seek out copies.

John Fowle’s The Collector is particularly popular, with Christopher Wilder ‘The Kansas City Butcher’ actually being found with a copy on his body after he shot himself. Leonard Lake and Charles Ng also confessed to being inspired by it.

Another favourite with a number of killers is J. D. Sallinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Mark Chapman, the man who shot John Lennon, infamously quoted from the book during his trial. John Hinkley Jr. had a copy among his belongings when he was arrested for the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan. Robert Bardo, who murdered the actress Rebecca Schaeffer back in 1989, also had a copy among his possessions when he was arrested.

Jeff Lindsay’s Dexter series, which has been made into a TV show, inspired 17 year old Andrew Conley to strangle his 10 year old brother. Canadian man Mark Twitchell, who lured two men to his ‘movie studio’ to play parts in what they had been told was a fictional movie about a serial killer, was also a fan. He was arrested after one of his victims escaped and continues to watch the series in prison. Here in England Mark Howe, who used a still of Dexter’s blood splattered face for his profile picture on FaceBook, slashed his own mother 53 times with a 12″ knife before leaving her to bleed to death on the bedroom floor. Another 17 year old Steven Miles has been jailed for 25 years after stabbing his girlfriend to death and dismembering her body. During his sentencing the court heard that Miles had a fascination with horror films and wanted to emulate Lindsay’s fictional serial killer.

Another is Stephen King’s Rage, originally published under the name Richard Bachman, which was taken out of publication after no less than three school shootings and hostage takings were linked to the book.

I soon became fascinated by the strange paradox between the killers of fiction and the killers of reality. I resolved to seek out copies of every books mentioned in the confessions, testimonies, trials and interviews with the real life serial killers, spree killers, and mass murderers I found myself researching. I spent long hours pondering on the implications of these fiction inspired crimes. Was violent and bloodthirsty fiction really responsible for the atrocities they apparently inspired? Is ‘life imitating art’ a legitimate argument for instigating violent crime, or are there more deeply rooted issues involved?

By 16 years old my library included many strange and unusual texts. I found myself reading not just fiction but philosophy too. Serial killers are often surprisingly deep thinkers. Each has their own unique approach to the eternal questions; the meaning of life and the purpose of death.

Many, such as the UK’s own Ian Brady, cite Nietzsche as an influence. Of particular interest are Twilight of the Idols and The Antichrist, which discuss such essential matters as the nature of guilt, the conscience, empathy for the weak and infirm, and why such defunct Christian ideals only serve to poison modern society like standing water. Brady’s own book Gates of Janus is also a must read for anyone thinking of taking up the hobby.

Richard Ramirez, Bobby Beausoleil, The Son of Sam, and a number of others are known to have been inspired by Anton LaVey’s The Satanic Bible, with its inversion of the 10 Commandments, advocating freedom from society’s false restrictions and the indulgence of our darker instincts. There are also some interesting notes on ‘victim psychology’, observing how some people seem to actively seek out situations where they will be bullied, abused, or even murdered. So what is wrong with giving people a little of what they want?

Continuing with my research I found a surprising number of slayers, from The Zodiac Killer to the more recent Pazuzu, had been influenced by occultism of one kind or another. Not just serial killers but spree killers too.

According to the FBI commissioned report, The Official Causes of the Columbine Massacre, the ‘Trench Coat Brigade’ had been passing a number of books beween them during the months before they shot up their school. Besides LaVey’s works they were also reading up about secrete societies such as The Bavarian Illuminati, with fnord references throughout their diaries and in messages passed between them in class. Of particular interest among their library was Peter J. Carroll’s Liber Null & Psychonaut, the training manual for the black magic order he founded to herald in the Age of Chaos. Much to my surprise the file also mentions that the author is a resident of Bristol.

I constructed a shrine in my bedroom to the famous and not so famous serial killers and mass murderers of history. Most teenagers have pictures of pop stars on their walls, or their favourite football team. I had Bundy, Gein, Manson, Ramirez.. Dedicating the shrine, and myself, to the powers of Darkness I burned black candles, performed simple rituals, and gave prayers to that part of myself I identify with Satan; the source of my Telos or ‘True Will’.

Much to my delight I also found an online supplier catering to the ever expanding market of modern Satanism – for truly we are many – The Luciferian Apothecary. Borrowing my father’s credit card I purchased a red handled ritual dagger, its 9″ double edged blade inscribed with infernal sigils. With this knife I sacrificed on my shrine the family cat. Everybody has to start somewhere.

This is the story of how, from these simple beginnings, I came to be the serial killer I am today. Just as I was inspired by the books I read, be they fiction, confession, or philosophy, I hope my own humble offering will inspire others. May these pages be stained with blood and the hands that turn them choke a million necks.


From EVERYBODY NEEDS A HOBBY, a novella by Nathaniel J Harris, published as Nathan Mortlock, 2015

Available from Amazon UK USA



“Right up my street.” – Pat Mills, creator of 2000AD

THE BODY-BAG is brought into the mortuary and the corpse of William Burroughs placed on the slab beneath glaring strip lights. The room is decrepit and less than sterile. The tiled walls are cracked and there is the stinging aroma of toxic chemicals and human decay. The air conditioning is no equal to the sweltering Interzone weather and every surface is crawling with fat blue flies.

Voices are muffled, not so much out of respect for the dead author’s work as from a strange dread. The mortuary is like one vast memento mori and what is about to happen to William Burroughs reminds us all that the body is a temple. Like any temple it can be looted, its precious treasures scattered, its secrets and mysteries exposed.

Dr. Benway enters the room wearing surgical gloves, a white pathologist’s gown and the ceremonial mask of Anubis. He addresses the paying audience.

“Ladies, gentlemen, critics.”

It is an indication that he is about to begin.

A microphone hangs within a few feet of the slab. Benway turns to the technician.

“Is this thing on, Kiki?”

Kiki gives a grinning thumbs up. He is a gleeful boy with copper bright red hair, familiar enough with Dr. Benway to have prepared everything for the arrival of the deceased.

Photographers snap away, recording for posterity each stage of the process. Having stripped the corpse naked Benway points to a few areas meriting particular close-ups.

“Bruises consistent with heroin use, veins collapsed. No surprises there. Our subject was a self confessed addict and boy lover, not just a homosexual – take note – but a paedophile with a taste for Arab boys as young as 9 or 10. His one attempt at a heteronormative relationship ended with him shooting his wife in the head. All this suggests his addiction may have masked deep self loathing and was perhaps an attempt to control, if not completely deaden, his socially unacceptable sexual desires and attendant guilt.”

Benway removes a small sheet concealing what little remains of Burrough’s modesty. The penis has all but rotted away whilst his inflated testicles stretch their purple and black sack as tight and as large as party balloons.

Gasps from the audience. Someone throws up into their sick-bag, provided at the door upon entry.

“His balls weren’t that big when he was alive, in case you were wondering. That’s what we call dropsie, decaying fluids pooling beneath the skin. You see here where he’s been going into the groin, turning the whole area black. Onset of gangrene. Had probably been impotent for decades but that doesn’t mean he was wasn’t sexually active. Or passive, for that matter. I’m now rolling over the body.”

William Burrough’s lifeless buttocks hang like dirty grey dishcloths, their cold blue tinged skin striped with taut white scars.

“Clear signs of flagellation, possibly self administered. We shall now examine the anus.”

Benway parts the cheeks to reveal an orifice big enough to put your foot in, if it is a large foot and you really want to put it there. Just as you think his descriptive monologue could not get any worse, it does. You try to concentrate on what he is saying but it is not easy. Something about friction wounds, relentless dispassionate penetration and reverse engineered alien technology.

Someone in the audience faints.

Dr. Benway produces a crumpled Camel cigarette. He pokes it through the mouth hole of his mask and lights it with an army issue zipper

Measurements, a physical description – six feet one inch tall, grey hair, face like a turtle, that kind of thing. Fingernail scrapings and clippings are disposed of in polythene bags. The body is washed from head to foot in a concoction with a heady smell like spiced wine, after which Dr. Benway gives the body another cursory examination. Finding nothing new he gets down to the serious business we all bought tickets for.

A deep incision is made down the front of the torso. Ash from Benway’s cigarette topples into the gaping wound. Blood samples are taken and handed to Seth, who places them neatly beside a row of empty glass jars. More samples are taken; urine, faeces, stomach contents, liver, body hair (including eyebrows, eyelashes, pubic) and tissue.

Benway makes an aside to the audience.

“What we can see, the external evidence, is often not as important as what we can’t see. The tiny secrets revealed only by a microscope or chemical test.”

The process is long, drawn out. There is impatient muttering among the audience.

“Not boring you, am I?”

He reaches his hands into the corpse’s chest and forces open the ribs with an audible crack.

You close your eyes but the room swirls all the same. It is not so much the sight of the examination as the accompanying sounds. Tearing of flesh, like a butcher yanking meat from a flank. Bubbling liquids. The soft rasping of the cutting tools. Not just the sounds but the smell, too. The unmistakable aroma of raw meat, clinging to the nostrils, filling the lungs, catching at the back of the throat and clinging there, the tang in the mouth you can actually taste.

The abdominal organs – stomach, liver, intestines – are all removed and taken to a clean slab. Kiki washes them down with more spiced wine before transporting them to their waiting jars. As he washes down the cadaver’s hollowed out insides Dr. Benway presents the subject’s heart to the audience, waving it aloft in one hand whilst prodding it with the tip of his scalpel. It is around the size of a clenched fist, tubes flapping like pieces of rubber.

“The average human heart weighs in at around 11ozs, although of course it may feel subjectively heavier or lighter depending on our emotions. We see here significant hardening of external tissues, whilst these valves here, dealing with the flow of empathy and love for other human beings, have completely sealed over. Burroughs himself insisted that nobody ever loved him during his life apart from his cats.”

Benway returns the heart to its original place within the hollowed out cavity of Burrough’s chest.

Electric buzzing and the scraping of metal against bone as Benway’s circular saw cuts around Burrough’s skull. The job is soon done, but not before several more of the audience have fainted.

He takes hold of the top of the head with both hands and pulls. The whole room holds its breath.

There is a sickening shclupping sound.

The cranium in Benway’s hands looks like a bad toupee of thin grey hair. He places it upside down on the slab and stubs out his Camel in the empty bone bowl. He next turns his attention to the open head, digging his fingers into either side. There is a faint popping as he removes the brain. He holds it triumphantly aloft before the audience. It looks like a giant walnut made of grey and white jelly.

“Ladies, gentlemen. The moment you’ve all been waiting for. William Burrough’s soft machine.”

Gasps, vomiting, more fainting.

“Same size overall as any normal brain, weighing in at around 3lbs, despite having been pickled with every drug known to mankind. The hippocampus here at the back is shrivelled to almost nothing. It is often enlarged in sexual deviants but he put a lot of stress on himself, mentally and physically. The hippocampus also plays a role in immune system function. When its efficiency is compromised, so too is the immune system.”

He flips the brain into the air, spinning it like a basketball before catching it again.

“Also significant reduction in this area of the frontal cortex dealing with ethics, responsibility and conscience. Proportional increase in these right brain areas dealing with creativity, imagination and hustling. We can also see a huge capacity for delusion and self deceit. Again, no surprise considering his obsessions with magick and his well documented involvement with kooky secret societies like the Illuminates of Thanateros.”

Seth proffers a large lidless jar of clear fluid. Benway dumps the brain with asplosh.

The cranium is returned to its rightful place and the whole body covered with natron salt. After that it is stuffed with linen, giving it a fuller look, and wrapped in bandages.

Dr. Benway concludes with a sonorous recitation from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Something about the scales of Maat, whatever that is, and the weighing of hearts against a feather. It is long, boring and ludicrously pretentious. Everyone is glad when it is over.

The room is left in silent introspection. Each of us present is made of the same stuff as William Burroughs and now we stand, momentarily stripped of our individual personalities. We are all bodies, animals, collections of viscera. The only real difference between any of us and Burroughs is that our hearts still pump blood. But one day soon all of our hearts will have stopped and that will be the end of it, save for a visit to the mortuary and, if our hearts are not too heavy, our journey to the Western Lands.


From KHAOS AT TRINITY ROAD & OTHER STORIES by Nathaniel J Harris, published as Nathan Motlock, 2019

Available from Amazon UK USA



“For a story that couldn’t be more removed from the safe fixations of Mr WHSmith himself, Nick Hornby, there’s something undeniably Hornby-esque about Harris’s urbanely direct style and his deployment of comedy to best communicate the emotional roller-coaster of growing up.  Because for all the fire, ire and portents of stranger things to come, this is really about a boy.” STARBURST

Chapter 14

MY HAIR soon grew back, my double crown making natural spikes that I couldn’t comb flat if I wanted to. I let the boots get scuffed and tatty, as much through laziness as any kind of statement. The Crombie acquired a distressed and dishevelled aesthetic, which was a statement, as it wound the skinheads up something rotten. Although ensuring I couldn’t be mistaken for a fascist I continued to hang out in the graveyard whenever I was in town.

At school I was called out of class to speak to the headmistress. My Great Aunt Clarice had written a letter concerned about the company she had seen me keeping in town. The headmistress showed it to me and said, “Your Aunt Clarice sounds like a right meddling old so-and-so. I’m glad to hear you’ve been making new friends. They might dress unusually but they seem like nice enough lads to me.”

Greg started ranting about punks and skins being wasters, tarring them all as violent thugs. It was clear he was intimidated, “Don’t you dare point me out to them.”

He became less inclined to bully me, although I was also spending longer periods away from home, not coming back from school on Friday and not being seen again until Monday evening, if then.

I found a copy of Nietzsche’s The Antichrist, which wasn’t in the library but was available in an affordable Penguin classics edition, doubled with Twilight of the Idols. Its central premise, as far as I could tell, was that Christian mercy had lead to the genetic, mental and spiritual degeneration of the Germanic peoples. God was dead and it was down to humanity to redeem itself, which it can only do by embracing all that has previously been deemed inhumane. The implications were chilling, especially considering who had recommended the book to me; illiterate skinhead thugs were dangerous enough, but skinheads reading philosophy took things to a new level.

What interested me the most was the revelation that there were punks and skinheads who were interested in reading. An idea began to form, which I discussed with Olly and Ambrose, who we knew would also be interested. I borrowed my parent’s typewriter and got permission to make use of the Ecology Party‘s old printer. Within just a few days we had the first and only issue of our 12 page mini- publication, its spiky lettered logo with an anarchy sign ‘A’ and an eight rayed star, familiar to any Advanced Dungeons & Dragons player, in place of the ‘O’; issue 1 of KAOS, featuring ‘The Adventures of Victor Vomit’. It was nowhere near as successful as we anticipated. We sold perhaps three copies. The others were disheartened.

“It doesn’t have enough pictures. We should try again with different content,” I said.

They weren’t up for it, but Mum was. We got to work, this time ditching the typewriter and illustrating the pages with biro pressed hard into carbon stencils. I drew a cartoon of Margaret Thatcher, various parts of her anatomy labelled with jibes about her evil policies and holding her responsible for mass unemployment, wrote a recipe for Punk Rock Cakes, and Mum wrote the script for a comic strip about a hard-core punk bear in tartan bondage trousers, all written in rhyme. His name was ‘Gluepot the Bear’;

Walking down the underpass, Kick the Mods up the arse. Walking through the streets at night, Gluepot’s looking for a fight. Blue rinsed granny stops to stare, “Why you starin’ at my hair? “My hair’s green and yours is blue, “Dying hair ain’t nothing new. “Do you call that thing a hat? “You wouldn’t catch me wearing that!” Blue rinsed granny screams dismay, He grabs the hat and runs away. How to stop this naughty fella? She lands him one with her umbrella!

The Anti-Social Comment, issue 1, was a run of around 40 copies, and shifted faster than you could say ‘Revenge of the Thenkels’. I sold them in the school playground and to a handful of teachers. Mr. Mortlock was its biggest fan, secretly helping me print up more copies on the school’s photocopier, which I then sold to the punks in the graveyard. Olly took a handful to sell at his own school. Out of the 20p cover price I made 5p profit on every sale, 20p each on a bundle of 5 to sell on yourself, which back then meant a lot of cigarettes and cider.

It was too much work for one person on their own. It took me a month to finish each issue, if I dedicated all my free time. Olly and Ambrose were back in, and we worked as a team providing content and editing input from whoever had responded to our inter-school call-out. For some reason they didn’t like my title Anti-Social Comment, and it seemed like going backwards to start again with KAOS so we came up with a new magazine.

It took us about a month to finish all the layout with scissors and glue. Gluepot the Bear was back, along with a pastiche of Dennis the Menace as a spiky haired weed smoking teenager, and a 2000 AD inspired strip about a gang of mutant punks in post nuclear Britain called ‘The Rad Crew’ (‘rad’ was, in common parlance at the time, short for ‘radical’, although in this sense it also meant ‘radioactive’). Issue one of The Lucrative Income Express, or The L.I.E. for short, brought to you by Petrolbomb Productions, was printed in ‘hit-and-run’ chunks on a number of photocopiers in various schools. At a cover price of 25p, almost all of which was profit, it sold perhaps 200 copies across Colchester. Selling to strangers meant turning many of them into new friends, some of whom were happy to buy a bundle of L.I.E.s to sell on.


John Smith, Simon Key and Owain Ashworth all went to St. Helena’s and were already a ‘gang’ before they invited me in as the ‘brains’.

Owain’s father was a criminal lawyer, and most of the time any hassle from the police dissolved as soon as he gave his name. John’s parents had bought a flat for him to live in, alone, while they were out of the country, had hired a cleaner and carer to look out for him, and had given him his own black MasterCard, although it was for emergencies only and he always insisted he had no more money than the rest of us. His pad became our usual club house. Simon’s parents (his mum was called Anna Key!) were of a more ‘civilian’ social standing, although none of us were thinking in such terms, and were all exceptionally large. I never saw him hurt anyone but he looked like he definitely could, although when we had a play fights he said I was too rough and looked like me might cry.

We all wore studded leather jackets with the collars turned up, DM boots, bondage trousers, and dark sunglasses. By then I had reached a compromise with school and had a rudimentary mohican with short hair at the sides, shaved only during holidays and during prolonged periods of suspension.

Owain lived not far from the middle of town in a house. He shared his bedroom with his younger brother and about twenty hamsters. He bred them, and sold them on at his school for extra pocket money. It stank in there. We would meet up on Friday after school and I would stay over until Monday morning. Simon Key lived just around the corner so we would all three of us meet there and do our hair, which involved enough hairspray to single handedly destroy the ozone layer, and a pot of gel which had been left open for a week to dehydrate, making it thick and gloopy. During the holidays we dyed our hair with ‘Crazy Colours’; I had a red mohican so tall I needed help making it stand up. We all worked together to back-comb in the hair-gel and spray, then used the tube of the electric hoover to suck it into gigantic spikes.

Dressing like this and hanging out on the streets of Colchester meant attracting a lot of attention from tourists. Back then, punk was so ‘British’ they were on postcards; indeed we had the phrase ‘postcard punk’, meaning someone who had managed to make a modelling career out of their style. If we looked outrageous enough, all we had to do was sit around near the war memorial outside the Castle Park and tourists would give us money to take our photographs. Owain would often bring a hamster with him, and he got extra money for posing like he was about to bite its head off. If they failed to give us enough money we would take their camera and ransom it back to them.

Despite looking like we ate people’s pets we were well behaved kids. When we weren’t hanging around town ‘being punks’ we gathered around one of the boy’s houses to play role playing games. Once again I found myself running games of Tunnels & Trolls, although this gave way to another more ‘grown up’ game based on the occult horror stories of H. P. Lovecraft; Call of Cthulhu. This also introduced me to the existence of grimoires – the traditional books of magical rituals employed by sorcerers, magicians and witches. We were also fans of the original fiction upon which the game was based, which were at that time available in affordable omnibus editions, which we bought between us and passed around.

Another game was Dragon Quest, which had a ‘magic system’ divided into six ‘schools’; four were after the elements (earth, air, fire and water), the fifth was necromancy, while the sixth was the school of summoning. It was also based on a real grimoire, perhaps the most infamous of them all; The Goetia, called also The Lesser Key of Solomon.

I decided I would gain myself a copy of this grimoire as soon as possible.

We did our best to avoid violence, and to give the impression we specialized in it. We developed a kind of improvised theatre; if the gang was threatened we all went quiet, everyone standing around me in formation as John removed my sunglasses. I stared down our potential challenger, fixing my gaze directly between their eyebrows with unwavering discipline. If this wasn’t enough to psychologically unsettle them I clicked my fingers and Owain produced the gang’s only packet of cigarettes, placing one delicately between my lips, my gaze still fixed. When I clicked a second time Simon produced a zipper and lit it. If this failed, we all ran. I was always easiest to catch, and the only one who got beaten up, but it was great fun giving it a go. Plus, it impressed the girls.

We were taken the piss out off by the hard core punks, but soon found better company. On the other side of The Museum of Agriculture the graveyard continued opposite a pub called The Three Cups. It had started to attract a lot of alternative types; Hells Angels with Coggeshal Bastards patches, punks of every kind from working class hard-core to ‘society’ punks in gem studded dog collars, art and music students, a small but ominous cloud of what would come to be known as ‘goths’, and a variety of others who eschewed definition but were definitely not ‘normal’. They wouldn’t let us in as we were too young, but on sunny days everyone sat outside on the wall or among the gravestones. It was a good place to hang out with a bottle of Merrydown, pretending to be grown-ups.

There was another pub called The Lodge, also a regular haunt for punks and bikers, where they had installed the first Video-Jukebox any of us had seen. Since only shit MTV bands got videos made there wasn’t a lot of choice, so it played ‘Shock Treatment’ by The Ramones on almost constant repeat. People came all the way from London to party there at weekends. Any time I tried to get in I got picked up under my arms and thrown out the door, which was great fun in itself. The venue didn’t last long, however. After a night where the landlord put up a sign on the bar offering ‘Free Pints!’, even honouring those who asked for a pint of vodka, there was a terrible fire after closing time. Nobody was harmed, and ‘luckily’ both brewery and landlord were covered by insurance.

Other occasional venues included The Hole in the Wall, a pub on the Roman wall which was OK but never played music, The Oliver Twist, which had a circular ‘whiskey bar’, attracted a lot of bikers, and had a stage for bands to play, and The Dickens Hotel, which was run by the same landlord. Although none of them would serve us, they provided a circuit of different pubs to hang around outside as we drank from our litre plastic bottles, weather permitting.

One weekend, as I was wandering through town on my way to the graveyard, I spotted Sonia from school, hanging around outside British Homestores.

“Sonia, how you doing?” I said.

“Erm.. you need to get out of here..”

I thought for a moment she might be with a boyfriend or something, forgetting she wasn’t allowed any.

Then I heard a voice from behind me cry out, “Exorcise him!”

The next thing I knew Sonia was grabbing hold of me and crying out, “Yes, exorcize him!”

They were all around me, laying their hands all over me and praying in that contrived gobbledegook that passes for ‘talking in tongues’.

Well rehearsed in escaping large groups of people, from bullies at school to gang warfare, I knew exactly what to do; I hit the ground and ran between their legs on all fours, too small to catch as I freed myself from the circle, then leaped up and ran for it. I might have stuck around but I was worried their exorcism might work – and what then?

I could tell that Sonia liked me, even if she was reluctant to admit it, but there was no way I was going to persuade her to have any fun, not with no fun demented parents.


I didn’t see it happen myself, although I heard about it from both sides and the stories more or less matched. Greg had been in town, and had paused by the shops opposite the graveyard to roll himself a cigarette. One of the skinheads, possibly Granny, approached him.

According to what I heard in the graveyard, the words spoken were, “Do you have a light?”

According to Greg they were, “Do you want a fight?”

Greg took out the first skinhead with a single foot-sword, karate style, to the throat.

As the gang backed away Greg picked up a dustbin and landed it over one’s head. The rest ran into Mother Care, throwing clothing rails and pushchairs behind them as Greg chased them through the aisles. It was legendary, with many people claiming to have witnessed it who couldn’t possibly have been there.

After that, Greg wasn’t scared of the skinheads any more – it was the other way around – so there didn’t seem like much point in hanging out with them any more.


Cross country was a lot less dangerous after the show of the M16. I also made friends with the fat kid that was always coming in just ahead of me. One day I was sure I had overtaken him, but when I puffed and panted my way through the school gates he was already there, beating me by a minute. When I asked him how he did it he admitted his house’s garden backed on to the wasteland. He had gone inside and sat down, waited for everyone to make their way past the front door, then followed along behind. From then on that is what I did too. There was just about enough time to finish a cigarette.


Silas was born sometime in 1984. I can’t remember what month it was. He looked like a miniature Greg, but with curly blonde hair. I now had two half brothers, which might have added up to one full brother, but didn’t. I had little to do with the house dwellers by then and felt an outsider to this new family.

Now there was the baby there was need of extra money. Greg decided to rent out the caravan. For a while, at least, I was allowed to move back into the house. Although I had heard my parents arguing from the end of the garden I didn’t realise until this time how far things had escalated.

One day, when Owain had come to visit and had been staying with me in the attic, Greg kicked off. He began by taking a sledge-hammer to some kitchen units that had been gifted to us by Uncle Dennis and Aunty Alice, which for some reason were still in the back garden where they had been since being delivered. Then there was screaming from downstairs in the kitchen. Owain stayed put, his face turned grey. The screaming stopped and the back door slammed. I heard Greg get in the car and drive away, then went downstairs. As I walked past Jasper’s room I saw him huddled up under his blankets, trying to block it all out.

In the kitchen, Silas was still in his high chair, crying. Mum lay on the kitchen floor, blood pouring from her head where Greg had hit her with a plate, smashing it.

I think the neighbours must have taken her to hospital. It’s hard to remember. I think she needed stitches.

A little while later the new lodger moved into the caravan. I think the lodger’s name might have been Mark, but I’m not sure. He was a Christian, having converted after his split from a hereditary witchcraft coven. The priesthood had been passed to his older brother, Tony Skinner, who had allegedly attempted to murder him with an athame (ritual dagger) for betraying his Oath. He feared for his life and the fact he was staying with us was a secret. Mum did his shopping so nobody would see him.

I had seen Tony Skinner swanning round Colchester with his long red hair and coven of young ladies, their flapping cloaks giving glimpses of stocking tops and thigh high leather boots. His priestess, Mandy, was the lead singer in the rock band Cat Genetica, while Tony was the guitarist. Wild rumours were spreading about sex magic orgies, all lipstick lesbians apart from their Magister. There were also rumours about the blood sacrifices, which didn’t sound as attractive, but he definitely had something working for him and it looked a lot more fun than Christianity. I kept my opinions to myself and didn’t ask too many questions.

Mark kept to himself, out of sight, as is sensible when a black magic cult is hunting you. It wasn’t long before he found a Christian flower-child girlfriend and was gone. I hardly even spoke to him.


There was a report in the newspaper about how they had brought in a curfew in Paris that only applied to punks, making it law that they weren’t allowed out in the streets after 10.00pm. A small gang had been stopped by the police, roughed up a bit and searched. A girl punk among them had had a pet rat, which had bitten an officer and turned out to have rabies.

Reading this at the breakfast table I asked my parents, “Can I have a pet rat, please?”

“Absolutely not. They’re filthy creatures,” said Greg.

I was crestfallen.

When he wasn’t around Mum said, “Maybe you could keep a pet rat, so long as it was a secret from Greg. We could put the cage in the bottom of your wardrobe and he’d never know.”

She even gave me some money to buy the cage and the rat with. I called her Lucretia. She was white, with brown and black spots. She seemed quite happy hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe, and chewed the hem of my Crombie all along the bottom. When I went to Colchester she came with me, hidden in my inside pocket, which I lined with tissue paper. When she wanted to come out she crawled down my sleeve, nudging me with her nose. I would hold open my hand and she would appear, as if by a conjuring trick. If I went to visit people she would run around freely, then come back when I called her and climb back in my pocket. Rats are as smart as dogs, by my reckoning, or at least Lucretia was. She was my constant companion for much of the early summer.

I was at school when Greg found the cage and threw it down the stairs. Mum said he squealed like a girl, and seemed quite smug about it. Nevertheless, I was told I had to get rid of her. I was devastated.

Owain said I could bring the cage round to his, and he would look after her. That way I could still have my rat at weekends. Sadly, however, she got out of her cage while he was at school. She tempted hamsters to the bars of their cages by dropping bits of food, then killed them and ate whatever she could reach. When he got home there was carnage, half eaten hamsters with their guts torn out all over the place. He caught Lucretia and punished her by not giving her any more food. By the time I saw him again she was dead, and we had a major falling out.

Teenagers can be very dramatic, and I had a lot on my plate besides a dead rat. I had also drunk a whole bottle of Merrydown to myself. Nevertheless, Owain and Simon were confounded – hard core punks aren’t supposed to burst into tears. They are especially not supposed to take themselves to an overpass and attempt to throw themselves into passing traffic.

Simon dragged me off the railings and sat on me until I calmed down and promised I wasn’t going to commit suicide over a pet rat.


Shortly before Mark (the Christian in the caravan) left I was displaced into the shed sorry studio, which was vacated for my accommodation. I had to make my own bed; nailing short planks of wood across a door-less old wardrobe, laid on its back. This provided support for the mattress with storage space beneath. I wasn’t the best carpenter and every now and then a slat would break, the mattress tipping into the cupboard at one end or the other, but it was comfortable most of the time.

The shed sorry studio was annexed on one side with the greenhouse. Hey, free weed, so long as I wasn’t too greedy. The opposite wall was next to the fencing for Mr. & Mrs. Balls’s chickens and what had been sold to them as an ornamental goat, which I suspected was some kind of shoat or geep, if such cross-breeding is possible. It was black, with sharp little horns, and bounced on its stumpy hind-legs like springs, rearing up to pin you with its yellow slitted eyes before nutting you like a Barmy Army skinhead from Glasgow. Sunrise was accompanied by the crowing cockerel and the possessed geep head-butting the fence.

A friend of Mum’s was, or had been, going out with a drummer from the punk band C.R.A.S.S., or something. Apparently they lived not far from Colchester on a communal farm, but they were never seen around the graveyard or by any of us in town. A selection from their catalogue was passed on to me; ‘Penis Envy’, the ‘Big A Little A’ single, the infamous ‘Person’s Unknown’, with the album ‘Hex’ by Poison Girls having a witchy theme. Strangely, Mum didn’t appreciate the music when I played it to her, showing her the lyrics on the album cover for the anti-feminist classic ‘Jump Mother Jump’.

“Why would I want to listen to something like that?” she said.

I suppose the lyrics were a bit too close to home for her.

Rarely mentioned in modern histories of punk music. most of which try to write the movement off as a flash in the pan, is the political divide that was happening at street level. They didn’t call it ‘The Punk Wars’ for nothing. Not that Greg could tell the difference, accusing all punks of being fascists and me along with them; which was pretty rich considering his fantasies of ‘Green Shirts’ forcibly installing composter toilets and raising Greg as the UK’s ecologically sound dictator. I did suggest he tried at least reading some of the lyrics on the record covers, printed in concession to the vocals being incomprehensible, which might have been why Greg found it hard to distinguish between the movements, but as usual there was no arguing with him. All this seems ironic when you consider that his friend Cat, who stayed on his land in France, was the manager of the punk band Special Duties, who made the alternative charts in N.M.E. and Melody Maker with their single ‘Colchester Council Full of Shit’. Their singer called himself Steve Arrogant, in parody of Steve Ignorant, the singer of C.R.A.S.S., which, might be why we never them in town; people were jealous and had a shitty attitude.

I considered myself an anarchist, although inspired more by the individualism of Stirner than the mutualism of Proudhon, the collectivism of Bakunin, or the communism of Kropotkin; I didn’t like doing what I was told by anyone, be that government or society, but that is teenagers for you. My attraction to anarchism should come as no surprise; its origins, as far back as it can be traced, lie with the Free Spirit movements of the eleventh century, which was largely spread by hedge-priests, heretics, and witches; in an age where church and state were one, politics and spirituality become inseparable at every layer of society. I covered the plaster-board walls of the shed with album covers and fold out poster art of white on black stencil declaring ‘Jesus died for his own sins – not mine.’

The next lodgers to move into the caravan were far more interesting. They too seemed to be hiding, although were nowhere as paranoid as Mark had been. They had been banished from Findhorn, a New Age commune in Scotland, for ‘upsetting the fairies’. Their names were Leroy and Natasha.

I don’t know much about Leroy’s background, except that he was a paid up member of Sinn Feinn, despised the I.R.A. (who I at the time had naïve and somewhat misplaced sympathies for) and played acoustic guitar. I thought he was alright for a hippy, even if I could never agree with his opinion that The Doors had any influence on punk (which he may in fact have been right about).

I think perhaps Natasha had known my mother from when they were at school, although I had not met her before. She was the daughter of Sir Donald Swann, the composer of ‘Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud’, from which he gained considerable royalties any time Playschool or some other TV show assumed the song was ‘traditional’. He was also the best friend of Tolkien, for whom he had set to music all the songs from Lord of the Rings. Donald came to visit our house, making no effort to conceal his staunchly conservative disapproval of all our lifestyles, although I wasn’t in at the time. Mum described him as, “The kind of person who thinks, if someone has no money, they should get down on their knees and scrub the doorsteps of those who do.”

Leroy and Natasha spent a lot of time socialising with Mum and Greg, smoking copious amounts of weed and sitting round playing records, particularly The Incredible String Band‘s ‘The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter’, the lyrics of which provoked considerable discussion; was the answer to the riddle about the five elements in a basket as obvious as it seemed? Did ‘Just Like John’ imply the band had turned Christian? Were there hidden meanings in ‘If I Were a Witch’s Hat’? (The album grew on me in later years, perhaps out of nostalgia, but at the time I hated it).

Both Mum and Natasha would sing as Leroy played guitar, mostly traditional folk songs about fairies and witches. They both had stunning voices, my mother’s like the ringing of bells and Natasha’s with a husky whisky and cigarettes sexiness.

Mum had written several books of poetry, all in the most intricate cursive script as with a feather. Leroy and Natasha persuaded her to turn some of them into songs. The results, never performed to an audience, were enchanting;

“No breath breaks silence, nor dry twig moves, / The stones unstirred by weightless hooves. / The trees bear witness, mute as I, / Grunhild’s host prepares to fly. / They said, “You have not seen them, You could not see them, no, / “These shades the pentagram of man eclipsed so long ago.” / Should I not then have set my foot Upon this Old Straight Way? / A greater magic moves this world Than Arte of ours can sway..”

Each evening as the lodgers prepared to go to bed I heard Natasha sweeping the floor of the caravan with a broom, from the back to the door, then out the door, calling aloud, “Out! Out! And stay out!”

I thought at first she might have been kicking out Rosie dog, who was always on the blag if she thought there might be food. It wasn’t Leroy. I worked out that it must have been some kind of banishing ritual. Perhaps they had a problem with offended fairies that had followed them from Findhorn. They believed in some pretty nutty stuff.

One evening when I was hanging out with them in the caravan Natasha said to me, “We’ve seen you flying around at night.”

“Astral projection. You have what they call a ‘wild talent’,” said Leroy, passing me a neat weed spliff (on agreement I didn’t tell my parents).

I coughed, exhaling a cloud of grey and blue smoke. “You what?” “Do you ever go places, just with your mind?” said Natasha. “Sure, but nowhere real.”

“What’s real, anyway?” said Leroy.

“I don’t know. A punch in the face always seems pretty real, to me.”

“Not everybody travels like you do,” said Natasha.

I was beginning to catch on, “You mean when I’m meditating?”

“If that’s what you’re doing. Meditating, dissociating, leaving your body, astrally projecting, whatever you want to call it. Like in a dream, but not. I’ve seen you doing it. Flying around.”

“But astral projection? Leaving my body? Isn’t that all about travelling in the real world, finding missing people and spying on military bases? I haven’t been doing anything like that.”

“That’s remote viewing. It’s close what what you do, but not quite. Have you ever tried it?”

“It’s not possible, is it?”

“There are secret government projects where they train people to do that kind of thing. They wouldn’t invest all that time and money if they didn’t get results,” said Leroy.

“Where you go is more like a dream, right? Like a fairy world?” said Natasha.

I knew she wasn’t referring to the kind of fairies in Victorian children’s books, but all the same it sounded a bit silly. I had yet to understand that the ‘language’ of magic is all about consciousness, and how it’s experienced within trance, dream, or other altered states.

“The shaman call it the spirit world. Ceremonial magicians call it the astral dimension,” said Leroy.

“A magic world, with mountains and forests, but also other places,” I admitted. “It’s just imagination though.”

“Then how come we’ve both seen you?” said Natasha.

I was stumped. I had never told anybody about my meditations. I knew it was an eccentricity, since nobody else I knew seemed to do it, but it had never occurred to me that it might be any kind of ‘psychic skill’.

Over the next few weeks we talked about yoga, and I had my first proper meditation lessons, writing down my results in a diary and attempting to prolong periods of mental quiet. I also began a study of magical symbolism and how it’s applied. It was explained to me that the elemental forces were like the elements in chemistry but related instead to consciousness. Earth is the body, with all its needs, air is the intellect and the ability to create or understand models and theories, fire is the power of will and the life force moving through all nature, water is the emotions and powers of intuition. They also taught me about the Tattvas of yogic meditation, and how they could be used as doorways into specific astral realms.

We practised a technique where I stood on my head for around three minutes, was lowered slowly with my head still to the floor, rising over half a minute into a kneeling posture. I then focused on the elemental symbol I desired to explore. The Tattvas themselves were presented to me as bold shapes in complimentary colours on a background of black. For example, if I desired to move into the elemental realm of fire, the symbol for which is an upward pointing red triangle, I would be shown a green triangle (cut from a piece of coloured paper) on a black card. At the very centre was a white spot, which I focused upon without allowing my vision to waver. This resulted, through a natural effect of the brain, in the triangle apparently turning black and momentarily disappearing, at which point I would close my eyes and see the ‘ghost image’ left behind; a red triangle requiring no effort to visualise. This image was maintained for as long as possible then ‘moved through’ as an astral doorway. After this came free-form visions inspired by the idea of being in the ‘realm of elemental fire’ and everything this symbolised to me.

Apparently, all this would all be a lot safer than just travelling around willy nilly with no idea where I was going. Both Leroy and Natasha insisted there were astral vampires and other spirit entities which, even if I had yet to meet one, were out there waiting for the unwary traveller. They made constant reference to Israel Regardie’s The Complete Golden Dawn System of Magick, which they let me borrow so I could read more of the exercises. I suspect they had also been reading Kenneth Grant’s Typhonian Trilogy. They made regular mail-order purchases from The Sorcerer’s Apprentice in Leeds, and whenever they did so they allowed me to choose something that interested me.

“So long as you don’t tell your parents. Greg gets totally freaked by this kind of thing,” said Leroy, with a wink.

I supplemented my studies with regular visits to Colchester library, where there was a well stocked occult section. It was a shame they didn’t teach witchcraft at school, or I might have spent more time there. Like many people studying magick in the modern day I read whatever I could find by Crowley. Although I had a good chuckle at his poem Leah Sublime, which I had in chapbook form, his works seemed obtuse and belaboured with gratuitously obscurantist verbiage. It was a long time before I could understand any of it, and even then it was with reservations – he was a vile character and not someone to be admired. (Many years later I learned that Crowley had made efforts to gain initiation into the Essex Craft and had been turned down for being a sex pest, so I congratulate myself on my good taste, even if nobody else does.)

I was much more interested in runes, and the relationship between ancient magick and modern writing. There remains a strong resemblance between the runes and the letters spelling these words as I rite for you to rede. Books of spells were called ‘grammars’, from where we get the word ‘grimoire’.

I was soon expanding my knowledge of the grimoires, particularly The Lesser Key of Solomon, which I was already familiar with through role playing games. In 1986 it was much harder to get your hands on original manuscripts, as there was no internet, so I had to make do with books by people who could, such as Richard Cavendish’s Black Magic and Idris Shah’s The Secret Lore of Magic.

Grimoires are, in my opinion, a much overlooked literary tradition, far more interesting than just ritual instruction or long lists of demons, with many reading more like stories or confessionals. Like any good book, they act like astral doorways, transporting the reader to another world.


Excerpt from Accidental Antichrist, a novel by Nathaniel J Harris, available from Amazon UK USA



“This is horror for the 21st century: intelligent, literate, and disturbing. Quite why it works so well, I don’t want to think too hard about.. I want to sleep tonight!” – Pat Mills, creator of 2000 AD, Crisis, Serial Killer, and SpaceWarp.

SIMON WOLFE sat at his bookstall for an hour without selling anything. The organisers had shuffled him into the hall, apologising that ‘indie authors’ were over represented this year. Not that any of the others were faring much better, Bristol Horror Con was well attended with cos-playing fans, but nobody seemed interested in new home grown talent. Instead they were spending their cash on plastic figurines, movie discs, computer games, and other mind numbing rubbish. Did nobody read anymore?

Rearranging his titles on the fold-out table, he sat Teenage Ripper next to Blood Orgy, with Unrepentant Necrophile to the other side. When this made no difference he repositioned his promotional sign higher on the wall behind him; Warning – Extreme Horror – Adults Only.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his bowels punishing him for last night’s curry. Smiling whenever anybody looked in his direction, he clenched his cheeks and hoped someone would come by he could ask to watch over the stall.

A girl wearing a pseudo-medieval crushed velvet dress and dripping in cheep pewter jewellery paused at the stall. She picked up a copy of Blood Orgy, black fingernails flipping through the pages. Her painted eyebrows arched, then frowned as she put it down again. When she looked directly at him, Simon noticed her reptilian contact lenses were on the skew. Her tone was condescending as if his work were beneath her. “Do you have any vampire erotica?”

He smiled and politely told her to “Fuck off.”

She did, nose in the air. Simon chuckled. He was finally starting to have some fun.

The next to come by was a zit faced boy, perhaps thirteen years old. Simon had not expected the event to admit under eighteens. All his books warned clearly of adult content and this kid was clearly not an adult. Nevertheless, he wanted a copy of Teenage Ripper, which had some of the goriest scenes Simon had ever written. Looking around furtively he signed the book ‘To Derek – don’t tell your parents.’

Derek grinned like a fox chewing carrion. It was moments like this, thought Simon, that made the effort worthwhile. All the same, he still needed the toilet.

He looked up from counting the cash and there was a nerd at the stall, staring at him while hopping excitedly from foot to foot. He looked perhaps nineteen years old, wore an anorak with the hood up despite being indoors, and steel framed glasses. He held before him a tattered first edition of Simon’s first book, Satan’s Apprentice.

“I’ve been following you for a while,” he said.

Simon could not help but be flattered. “If I was famous that’d be a collector’s item. Want me to sign it for you?”

“Would you?”

Simon produced his pen with a flourish, “That’s what I’m here for. What’s your name?”

“Nigel C. Skinner,” said the nerd.

“Do me a favour, Nigel. Keep an eye on things while I take a shit?”

“”Er.. yeah,” he replied, faintly amused. “Anything for my favourite author.”

“If anybody want me tell them I’ll be back in a minute.”

With that, Simon rushed off past Chucky, three Scream killers, Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees, Freddy Kruger, Leatherface, several vampires, an old school werewolf, a horde of shopping dead, countless blood splattered generic victims, and an out of place Darth Vader. Just in time. It felt like he was already touching cloth.

Nigel gave back his chair and sat on the ground. With the unkempt brown curls sticking out from under his hood, and the wideness of his eyes beneath the glasses, there was something of the feral child about him. Simon felt a strange paternal warmth towards his young fan and fought the urge to pat his head. To make small talk he asked, “How come you’re not in costume like everybody else?”

Nigel cocked his head, eyebrows raised above the steel rimmed glasses, “I’ve come as a serial killer.”

Simon groaned, “They look just like everybody else. An oldie, but still a good one. Here’s one for you.. How dd the unrepentant necrophile get caught?”

Nigel sniggered. “Go on, tell me.”

“Some rotten cunt split on him.”

Nigel proved good conversation and hung around the stall for the rest of the event. He asked a lot of questions about Simon’ work, showering him with appreciation.

“What stories do you like the best?” Simon asked.

Nigel’s eyebrows bobbed above his glasses, “My favourite is Satan’s Apprentice. I just love stories about serial killers. Its a fine narrative tradition.”

“Narrative tradition, eh?” said Simon. “I’d never thought of it like that. I only wrote the book because it was so much fun describing all the violence and gore.”

Nigel’s eyebrows vanished again, “Doesn’t it worry you, the responsibility of writing stuff like that?”

Simon chuckled. The idea of writing being a responsibility seemed a little overblown. “What do you mean?”

“Some say books like yours can fuel the fantasies of genuine psychopaths. They contribute to real life violence the way porn supposedly inspires rapists.”

Simon scoffed. As a regular visitor to a number of smutty websites he had never been inspired to become a predator. “Porn doesn’t inspire rapists. If anything it probably decreases the chances. Most blokes are more likely to stay at home and shuffle one off than to go to all that bother. Its no surprise that rapists enjoy porn, any more than real killers enjoying books about serial murder, but it doesn’t make them the way they are.”

Nigel chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, “That’s not what Ted Bundy says. He says porn was entirely responsible for what he became. That it desensitised him to sexual violence.”

Simon smiled uncertainly, “I like to think my books provide a safe outlet, making for a healthier psychology.”

“Perhaps we’re both right. I’ve read your works and I’m well adjusted to modern life. At the same time, it has definitely inspired me in resolving my instincts. Where do you get you amazing ideas?”

“All kinds of places. Unrepentant Necrophile is based on a real case back in the seventies. I relocated it from New Orleans to Basildon and made the antagonist an embalmer. Its a comment on the death care industry and how we all get ripped off in the end.”

Nigel laughed, “I love the cynicism. What about Teenage Ripper?”

“That’s pure fantasy but also kind of based on Bruno Lüdke, who killed girls he was attracted to because he couldn’t lose his virginity. I guess you could say its a coming of age story.”

“So, is Blood Orgy inspired by real crimes?”

“Its mostly based on Fred and Rose West but I made them swingers. I really let my imagination go with that one.”

Nigel held up his signed first edition, “And what about Satan’s Apprentice?”

“That was inspired by the diaries of Gregory Davis, a home grown serial killer from Milton Keynes. Like my character he was inspired by reading books about famous killers and wanted to be just like them. He was pathetic in real life, killing only three people, even if he did gut one in a kid’s playground. I upped the body count to make the story more entertaining.”

Nigel nodded enthusiastically, “Fact inspires fiction, and fiction inspires fact. The true crimes of serial killers become the myths of our modern age and are never forgotten. Of course, all the big names are American. They like to pretend they invented the whole serial killer idea just because they have more of them. There are 2,6025 known cases in the USA, compared to 142 in the UK.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Simon. “Considering our relative populations we still have a much higher chance of meeting one here in the UK. That’s a bit worrying when you think about it.”

“Plus we have Jack the Ripper,” said Nigel. “Which was way back in eighteen eighty-something, so we were definitely first. Serial killing is a British phenomenon but as usual the yanks nicked our idea and sold it back to us. Its a lot harder for your small, independent UK killer to get the attention they deserve.”

Simon laughed, “You might have a point there.”

Another customer came by the stall. They were dressed as either Pennywise the clown or Sam Wayne Gacy, it was hard to tell. He guessed the former, signing Blood Orgy in his confident scrawl, adding the message, ‘Stephen King is a creepy old sleazebag.’

Simon was happy to have met a fan and spend so much time talking about some of his favourite subjects. The event had been a big success despite his early misgivings. He was glad to have made the long journey from Basingstoke. All too soon it was 9.30, time to count his profits and pack up the stall.

“You don’t mind helping me load this back in my car, do you? The bar’s still open. I’ll buy you a beer. There’s some kind of after party, apparently.”

Nigel bowed as if addressing royalty, “Its an honour.”

Arms full of boxes they headed out to the car park.

“Mine’s the Ford with the personalised plate, “said Simon proudly – he had bought the number secondhand, keen to give the appearance of success, “80 Wolfe X.”

“I see it,” said Nigel. “Parked right next to the BMW.”

Simon came round to find himself in a car boot, his limbs manacled and his mouth uncomfortably stuffed with a large rubber ball gag. The stink of exhaust made it difficult to breath and his head throbbed like he had been hit from behind with something heavy. He could hear the car stereo speakers in the back blaring Talking Heads, David Byrne’s clear voice over the roar of the engine posed the question, “Psycho killer qu’est-ce que c’est?”

For the second time that day Simon feared he might be about to shit himself.


Excerpt from Everybody Needs a Hobby, a novella by Nathaniel J. Harris, published pseudonymously as Nathan Mortlock, 2015. Available from Amazon UK USA


Chaos Magic, Illuminates of Thanateros

(Originally posted 12.00 06/07/21, last updated 14.58, 07/07/21)

The WikkiPedia page for ‘The Illuminates of Thanateros’ reads as follows;

The Illuminates of Thanateros (/ɪˈljuːmɪˌnɪts ɒvˌθænəˈtɛroʊs/) is an international magical organization that focuses on practical group work in chaos magic. The idea was first announced in 1978, while the order proper was formed in 1987. This fraternal magical society has been an important influence on some forms of modern occultism.

The name “Thanateros” is a combination of the names “Thanatos” and “Eros”— the Greek gods of death and sex, respectively. The idea is that sex and death represent the positive and negative methods of attaining “magical consciousness”. The word “Illuminates” is used in accordance with the claimed tradition of calling such societies — in which those who have mastered the secrets of magic help bring others to mastership — “the Illuminati”. Its formal name is The Magical Pact of the Illuminates of Thanateros, which is usually shortened to “the Pact”.

A ‘Chaos sphere’: The symbol of The Illuminates of Thanateros

I was a member of the Illuminates of Thanateros during a period of youthful ‘spiritual searching’ around 1993, at the age of 22/23, gaining a certain level of pseudo-fame, but resigned in disappointment and disgust on May 1st 2001, at the age of 30. Since it is not uncommon for people to become confused about the reality behind groups such as the Illuminates of Thanateros I here make statement as to my personal experience of them.

The Illuminates of Thanateros are in no way connected to the historical secret society real or otherwise at the centre of so many conspiracy theories. Nevertheless, their membership is largely secret, with the identification of other members punished by expulsion, as is the case with activities at their meetings. The reason for this is supposedly because magic itself requires secrecy, and to protect participants from public misunderstandings, but these same oaths of secrecy are open for exploitation by a criminal leadership.

The pseudo-philosophy of The Illuminates of Thanateros is encapsulated in the couplet “Nothing is true and everything is permitted”, supposedly expressing both existential and ‘edgy’ moral relativism. The leadership of the Illuminates of Thanateros at the time of my own membership were not to my knowledge of a criminal nature, but during my membership I witnessed new ‘initiates’ of increasingly criminal character. Whether criminal or not, few people I met during my involvement were of positive influence, while many were narcissistic and cruel.

During my involvement they were little more than an extremely pretentious amateur drama club. ‘Group work in chaos magic’ largely consisted of meetings held in rented dance and rehearsal studios where members dressed in black robes and pranced in a circle while taking turns standing in the middle and pretending to be ‘possessed’. I resigned when a suspected paedophile and known drug dealer was being promoting to ‘rank’ within the group, along with the more or less automatic admission of any ranking member of the equally dubious Church of Satan, and they had all started prancing around in a black leather ‘Baphomet’ (ie ‘Satan’) costume with crooked wings and an oversized ‘Heaven threatening’ phallus.

.. a worry I also informed the police of in 2005 after hearing rumours this drug dealer and suspected paedophile had reconnected to an old friend from Peckham; well known on ‘the scene’ (and through what this individual had told me) to be a paedophile that controlled under-age rent boys with drugs – possibly none other than the convicted paedophile cult leader Colin Batley. The individual I identified to the police had already been tipped off by the time I made my phone call. If this had no been so they might easily have been caught with incriminating evidence. As it was, they managed to persuade the police that I was an ex-lover with a vendetta – nothing could have been further from the truth.

We were at this time being stalked by an individual we later recognised in the newspapers as Batley. We had received death threats from Jasmine DeVille’s ex partner Peter Pracownick, now known to be friends with leading figures in The Illuminates of Thanateros. Although we did not know the identity of our stalker we reported this to the police.

I also met that year with Peter J Carroll, the Illuminates of Thanateros‘ founder, who failed to heed my warning. we now have reason to believe Carroll may have been implicated or compromised, since his responses have been inconsistent and deliberately oblique. He has also published defamation about me on his own website ‘Specularium’, largely following what has been dictated to him by The Illuminates of Thanateros, although he knows it is defamation. When I met with him he boasted of having received fan mail from category A offenders and said of The Illuminates of Thanateros, “If you want to enjoy a sausage it is best not to think about how it is made.”.

In 2009. shortly after I had released The Khaonomicon, with an introduction by Peter J Carroll, I got talking with an initiate of The Illuminates of Thanateros in a ‘Chaos Magic’ group on MySpace. They happened to pass a comment regarding “Colin Batley’s working group in Wales.” The name meant nothing at the time, but I remember laughing with Jasmine at the idea of a Magus called Colin batley, and that the IOT now had a Temple in Wales, joking that the order must be ‘seriously going up in the world’.

Jasmine and I both recognised the name when Colin Batley was in the newspapers in 2011, sentenced to 11 years (possibly life) for his involvement in a paedophile sex cult. We also realised he was the person who had been stalking us.

In 2012 I was present at the first disclosures of a learning disabled teenager who identified to me several members of The Illuminates of Thanateros, along with Colin Batley, as having been abusing them from around the age of six. This too was taken to the police, who failed to undertake a thorough investigation. Note that this has been a common theme regarding police and Colin Batley’s cult, the majority of whom – although having been shown to exist – remain at large. Batley himself was sentenced to extra years for refusing to identify them. It is clearly reported in the newspapers that the cult was large, and had strong connections in Wales, Bristol, and London.. just like The Illuminates of Thanateros.

While researching what had been going on with the Illuminates of Thanateros in my absence I came across the website of their German section, with a link to the website It is apparently sourced from an American ‘Satanic’ group but has many other clear links to the Illuminates of Thanateros in the Uk. Written in the language of Typhonian Thelema meets Chaos Magic, the site deals with (what are allegedly, although this is not stated anywhere on the site) fantasies of mind control, the sexual exploitation of adults and children, and human sacrifice (including a description of ritualistic infanticide allegedly performed by ‘Temple Dahmer’). At this time already nearly a decade old, the site also contained what appeared to be overt adverts and links for what was described as ‘kiddy porn’ (child abuse images and films) but has since been heavily edited and censored.

In 2014, the Book Devil on the Doorstep by Annabelle Forest was published. It author is one of the girls whose testimony was accepted in Crown Court in the prosecution and sentencing of Colin Batley. For the first time in any publication, it was confirmed there was indeed a learning disabled male exploited by the cult from the ages of 6 to 16. Her book also confirms a number of other details concerning the disclosures brought to police in 2012. Although Batley was identified to police in the disclosures of 2012 the IOPC have failed to deal with our complaints regarding previous failures to heed to disclosures regarding this paedophile ring and investigate appropriately. This would also mean admitting to previous very serious oversights and mishandlng of what should have been – but was not – an extremely serious investigation into those identified..

Also around 2014, a single mother and ‘Novice’ of the German section of the Illuminates of Thanateros posted a blog entry – which has since been deleted – regarding her concerns when she brought up the subject of Colin batley with her ‘Mentor’. The reply she received was not that Colin Batley has not been a member of the IOT, or that the UK section were innocent of involvement in his crimes, but simply that “Not everyone saw it as a problem.” She said she was leaving the cult, which I hope to be true for her child’s sake.

In the years since there has been steadily growing evidence that The Illuminates of Thanateros have been funding themselves through the distribution of drugs, and the creation and distribution of filmed sadistic child abuse, some but not all of which is ‘Satanic’ in its props and themes. Having become confounded with conspiracy theory, this has made it even harder for their victims to get justice – but just as one can ‘search’ on PornHub for ‘Satanic Ritual’, so have these criminals used their props and numbers to create films of apparent ‘Satanic Ritual’ child abuse. It is no more mysterious than this – child abuse so-called ‘pornography’ crimes are more lucrative, and harder to get caught for, than selling drugs, and the ‘SRA’ theme makes it even more profitable and harder to get caught for.

Around 2017 I received an email from Ray Sherwin, co-founder of The Illuminates of Thanateros, asking for further information as he had allegedly received many communications from people with grievances against the IOT. He has since written a book OUROBOROS distancing himself from both Peter J. Carroll and the Illuminates of Thanateros, making reference to a ‘ranking’ member’s previous criminal history; I have had verified from other sources that they caused a number of deaths by creating and distributing amphetamines dyed with pink nail varnish.

The Illuminate of Thanateros has since been disowned and discredited by both its founders; Peter J. Carroll, who we believe to have been more closely linked to their crimes than he might ever see prosecution for, and Ray Sherwin, who has disclosed of having received many complaints as to the IOT’s abusive activities online and in his book OUROBOROS – with Carroll’s refusal to take responsible action against the Illuminates of Thanateros being a large part of their having fallen out.

I have since been bullied off of social media by anonymous accounts clearly linked to The Illuminates of Thanateros:

Soon to turn 51, I am embarrassed at my naivety in expected to meet nice people by joining a black magic cult, and my hubris at ever believing I had found ‘real magic’, but at least I grew out of it. I finally concluded that what the Illuminates of Thanateros call ‘Chaos magic’ is nothing more than a system of wilful self delusion, and a pseudo-philosophical excuse for ‘moral relativity’. It is my sincere and honest opinion that the current leadership of The Illuminates of Thanateros present a clear and present danger to the public.


Magick, Neuromancy, Occult, Sorcery, Spirituality

“Before me, RAPHAEL
Behind me, GABRAEL
To my right hand MICHAEL
At my left hand, URAEL
About me flame the pentagrams,
And in the column the six rayed star.”
– Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, The Golden Dawn.

The Hebrew term for angel is Mal’akh, meaning ‘messenger’. The word angel itself comes through the Sanskrit angeres, Persian angeres, to the Greek angelos. Such pre-Christian roots are apparent even in the angel’s names, which commonly end with the singular -El, meaning ‘being of light’; Michael, Uriel, Gabriel, Rapahael etc. The word is of Sumerian origin, and is synchronistic with the Akkadian ‘Ilu’, Babylonian ‘Ellu’, Old Welsh ‘Ellu’, Old Irish ‘Aillil’, Anglo-Saxon ‘Aelf’, English ‘Elf’, and perhaps even our modern term ‘alien’. In all these interpretations the ‘beings of light’ are understood to be more evolved, or vibrating at a higher frequency, than mortal humans.

From Moses onwards magicians have attributed angels governing the powers of the planets, the days of the week, the hours of the day, and the four seasons; the celestial mysteries of the previous ‘pagan’ age took upon themselves new masques. As with old gods, these mysteries also extended to rule over the terrestrial realms; places, plants and principles of every kind. Enchantments and incantations calling upon angelic powers were in abundance as late as the 13th century, as are recorded in the grimoires.

Even our classical image of the angel has its origin in pagan imagery; in the 8th century, when the foundations of Church doctrine were being laid, the visual artists were no less influenced by their heritage than the writers were. Two of the common inspirational sources of their works depicting angels include the Hellenic Greek god of sexuality, Eros, and ‘the winged victory’, Nike. Such continued to provide models for the Renaissance artists of the 12th-15th century, with a more Eastern influence recognisable in the ‘Peacock Angels’ of Fra. Fillipo Lippi. Yet the symbolic use of wings to denote supernatural beings has Near Eastern roots older even than this; consider the superb winged bulls from Nebuchadenezzar’s palace in the British Museum. Such no doubt provided the inspiration behind the Merkobah, which in turn passed to the Christian symbolism of the four Evangelists Cherubs; winged lion, ox, man, and eagle, corresponding to the four elements.

Angelology, like the pantheistic cosmologies that precede it, reflects our human psychology. That is, the various spheres of angelic influence; love, protection, vengeance, even death and disease, are human concerns. We should not be surprised, then, to find striking similarities between the ‘spheres’ attributed to the various angels and those of the older pagan gods; the reader is referred once again to the charaktēre of the Kabala, to which the hierarchy of angels may be most obviously corresponded. What can hardly be disputed is that the angels, as with their relatives the demons, have been imprinted into the collective imagination of our culture over thousands of years. Thus, whatever beliefs have been adopted in this modern age, their images and invocations still provoke a powerful response in our consciousness.

The association with light, and the Gamma frequencies, suggests evolved of consciousness of a higher level than that normally experienced by humans, corresponding to the transcendent circuits. This understanding of the Ael or ‘beings of light’ as a higher frequency or ‘vibration’ of consciousness is not at all alien to Catholic angel lore, Kabalist magick, or even the runic tradition where they are known as aelves. In all these belief systems it is similarly understood that consciousness is a continuum; an angel may descend to become human, or further to become demonic, just as even a demon may ascend to the redemption of At-One-Ment. Similarly, a human may sink lower in their behavior and spirituality, literally operating from lower areas of the brain, or they may – also through their own behaviour – increase their vibration to become a more highly evolved consciousness; potentially, at least, a ‘being of light’.

As with the seven rays of the archetypes, the forms the transcendental forces take when interacting with human consciousness are various. As has been discussed, these beings of light are known universally as the ‘ael’, or its equivalent variations such as aelf, angael, aelian etc. All these masks are valid.



In angelic lore Nathanael (Xathanael, Zathael) was the sixth Archangel of Vengeance after Creation, alongside Michael, Gabrael, Raphael, Urael, and Satanael. As an Angel of Vengeance he is relentless, and never fails to deliver Punishment to transgressors. In modern terms he is the transcendent personification of the principle of inevitable consequences; what one might call ‘karma’, ‘the law of Wyrd’, or even simply the inevitable results of cause and effect over time.

In The Goetia his name is given as the Archangel of Fire, residing in the eastern quarter of the Sacred Circle. He is said to know many secrets of the Arte, which he will teach to those who successfully call to him. As the Archangel of Transcendent Fire, he burns away all impurities, and all illusions of separation from the eternal Light of God (the Absolute). Although an obscure figure in occultism during much of the ‘occult revival’ from the Golden Dawn onward, Nathanael was well known to Kabalists, cunning men, and the magician’s of Solomon’s day. During the last decade he has increasingly made himself known again to mediums, a number of which have made his messages known in books and over the internet, as a simple Google search will verify; he especially makes himself known to psychics involved in the healing of trauma.

In healing trauma, or punishing the selfish, the process personified in Nathanael remains the same; the ‘burning up’ of the illusion of separation from God (the Absolute). As with the disillusion of the ego by any means, whether this is an ecstatic or painful experience depends entirely upon the ego in question. According to the reports of those working with him, Nathanael also offers his aid in overcoming resistance to change; a quality also attributed to higher Gamma.

Excerpt from THE NEURONOMICON, Nathaniel J Harris

Available from Amazon USA UK


Since I can provide links from this blog, I here provide evidence of Archangel Nathanael’s resurgence in modern spiritism:

Messages From Archangel Nathanael

Archangel Nathaniel – Lightworker Support. The Archangel Series, Anaya Jol Hollily. – “Archangel Nathaniel will open the doors to your deepest desires and give you the passion and charge to move forward with your life or divine purpose with much ease and conviction. The patron saint of Lightworkers. Nathaniel will help you awaken to your life purpose, and give you all the energy and the tools you need along the way.”

Journaling With the Archangel Nathaniel, Unite in the Light. “Journaling is a personal experience and journaling with Archangel Nathaniel will help you understand the cause and effects of life, as well as giving you the nudge you may need to follow your lightworker path. Our Unite In The Light Journals includes Information on the Archangel and exercises to assist you.”


Satanic Ritual Abuse

Today is the ‘EXPOSE SATANIC RITUAL ABUSE’ demonstration in London headed by Jeannette Archer, who collects money allegedly ‘for all survivors of SRA’. The irony is that we would not have known about this at all if I had not visited the Twitter page of ‘James Hind‘ to collect evidence for my coming court case with Nikki Wyrd. I see from the posts there that many other vocal survivors have made their excuses and will not be attending.

Despite Hind (Wyrd/Vayne?) continually attempting to conflate our crimes with crazy Born Again (twice times too many) Christians such as Archer we are nothing alike. Our own case has nothing to do with a Grand Conspiracy of government level Satanists but is a simple criminal conspiracy among cloak flapping Pagan grunts. It has nothing to do with Pizzagate, Q-Anon, David Icke, Lizard Wizard Illuminati flat Earthers, or any other craziness, and is supported by clear evidence.

Archer is one of the Wilfred Wong crowd, who I have already had to speak about in the past. I do not believe she is any more genuine than the untenable Hampstead case, allegedly abusing a classroom of able bodied upper-middle class children, none of whom have disclosed since the original case. I could be wrong, but I don’t find it very credible. The paedophile ring we are concerned with, already proven to exist, generally targets vulnerable children that cannot take the stand in court – easy targets.

Wong, despite having been commissioned by Parliament in the past, claims the government are all Satanic paedophiles, along with police, social services, and the Family Law Courts. The only safe place, according to his narrative, is his own Born Again Christian Cult. While it is understandable that victims of ritual abuse might run to such a cult, fooled by the false dichotomy of ‘Satan vs. Christ’ and englamoured by his cries of ‘Spiritual Warfare’, they are simply running from one cult to another. It is as if a child with two abusive parents, one a Christian and the other a Satanist, is running back and forth between the two, asking the other to protect them from the first, while in reality both are abusers.

The reality is that police and social services have made a cock up with every paedophile ring so far that has come to light in the UK, even to the point of complicity. Whether the paedophiles are Satanic, Pagan, Christian, Muslim, or secular, victims have consistently been failed.

Those who run to Wong are often from naïve backgrounds and have been shocked by the authorities’ actions, often including the removal of children from the safety of the caring parent they disclosed to and handed over to the ‘care’ of their abusers: ‘Court Ordered Abuse’. [And I’m saying this even though we WON our case in the Family Law Courts.. which definitely would not have happened if they were part of some Satanic conspiracy. Not that it made any difference to the incompetent social worker Rebecca Mumford who ignored the ruling and should have been prosecuted for contempt of court. We were so emotionally devastated by everything we did not even think of registering a complaint against her until the absurdly small window of time allowed for such a complaint was closed. We spent the next two years wondering whether it was worth staying alive, and even discussed what clothes we wanted to be found in. Suicide was a genuine risk, but we finally decided we wouldn’t make ourselves the punchline to their sick joke.]

We are also disgusted by Wong’s ‘Pro-Life’ movement, where he equates abortion with Satanic child sacrifice. Banning abortion does not eliminate abortion, it simply means that women cannot have them in the safety of a hospital. If a woman is abused and made to have the abuser’s baby she will never get the abuser out of her life, and the abuser will have access to the child – often due to what has come to be termed ‘Court Ordered Abuse’. The implications are truly chilling.

While we have been approached by allies of Wong we have told them clearly to stay off our side. Their campaigns achieve nothing apart from spreading false information while further englamouring ‘SRA’ themed child abuse films and images, driving up the price on the black market. Nobody has ever been rescued by him and nobody has ever been brought to justice because of him. Wong is currently in jail under a charge of child kidnap at knifepoint. While we genuinely support other victims of abuse, ritualistic or not, we do not support these con-artists.

I have also spoken with Wong’s friend Wedger, who many people believe to be a hero, but is clearly another narcissist. Despite knowing what people we love have been through, despite knowing what we have been through, he took clear delight in describing lengthy and graphic details of alleged Satanic abuse to me down the telephone. Nobody who genuinely cares about victims would do this.

Wong, Wedger, and Archer have also publicly admitted to possession and viewing of child abuse films – and ‘research’ is no legal defence here- so why haven’t they all been jailed?

I have recently been approached a media company aligned to Wong who have been making a documentary allegedly exposing Satanic Ritual Abuse. Although one or two of those they have interviewed do have credibility their main focus is on the grand claims of Archer and her like. We were the only people approached with any evidence and there was talk of using our case to give more credibility to those with none. This would amount to using our genuine abuse case to proffer up their crazy Christian conspiracy theories, and would be another kind of abuse in itself. It could only result in our own case losing credibility. We declined, of course, and when we explained they were doing more harm than good were treated with dismissive disrespect. I consider these misguided fools to be almost as narcissistic and deluded as the Satanists themselves. Take a look:

Jeannette Archer seems to be a deliberate ploy to make survivors look stupid. She cannot even spell ‘Satanic’, let alone lecture the public about what it means. I note that many of the wiser survivors have made their excuses and are not in attendance. Thankfully she has not attracted any attention from the mainstream media. At least she didn’t blame it all on SANTA..

Does she not have a Bible so she could look up the spelling?

Jesus Face Palm..

No doubt having criticised these loons we will now be branded Satanic abusers ourselves, despite having evidence to back up our case while Archer has none. Even this could not be more damaging than having them on our side.

Jeannette Archer has played right into the hands of the likes of James Hind, and anyone else who wants to claim survivors are all obtuse lunatics with no critical faculties. I stole the above image from his own Twitter feed. Despite his misguided targeting of ourselves we are actually in agreement when it comes to the Hampstead case, and the likes of these Born Again Loons. We do not believe in any of them and have told them to STAY OFF OUR SIDE. They achieve nothing except making survivors look unbelievable while driving up the profits to be made from ‘SRA themed’ abuse films.. almost as if they are doing it deliberately. The more mythologised such films are, between those who say they don’t exist at all (anything people will pay for someone else will do) and those who spin crazy tales about Illuminati Lizard Wizards.

You can ‘search’ PornHub for Satanism and get ritually themed pornography, and I have even known of real Satanists making such films. They don’t have anything to do with real witchcraft or magick, but they do make MONEY. I once heard of a coven of attractive witches who charged good money to businessmen for fake initiations, which their punters may have believed were real but were purely for the CASH. The films made by the likes of Colin Batley are similarly fake, even if the child abuse was very real. Because that is what they truly commit their crimes for – not because of their spiritual beliefs, not because it would be more powerful magick, , but because their films of SRA themed child abuse make MONEY.