About Léonie

Bienvenue, you have arrived at the public website of Léonie Cooper. Shared within these pages are my life experiences. It is my hope and aim that the reader will learn from this website, hindsight is invaluable, and I have just as much to offer humanity as anybody else, present on the internet.

I am a late middle age of 50-years-old, of Anglo-Norman origin. I was birthed within a small university town named Loughborough within a landlocked county of North-West Leicestershire, UK. Paternal ancestry is French, from Normandy and Guernsey, and maternally from North West England. DNA test examination in 2017 discovered my North West European ancestry: Irish, Scottish and Welsh 26.9% and 16.9% Scandinavian. Religiously, I define my faith in God as a Deist, historically I've drawn wisdom from both Mahayana Buddhism and Vaishnovite Hinduism, excluding doctrine of Shambhala ritualised as Kala Chakra. In original Buddhism, there was no concept of Paradise. I've not been initiated into a "Secret Society", nor have I been baptised, confirmed or covenanted.

As a 90s environmental activist, politically, I aligned with Green Anarchism, later autonomously aligning with the National Anarchist Movement. I've never been a Marxist, nor a Socialist. I've travelled extensively around the UK for over 34 years. Favourite locations include Cairn Gorms, Isle of Lewis, Scottish Borders, Ridgeway, Cotswold and Monarch Way, South East and West Coastal path, Dartmoor, Black Mountains, Malvern Hills, and many mountains in the region of Snowdonia. During transient times I slept under open sky, in a tent, and also took shelter inside public accessible MBA bothies of England, Scotland and Wales; during severity of circumstance (exposure), i.e. plummeting temperatures, life-threatening weather. Mentally unwell with esculating states of derealisation I crawled underneath the cover of hedges, snook into hillside crevices or simply collapsed fell unto a roadside ditch.

For thirty years I was Vegetarian, five of those years I was Vegan; I did not believe people should not eat meat, just thought people consumed too much meat. As an animal rights activist I campaigned compassion in farming, and not an end to farms. I was and still am against vivisection; deeming the unnecessary practice of torturing animals a sham science. I agreed with routing out sadism from within hunting, in particular fox hunting with hounds. During the 90s I was active in the anti-road building protest movement, campaigning at Twyford Down, Newbury, Avon Relief Road and Nine Ladies anti Quarry protests I dug out underground tunnels, erected tree houses and rope walk ways. I also recorded Hi8 footage that was cut into short films published on CD-ROM and distributed by a SchNEWS annual. As an anarchist I habitually frequented, for two years, an autonomous collective, based within a housing co-op located within Easton, Bristol. All were anti-Socialist, anti-Marxist, we were autonomous, excluding hierarchy wherever we found it. In 1999 I dropped out of Ruskin College after racist threats were made against my life by Communist students (witnessed by the Student Union house master) Oxford. I had briefly studied Political Theory with a tutor named Robert Purdey. After a short stay in a hard to flat in Huddersfield (aquired a "hard to let" council flat in just two days after presenting as homeless!) I moved into a squat located in Herne Hill, a district of South West London. It was here I met Coldcut, Matt Black, and other artists including Mix Master Morris, David Renwick, Sonja Kristina, Marvin Ayres, Richard Leviathan etc, through a friend nick named Bongo. Whilst here I was commissioned by Ninjatune to create a promotional pack of top trump style control cards for Coldcuts ETUC single.

From here I became interested in Buddhism, meditating at Brockwell Lido with the Friends of the Western Buddhist Order. From a meditation group in Soho I found Mahayana Buddhism, after a year I took refuge at a Bodhicharya gathering with Ringu Tulku Rinpoche. From Hinduism I exited Buddhism abruptly because of their "egalitarian" renunciation of Ātman. I began to interact with Hinduism, visiting a Dravidian temple in Tooting (above Sarkonis restuarant), and a Hindustani temple Wembley, among others; accumulating into a visit to Gujarat, India. One hundred thousand Hindus came to see me in Gujarat, I made contact with light rotating through their crown chakras. I felt blessed, they said they were blessed; the media swarmed, overwhelmed by national interest I was published on the cover of The Times of India, and nationally broadcast over Aaj Tak and Sky News channels.

Upon invitation, I received hospitality, visiting hundreds of homes; overseen by Hindu Brahmin priests. Deep within Hinduism, I was requested to read a sloak before a yagna, but I refused. Hindus connected to Internal State Security claimed I was too close to God and thus tortured me with an ECT machine in Gandhinagar. These Brahmin idolised a child incarnation of four arm Shakthi, seated upon a cockerel. The temple was an epicentre of eunuchs, who were told to be men that had cursed by the deity to live as women. These eunuchs detested my presence, a plot was discovered by police where they had schemed to take my life.

In Delhi my renewable "Vedic purpose" visa was cancelled, I remained in the city of Patan whilst a police investigation took place; resulting in a request (not deported) to return to London, UK, and reapply for reentry using another visa. The Indian Embassy refused me a visa and used security to forcefully eject me. My situation had changed in the UK and thus found myself destitute on the streets of London; Hindu people (other than temple administration) within the UK, as partisan racists, ignored and shunned me. I've been of No Fixed Abode most of my transient life and could not fathom, nor realise how vulnerable I'd become. From the ages of 11 to 15 I was taken into local authority care; I was placed with friends of the family, foster parents, and numerous children homes; after fifty-two placements, expelled from two schools, this duration discharged me from local authority care homeless. Redundant, dejected and lost in an abyss of childhood trauma; but enamoured by wonder, I embraced adventure after listening to wayfarers rambling stories of the winding road. Initally I stayed in reception centres, known as spikes these places, in the 1970s had run by social security had existed to enable men to travel for work; but now acted as night shelters, halfway houses for released prisoners and mental health patients attempting to resettle into the community. In the early 1990s I joined the "New Age Travellers" living on varous traveller sites across the country. During 2010 latent childhood truama surfaced through cracks in the street pavement. Blemished in dirt, and daubed in grime, I discovered the antichrist chasing down my people whilst displaced and destitute upon the depraved streets of central London. Subjected to sleep deprivation and increments of trauma, hypervigilance revealed to me a reanimate, cause-and-effect world unseen, constructed, and concealed in plain sight.

I found muted agendas psychologically exploiting and oppressing people socially conditioned into the direst dejected poverty. Grounded upon cold Portland stone, between distracting feckless commuters, familiarity revealed "strangers" motivating purpose with impunity through etched corridors of compartmentalisation. Methods and tactics are akin to Zersetzung used in the cold war by the STASI. Strangers, focussed ritualised abuses, occasional assaults, and vinegar sponge decimations upon my person. EXIF data from photographs revealed "strangers" arrived at timed intervals of 22 and 45 minutes past every hour, during day and night lasting weeks, months until one year, accumulating 17,000 systemic intrusions. And I was not alone, stranded homeless people, confined by anxiety, awash with dissociation, overwhelmed by hypervigilance, and gripped by panic yet moved on, recalled by triggers.

Overwhelmed, confused, dissembled psychotic, escalating derealisation diminished survival instincts of hunger, cold, and thirst. Charity cycled this disposition, culturing "Jesus in the Slum" allegories by manipulating outreach recourse; false charity only inclusive during fundraising from the chill of winter month. Opened clenched fist of the proletariat giver; slapping inconsolable the bourgeois receiver, defining any sense of trust as not trustable. As hypervigilance developed generalised anxiety, triggered panic, spurned relentless urban walking through zones predesignated with egalitarian tribulation arranged by motivated strangers associating exoterical "omen" logos, both worn on apparel (transient - Chicago Bulls, Obey, Raiders and TapOut) and displayed on litter (static - flatten Red Bull energy drink tins, McDonalds French fries boxes), as an insurgency insignia, anchored to cause and effect responses. Walking 14-hour days until exhaustion incurred an incredibly painful foot problem named Plantar Fasciitis. The police discovered me, asleep on the ground covered in snow, or in the rain, too anxious to speak, sometimes falsely reported preventing me leaving a zone; I was detained seventy-four times by emergency services using the Mental Health Act 2007. Psychological assessment diagnosed eBPD, complex Post-Truamatic Stress and Generalised Anxiety Disorders; I was not described as psychotic, psychiatrists explained my accusations as beliefs not delusions. Latent diagnosis originated from being raised by a paranoid schizophrenic, single parent mother, severity of childhood trauma was purposefully exploited. Attacks were not always psychological, in Bayswater an assailant kick broke my nose and right radius bone in half after refusing his advances whilst I was trying to sleep in a doorway.

The attack happened in Bayswater, in a doorway yards away from a Greek restaurant named "Aphrodite"; I had been attempting to shelter from a relentless downpour of rain, tired from attending (solidarity with gay friends) a Gay Pride march earlier. The attacker, threatened me with violence if I did not remove myself from his "manor" but desperately tired all I could envision was rest. He returned, beat my face with the but of a rolled up newspaper, then kicked my arms and legs with his boots, until my right radius bone broken in half, after I protested he threatened to break my other bones before swifty leaving. Darkness descended, until I awoke in a pool of blood, begging a laughing bystander to phone an ambulance. I was taken to wait eight hours on a stretcher without pain medication in a hospital corridor at St Mary's, Paddington. Because he went away and came back CID police said he was very dangerous but their search for him was unsuccessful. My forearm crunched whilst a botched plaster cast was applied, discharged to face off rain, I was told not to get my plaster wet. His racial characteristics and Khaki coloured clothing triggered recall panic as a traumatic induced phobia, finger pointed as racist or racism by whoever, whatever became offended. Strangers returned to gloat at the dejected disparity they had cultured; sometimes accompanied by a life that had once arrived to pass me by to withholding to present themselves to another. Containment ensued that I named the "Nobody Zone", after every connection I made was altercated partisan. Nobody wanted to witness this evil. Outreach services friended me with a woman who had worked in China as a TV presenter, she was sexually assaulted nightly by numerous abusers whilst sleeping by hot air vents behind the Strand Hotel. She'd been deported from China for refusing to decimate the Dalai Lama; she spoke fluent Mandarin yet worked part-time as a Tower of London toilet cleaner and law firm receptionist.

After sleeping more than forty nights in the night shelter of Connections in St Martins, I was placed in a "Lookahead" hostel located in Bayswater. My room was warm and comfortable, but my mind raged with flashbacks whilst my body burned from anxiety; lucid night terrors haunted me. A neighbour, too anxious to exit her room, described her Freemason father evil. Plans to do anything fell like a house of cards, whilst at this hostel I found it hard to focus. To help, I decided to paint abstract composition pictures, using a medium of acrylic on canvas; these paintings were vandalised. Both sides of my room door, inside elongated cupboards, were jam packed with donated suits arriving from United Grand Lodge of England. In 10/10/10, as a vagrant, I visited the Royal Courts of Justice and then the Common Wealth freemasonry of the United Grand Lodge of England (UGLE) on London's "Open House" day.

At UGLE I joined a tour group but became separated by a series of doors unto a gold decagram, inscribed with Hebrew, here a suited man motioned me to walk across it. As my presence neared the centre of the decagram the air violently shook around me, a feeling of falling occurred. I immediately left UGLE, but for days I was surrounded by an "outer darkness" until I completely submerged myself in water. I threw myself into the River Thames, outside M16 HQ, located in Vauxhall. I visited this decagram on the eve of Yom Kippur (a Jewish ritual of kapparot involves waving a chicken over one's head and then slaughtering it); researching the decagram I found the symbolism used in cock fighting, customary held within octagonal houses. Historically the Norman Church placed golden cockerels above their churches; I often wondered why, as did many Brahmin priests, why Queen Victoria passed by, within miles, of visiting the temple I'd frequented in Gujarat India, as the four armed deity there is pictured seated upon a cockrel, to them symbolic of representing innocence.

I picked myself up from apathetic slumber of London, and walked fifty miles to Brighton, then across the South and North Downs, along the Ridgeway, over Dartmoor, around the Cornish coast, over the peak district, living at my time and pace healed me. Today enduring horrific auditory hallucinations, a negative voice in form of thought, endlessly describing dismal failings, described as self perpetuated. The effect on my life has been horrendous; released to my mothers address from amber ward (three-month admission at Highgate mental health unit) I was stalked and harassed by a two thousand member Facebook "spotting page", members hurled abuses taking hundreds of pictures; perpetually chased down, slandered, provocations photographing reactions. A woman that was intrested in my blog that I'd written about trauma, contacted me. Meeting at a cafe we discussed PTSD and other truama related illness that I had blogged. Just over three hours in Loughborough she counted over threatening thirty confrontations, with one resulting in naked gentalia exposure.

Fleeing the county with advice from the police I relocated to Nottingham, my body began to shut down from trauma, flashbacks and panic attacks left me catatonic and bedridden for months. During this time within this small terrace house in Forest Fields, Nottingham, our neighbours, African students, were highly abusive to us through the walls of our house. Karen, had been a nurse working at Glenfield hospital but relocating to another city had secured herself a job with a recruitment agency; she was followed everywhere by enablers. We were both activists, Karen had been in Nablus, Palestine with International Solidarity Movement and had claimed to have witnessed children being shot along with other atrocities and human rights abuses. During my time in London, Pirate TV had been approached by ISM to make a film about the troubles in Palestine. ISM had approached Channel 4 with footage but had been shunned by them and other media establishment; Pirate TV put together a film complied from the footage, after the first screening we were followed about Herne Hill and Brixton, bizarrely by suited Israeli men. I was shunned by the Sumac centre with false accusations of me being an undercover police officer, slander that was later decanted by visiting activists who had known me for decades. These "COINTELPRO" styled tactics have alienated me for years, notably at a time when I was extremely vulnerable; I don't know this originating from the state intelligence who were actively spying on us, but more so from Communists insurgents aligning themselves (entrism) and steering collectivised anarchist movements. Since the formation of ANTIFA cognitive dissonance (blurring of us and them) had become rife, anarchist movements that weren't integrated and assimilated became fractionalised and ostracised by partisan tolerances, forsaking many activists into bewildered anguish. Cruelties of mother nature (anxiety, trauma) are the greatest enemy of autonomous movements, non-heliacal individuality co-operating through an awareness named mindfulness. People go about their daily business unaware of political undercurrents utterly destroying people, shunning those who become aware. Psychological tactics utilised originate from human rights abuses of West Germany's Zersetsung operations, launched against the populace by the infamous STASI. In thirty years, only three STASI spies were caught in the UK! They are undetectable, and I've known of them to be "overground" to this day.

My brother has refused to speak to me for ten years, I do not know my niece (brother's daughter), never spoken to her, I've presumed her evil. I was not informed of either my mother's or father's funeral; I have no other immediate relatives. Fourteen years I've been outcast dead, dispossessed and alone, shunned by pervasive partisan tolerances. Justin was not much of a brother to me, his friends taunted me as "freak" and "alien" whilst he laughed or at best looked on; one afternoon his friend, after watching clockwork orange film, entered our kitchen and slashed my hand with a box cutter knife, ripping flesh from my thumb to my index finger, I was thirteen years old when he grabbed my hand that day. Father devoiced mother, she became a single parent from fathers extramarital affair. Forced to wait outside, on his wedding day to his new wife, excluded from witnessing his vows because I appeared miserable. His new wife, stepmother, was unhappy with our presence, denouncing us to father as "zombies"; we were traumatised from our mother's mental illness. Mother was originally diagnosed with depression, and committed to the Towers mental hospital, given electroconvulsive therapy until she could not remember who I was to her. The shock of her rejection and immense turmoil of detachment, was deflected by another psychiatric patient becoming uncontrollably disruptive and violent toward us during our brief visit. Two uncles and aunties tried to help us between mother's frequent hospital admissions; when she was well she attempted to hold down jobs at hosiery factories, unwell she was bedridden or paranoid and manic, with wide eyes that would stare straight through a person. Emaciated as the 2nd smallest pupil in school with the 2nd worst attendance record. Primary schooling very much dissociated me from education, an extremely abusive teacher named Mr Benison pulled out my hair; he terrorised many kids (nine-year-old!) in his class, with taunts such as "baby blue eyes, baby blue eyes", "sly boy, sly boy, I don't like sly boys". Achieving kids were separated into a small "safe" room from the rest of class that were subjected to his unusually cruel and often bullying contempt; it wasn't unusual for him to single out a child in front of the entire school during essembly, then banish them from the day; another female teacher would stab us on the hand with a ruler. It was not all bad, despite dyslexia I resulted above average in grade, also I learned to play an instrument via the loan of a dented trumpet. To instill life into me my uncle placed me into the ACF where I attended to camps, one at Yardley Chase, the other at Catterick barracks. Despite stuggling with a DP303 during a fourty-eight hour exercise I was a crack shot with an air riffle and on a shooting range with a cadet version of the SA80. Besides being vacant I could not tollerate itchy wool shirts.

Every member of my family worked hard, father was a printer's clerk, then unfortunately for us, a wayward book rep for Mills and Boon. Whilst at Ladybird books in Loughborough he wrote and illustrated a children's book titled Flying Models, ISBN 9780721405346. Father travelled the country extensively in his purple Volvo estate car until is concentration began to fail him, crashing him twice into motorway barriers. After sometime working at the Brush in Loughborough my mother worked as a linker within the hosiery and knitwear manufacturing industry. Bullying and gossip did not help my mother's deteriorating psychiatric condition. At Mansfield Hosiery Mills she often thought her co-workers of scheming against her, sabotaging her work; changing factories to Rob Roy Ltd, and then Charterhouse where her accusations abated, at least for a while. My maternal and parental ancestors historically were coal miners, in Yorkshire and Tyneside. Largely due to a transient lifestyle, I am the only member of my family that has not "officially" held a "proper" job, finding informal work on fruit farms, or accepting commissioned work offered by the IT industry. From my teenage years to my late twenties I suffered significantly from alcoholism; co habitual addicted with the "brew crew" New Age Travellers / Grunge subcultures; street drinking super strength larger (Carlsberg, Kestrel, Tenants), sherry (Tudor Rose and Montilla), fortified wines (Thunderbird both Red and Blue) and whisky (if I could get it) was my preferred tipple. Excluding LSD and magic mushrooms (liberty caps), I avoided recreational drugs such as cannabis and amphetamine (both made me paranoid). I detested more harder drugs such as heroin and crack that had cruelly taken the lives of many good friends through senseless overdoses. For thirty years I enjoyed smoking, usually menthol cigarettes such as consulate supplemented by rolling tobacco when I did not have much money. During the 90s I didn't go to festivals such as Glastonbury etc, or attend illegal raves for phobia of large crowds; however, I did enjoy some rather bizarre psychedelic barn / squat informal parties.

Evicted from New Age Traveller sites by the Criminal inJustice Act I found the dongers at Tywford down; it was not hard to relate, as these protesters were not just living the same sub-cultured lifestyle but were also fighting back at the government, to save countryside I'd found sanctuary in as an abused child. I'd talk to them in Winchester, whilst getting drunk by the butter cross, briefly visiting the M11 protest on Claremont road I did not actively join anti-road building cause until the beginnings of the A34 Newbury Bypass protest. Arriving at Newbury there were only protest sites at Penwood and Snalesmore Common. I moved onto Snalesmore, living in the communal bender via invitation from an ex-skinhead named Paul, who I met whilst drinking at the Clock Tower pub. There were many crazy street drinkers in Newbury: nutty Nigel, Wild Owl and Phil the Lizard King to name but a few; we were too wild to be labelled as Bohemian back then; later they were joined by Pete Bollocks, Dos, and Gary Pagan Dog Vommit. Activists from Salisbury hill A38 campaign came to Snalesmore Common along the Kennet Canal; including an activist named Jim, sometimes he'd follow me playing the tin whistle. There was also a couple named Badger and Tammy, at least they seemed to know what they were doing. Whilst there I levelled a circle in the hillside for a firepit, that later turned into a deep tunnel shaft and underground network; due to alcoholism I was too uneasy to wear a harness and put up walkways high in the trees. From Newbury, I joined a protest / land occupation against Strategic housing on a brown field site in Highworth, Wiltshire. Activists at this camp were Druids (Des Bard and Corwen), Wiccans (Trevor and Jane) and Pagans, within their ritual circle they'd erected hazel pole gateways to represent compass directions; so friendly were they that even the local vicar got to know them. Here I dug a tunnel, and accomplished my first firewalk, the protest changed many local people in a big way, including two lads who had peddled down from Hull, despite the camp eventually being evicted after some crazy guy had for 3 months terrorised protestors. I briefly stayed at Syston Common protest (Avon Relief Road) with Marget Jones, Bangles and Robin before moving into Kebele housing Cooperative in Eastville, Bristol. I helped run the Vegan cafe, and fought the council to back date housing benefit arrears owed to residents at the cooperative. On cafe nights I drank coffee with investigative journalist Tony Gosling.

Kebele consisted of a bike workshop, café and library, upstairs an office and three rooms let out to residents; although the café had an Ethiopian name, no Ethiopians to my knowledge bothered with the café that was self defined and functioned as an autonomous anarchist collective. The café also existed as a portable kitchen, catering for events, sometimes alongside the Anarchist Teapot. The café had its characters, Anna Banana, Basque Martin, Callum, Mikey Spartacus, Faslane Bobby etc, I lived at the café, on and off for a couple of years; multiculturalism was OK in Easton back then in the mid 90s, frequenting music nights at the Black Swan, events at Easton Community Centre and of course breakfast at the Monte carlo café. From Kebele I met many activists involved with the Ashton Court Quarry protest but never protested there, I also met swampy Dan in Bristol, he knew many activists I had known, him being at Fairmile A30 whilst I was at Snalesmore A34. On Bristol open house day I visited, with some apprehension, Park Street Freemasonic Lodge with Tony Gosling. He was interested in finding a secret tunnel that he believed was used by Freemasons to gain secret access into the lodge. The tour about the lodge was led by Provincial Grand Master Dr Fox, ending with a Q&A session in their ritual hall; I had asked Dr Fox as to "why freemasonry existed" to that he replied "to teach men how to behave"; upon leaving they pulled Tony over and quietly asked him if he'd like to join them; we did not find the tunnel or get them to admit to being aware of a tunnel. My time ended at Kebele after not being able to chew on the "Climate Change" agenda; thereafter leaving Bristol to study politics, as a mature student at Oxford. In 2025, I'm not bothered about naming names, as most people I knew back then are dead; what can they do to them? Before leaving Kebele we launched a campaign to save Bishopston Community centre, occupying the building for several weeks. During Reclaim the Streets protest in London the police, dressed in riot gear, forced entry chasing me and a co-occupant named Nad about the building. Nad, real name Dan was a Kebele resident, at the time he kept secret that his mother, was at the time, working as a private sectary to Prime minster Tony Blair. Years after Kebele, Nad returned to his home town of Sheffield, securing work at a windowless Venereal disease clinic; he also became a father. Others at Kebele had high placed parents, one activist's father being a high court judge!

During the early 90s, I came into direct contact with the Neopagan Druid movement, performing ritual at ancient megalithic sites such as Avebury and Stonehenge. These were known as the Glastonbury Order of Druids, the Secular Order of Druids and the Loyal Arthurian Warband. Many people attending these events were connected to other orders, such as the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, and the British Druid Orders, these orders held Druid camps, some of which I attended held fire walks, bathed in hot tubs, and held workshops in folklore and Celtic mythology. Finding structure in this movement I excelled and began instructing Gorsedd at Bath Circus, there were many visitors and guests to these events, including Ronald Hutton, author and professor of history at Bristol university. I instructed Gorsedd at Avebury, Glastonbury Tor, and Stonehenge, I also instructed hand fastings and birth and death ceremonies at Silbury hill; I saw and still see nothing wrong with celebrating life; irrespective of prevailing persecutions from somewhat bizarre sects of "Christianity". The orders had formed an umbrella organisation known as the Council of British Druid Orders, COBDO. At one COBDO meeting, held above Atlantis Bookshop and chaired by the late Douglas Lyne (Ancient Order of Druids) I became a full member of this council, I attended one other meeting then left, having become overwhelmed by experiences from interactions with Hinduism. Books have been written about these Druids, and I've often wondered, not excluding my own involvement, just how many Druids had been played off for fools and at best useful idiots. Many Druids suffered mental health problems, a prevailing infliction of mania was common amongst this crowd. Neo-paganism was also infected by entrism, notably at Stonehenge via supporters of the deposited Maoist exile Hallie Salassie, proclaimed "living God" by Rastafarianism, a socio-political movement founded on blatant lies written about Marcus Garvey by Comintern agents C.L.R James (cricket commentator) and W.E.B duBois (founder of NAACP); truth be known Garveys contempt for Rastafarianism border lined on scorn, viewing their fictitious stories with disdain, and more often as blasphemous. When Tim died (SOD) I was approached by a man named Wally Dean, he was searching for the Order's cricket bat, the order had used cricket to settle indifferences. I was not notified of Deans appointment to this Order, knowing the history of the Rastafarian movement he both supports and promotes, after briefly living at no 60 St Agnes Place, Kennington, I did not wonder why. During the 80s, a segment of the New Age Traveller subculture after encamping near Greenham Common had become infected by Communism via the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament; thereafter becoming the "peace convoy" of 1983 and Stonehenge Festival.

Contrasting, unknown to me at the time Glastonbury Order of Druids and the Loyal Arthurian War band had been aligning themselves to a seventeenth century Puritan movement known as the fifth monarchists (promoted by Marxist Ian Bone of Class War infamy). Fifth monarchists were active during the English Civil War and sought to seize power in England in order to prepare for what they believed was Christ's inevitable return in the near future to reign in England. Their motif was a rampant lion, displayed on the Loyal Arthurian tabard, with an additional "bone" symbolised as an erect penis of the Red lion. Hippie culture of the "Rainbow Family" also converged at Stonehenge via a woman named Susanna; nicked named the "Queen of Yoghurt". Both the Rainbow Family and Friends of the Western Buddhist Order (Buddhafield) used Teddy Stones land near Shepton Mallet for their festivities. I attended these festivities twice, once with a friend who had contracted Hep A from eating the camp's cooking. Another druid was Denny Price, later becoming Mitchell after marrying Jon Mitchell (Lay line theory); she had become Mayor of Glastonbury; and after my return from India a self-styled hierophant of Avalon; during a Beltane ceremony she attempted, with Jon Cousins, as an enabler to esoterically merge with me with an interloping agenda of entrism that had previously terrorised me hapless. Few folk knew her previous "profession", and Tim (Archdruid of Secular Order of Druids) said he should have never promoted her from "cook" (Noel Ignatiev editor of "Race Traitor Magazine" and C.L.R James written a book titled "Any cook can Govern"). It should be noted Rastafarian "prophet" Garvey was a committed ethnonationalist, leading to a fall-out with W.E.B duBois who labelled Garvey a distraction. Through the lingering mist of cognitive dissonance it's taken years to fathom, yet realise sickness of these cretins that their horrific agendas have placed upon of my life to flesh sanctity inherent. I never made any secret oaths, or symbolic pledges of allegiance to any of them, nor have I taken a covenant or been at any time in my life a member of a secret society. If you value both your sanity, and your soul, stay clear of them, the least keep them at arms length, as you would restrain a salacious serpent of mesmerism from enacting envenomization.

After acquiring references from Dr Margret Jones and somebody else, I can't really remember, in the year of 1999 I was enrolled as a hall of residence student at Ruskin College. I had enrolled to study politics, then changed to study law; initially I liked the college and tutors, but the students had a real problem with me studying at the college, it would not be too strong to write of them despising me. Socially isolated I met the company of a previous student, he was an environmentalist and a co-founder of the magazine Corporate Watch. From here, I travelled over to East Oxford and made friends with many activists around and about Cowley Road, occasionally we would go to events at East Oxford Community centre, we also organised an Earth First! Gathering at that venue. It was on Cowley road I first met Bryan (now known as Koala), he was involved with the squat / free party scene at Boars hill (a huge empty house and grounds South West of Oxford). Knowing Corporate Watch co-founders I got to know activists involved in other campaigns, life was alright in East Oxford. I became a life member of Oxford Union debating society, and also joined the Bodleian Library to read case law. Looking over naivety, I found the students of Oxford University interesting and generally well-mannered; they were tolerant and marginally accepting, outside of Ruskin College. I found concentration difficult at Ruskin College, I lapsed with studies and classes; finding out death threats had been made against me, I packed my things and left the college; assailing the stairwell and jumping into a van loaded with animal rights activists heading toward Bristol. The threats were revealed by the Oxford Union housemaster, buying me a pint he thought I'd be the one to get banned, and apologised; he said the threats came from Essex / London Ruskin College students, and warned to be aware of them. I found colleges in Oxford fascinating, and somehow knew the type of fish swimming in the centre of Christ Church quad, I'd often spent afternoons by the calming River Isis. Whilst at East Oxford I met Natty Mark, and built a website for his Arawak sound system, he was a good dude back then, until (after I had returned from India) when he was radicalised by the Nation of Islam. Deaths (drug overdoses etc) ended the squatting party scene, however I saw Chumbawamba and New Model Army at the Zodiac. On entry I was barred from the Jamican Eating house for the sole reason of not liking my face; all my friends walked out with me and thus boycotted the establishment. Alcohol becoming problematic, feet itchy I left Oxford for Huddersfield, Kirkless council had rented me a high mortality, hard to let flat.

In Sheffield 2014, I was sheltered from rough sleeping inside a shoebox flat on West Street, women screaming late at night to the early hours of the morning, and drunken men urinating against my window wreaked havoc with generalised anxieties. Next door, a machine hummed against the wall, making me feel unwell to the extent I slept outside again; luckily inheritance from my mother's estate came through, effectively taking me off the streets and into the shelter of four-star hotels for two months; before money ran out I purchased hiking equipment, however harassment tactics again deteriorated mental health. Trigger panicked by Kabbalah bracelets and Black Panther apparel, I walked out of Sheffield and over miles of windswept moorland toward Castleton. Dressed in only a linen strappy dress I trudged barefoot through ice and snow until a yellow and black police helecopter encircled me, warning over a megaphone to stay away from the edge of a rocky hillside slope. The helicopter, from Wakefield, land and a police officed talked to me for ten minutes, after offering Kendal mint cake he let me continue my walking. I walked through Hope, Castleton by collapsed with hypothemia near Winnats pass; thereafter an ambulance took me to a hospital in Stockport where my tempreture was elevated and thus became discharged. I cannot recall how many instances my life was in imminent danger whilst I was targeted, even when the harassment ceased, enough psychological damage had been done to incur further risk to my state wellbeing. After leaving a hotel bar in Kinlochbervie at dusk I hiked a broken path to Strathan Bothy, forty metres stray of this path I fell into a river. My backpack kept me afloat as I pulled myself out hanging onto protruding spines of long grass, in the darkness of midwinter I shook hard whilst crossing a broken bridge. Digital maps had been stored on my broken phone, I scrambled the wilderness until I discovered the bothy, as a faint white impression cut into a distant hillside. Inside a four pack of lager and burning peat. At sunrise I hiked to Sandalwood bay via a visit to Strathcailleach Bothy; I envisioned walking around Cape Wrath but returned south to Kinlochbervie due to suffering symptoms of exposure. Even in this remoteness I was followed, most profoundly up the southern path and to the summit of Ben Nevis, these "strangers" co-occupied bothy's such as Allt Sheicheachan, Invermallie and Greenskyes; other bothies, such as Achnanclach and Strabeg were seemingly too remote for them. Harassment along the highland coastal path between Buckie and Peterhead was severe, worst in the town of Banff, but the Brock was endearing. Intensively followed along the Malvern hills, my father had lived in Malvern. Facing off systematic persecutions whilst utterly destitute I wrote an online survival guide from experiences gained, I have known of others (also connected or even only loosely affilated to Druidry) who have suffered similair religious persecutions.

Sanity could have not perceived this distraught and dejected journey of sheer and utter isolated detachment; a mind starved of human association begins to visually hallucinate the presence of people edging closer and closer, thoughts become voices, encroaching paranoia upon reality. However the Grey man of MacDui never appeared behind, followers were real..

Perhaps the cruellest disparities were inflicted by homeless charities run and/or overseen by Catholic nuns. Abuse around the streets of Derby was desensitising, bruises in the form of clench marks appeared on my upper and lower arms with self explanation. On a cold winter's day I handed The Padley centre my only clothes to wash, they were returned soaking wet and dyed blue; shortly before I was told to leave. I was accommodated in a hostel in Leeds, surrounded by a high metal fence lined with razor wire. Men would frequently arrive at the gate, requesting fellatio from female residents in exchange for money. I was placed in a flat, but Muslims attending a mosque confronted me with unfounded accusations of snooping for MI5. After briefly meeting a charming Labour politician, I was rehoused in a bedsit within the East Riding town of Goole. Here in this small town, I was stalked by youth connected to a boxing club, which climaxed with them attempting to throw me onto live railway tracks. Here a church woman had told me of a Goole librarian being strangled with her red scarf.

During the COVID-19 Pandemic, I was emergency housed (pandemic legislation) at a caravan park near Goonhaven, whilst here I became a friend to a neighbour who'd been housed from living in a van. Being homeless (a rough sleeper), six months from the start of the pandemic was an unhinged experience. Within three months, I was transferred into LiveWest supported (due to ailing mental health problems) housing accommodation in Truro. Exercise has helped me greatly, to get through generalised anxieties, around and about this small city I purchased and customised a BMX. Blown off course by anxiety triggers initiating panic, I would peddle 20–30 miles, often, to the coastline without any want or reason to be there. I also encountered many accidents, notably when riding on my BMX, accidents are common among people who suffer cPTSD. Friendships were hard to manifest in this city, I frequented a local health food shop and a BMX shop but nothing came of civility at these establishments; because, I was being doxed and partisan suppressed as a "racist". Twice anxiety triggered by a Black Lives Matter customer, I cut social contact with the health food shop not being able to emotionally tolerate "how the cookie crumbled" about and around me.

At Live West supported housing, vulnerable residents were being exploited by outside influences, and thus were in need of safeguarding. A female resident with a history of self-harming was being exploited into sexual activity by a self-proclaimed Satanist that had met the resident whilst working at a homeless night shelter as a security guard. Another female resident was exploited by a perverted man arriving in a car who, on collecting, would gift her for exposing her breasts to him. A female resident was prosecuted and imprisoned for masturbating in public; substance addicted, her angry boyfriend had tried to sell her on the streets of Truro. An empathy male resident who arrived with a broken collar bone felt protective, but his efforts were futile, even the local Baptist church was externally influencing residents, and internally by being allowed access to supported housing "activities". At the time, Truro Cathedral was demanding miscegenation "justice" via Churches together supporting BBC Radio Cornwall Donna Birrell Valentine's Day podcast. Bizarrely LiveWest asked if I were open to be interviewed by Donna, but this would not be my first interview with the BBC News having talked to a correspondent in India.

Neighbours at Live West supported housing (consisting of a number of self-contained flats supported by a 24hr office) had various psychological problems. A disturbed male resident cut up his face, he'd tried to kill himself at the age of 12; another resident had a severe phobia of going outdoors, etc. However, an old friend lived a mere 500 yards away from me, I'd known him for almost 20 years having first met in East Oxford; he was friendly company within a dystopic world of ostracism, and I'd like to think we helped each other psychologically, with both of us suffering effects of trauma. Live West supported housing was supportive, and had initially funded psychotherapy sessions; the councillor unnerved by a eBPD diagnosis terminated sessions, claiming problems were too complex to counsel. Whilst resident in Truro I endured an eight-hour operation that took several months to recover from; during this time I was harassed by a narcissistic "Peter Popoff" doppelgänger neighbour that threatened to kick open my surgical wound; despite ignoring his "you've got no hair" insults he wrote many letters that resulted in me being evicted (as lockdown restrictions withdrew) from "safety" of supported housing.

During 2015 I had tried to secure accommodation in Manchester, having survived a gruelling two months living utterly destitute and anxiety panicked on the streets there. Every other day I'd attend a meeting with a council housing support officer, that eventually emergency housed me into a Bed and Breakfast in Rusholme. Room next door to me in the B&B was being used for illegal and illicit activities, the proprietor kindly supplied a few evening meals after discovering I had not eaten for almost two weeks. The weather in Manchester was hard, it rained constantly, broken tipping pavement stones would drench my feet in filthy water, in every dark place semi removed from the chaos of nightlife, they'd be homeless people sleeping. Sometimes lucky enough to discover unlocked stairwells other times I'd sleep in bin houses; one night it rained for five hours non-stop, walking through darkness, beside me a shop-window I witnessed a light reflecting a friendly apparition upon a rag doll. That night, I crashed in soaking wet clothes, taking refuge inside Granada Studio's doorway. I shook violently with cold, clothes were ice-cold hard, pulling the doll from my rucksack, glowing warmth from her lulled me to sleep. Ten years later, this doll is still travelling with me.

Whilst in Manchester, I received a phone call from a woman that helped me when I was discharged homeless from psychiatric care at Southmead Hospital. She was suffering from bipolar and was terrified social services were going to take her kids away from her before Christmas. I hitch-hiked down to Bristol and for three weeks helped her level her highs and lows which she had blamed on a supermoon; at New Year I began hitch-hiking to Manchester, walking out of Bristol at dusk I found the A46 / M4 at around midnight. I was given a lift by an organ player who diverted his journey to Stroud; he had three months left to live and was out and about living life to the full. In the morning I strolled into a another world and met my fairy friend, she shared her hot soup with me and we became friends. Returning to Manchester the housing officer told me over the phone that I'd have to start the homeless application all over again as I had been out of town; remembering life threatening horrors of the streets I walked several miles out of Manchester hitching multiple lifts over the Peak District towards Hull. Fairy friend helped me at a time when I was disturbed with trauma; from this stability I returned to India, and then unfortunately experienced Sri Lanka in 2017.

My return to India picked up where I left in 2007 as though a ten-year gap of sheer and utter horror in the UK had not happened at all. The experience was invaluable as I gained perspective from my return, in hindsight of how I've been exploited. I still believe in Hindu people, but my gaze that rests upon them has changed significantly, being that I know with certainty, that my soul belongs where I place my feet within my ancestral homeland of Europe. With my India visa running out I flew out to Sri Lanka to renew, I travelled non-stop around this traumatised and deeply divided country; as my Sri Lankan visa here drew to a close my health deteriorated severely. Without an ongoing ticket from India to the UK, I was not permitted to fly out of Sri Lanka, and thus became an illegal overstayer. From a flip-flop accident, a creeping infection had entered and was raging sickness staining my body yellow; flesh flies fed from scabs appearing on my arms and legs. From nights of being sexually assaulted whilst sleeping in doorways, I found my way to the UK embassy in Colombo; I refused advice directing me to go to a religious mission for help whilst they reviewed at my case. My fairy friend approached my brother, adamant, he rudely and vehemently refused to help.

I have experienced many bizarre events in my life, but rarely do I get to film a bizarre event on my mobile phone.

I went to Negombo, Kandy, Matale, Mannar, Jaffna, Trincomalee and Matara; visiting many Hindu kovils including Nallur and Thirukoneswaram; whilst my visa was valid I took rest inside budget hotels. I freely travelled across Sri Lanka via state transport, however my journey on foot was hampered, by what I now suspect to be security services (at no point did they directly approach me) shadowing me in a White Honda Grace car. The first time I tried to walk through the countryside to a village I was stopped by police, they warned me of "elephants" before requesting a gift of English coins, loaded into their jeep I was taken to a hotel, followed by the White Honda grace car. In Jaffna the Brahmin of Vannai Pannai Sivan Kovil found me a budget hotel, the hotel was "visited", the management claimed the men in the White Honda Grace had suspected me to be an undercover UN inspector. I visited various Hindu temples around the city, discovering two chariot festivals, also attending, upon invitation, a celebration yanga held at a Murugan temple. From my experience of Dravidian culture in London, I visited many Muthumari Amman Kovils, including Talimannar. On Mannar Island I was bitten by a Krait snake, fortunately the bite, did not absorb venom.

Whilst in Sri Lanka I was very much fixated on Hinduism, the ten years of hell delivered by Christianity and embracement of state propaganda by Tervardan Buddhism distant my thoughts from Sri Lanka's other religions.

This diary / blog has been a work in progress, incurring self-censorship, with thousands of abuses I faced off redacted. I began lucidly writing a journal, and taking daily photographs in 2006; my journey throughout Gujarat, India was photographed in 2007, and also filmed, a large amount of footage that may have been retained, destroyed or unfortunately fallen into the possession of those naysaying antichrist enablers that have for decades, utterly detested me hapless. Journal writing gathered pace from 2010, notably at the height of stalking whilst I was displaced destitute, finding myself vulnerable on the traumatising streets of Westminster, London. I logged events that spooked me, as hypervigilance revealed unfamiliarity in the form of occurrences, discovered as ritualised abuses, around and about me. From then on I photographed and logged my journey through life, struggling to rationalise contempt held against me, as in "where am I going wrong" opposed to "why are the people wrongful that are harassing and tormenting me"; when all they wanted was to deprive me of life. I utilised mobile phones, including a Samsung B3410 and Galaxy 5 Note, Nokia N900, Volla Phone, iPhones 7, 11 and 14, Huawei P Smart, P20 lite and P30 lite.

I used Flickr, WordPress and Twitter as a hosting platform, before writing a static blog with PHP CSS and HTML code; I used hosts such as siteground before switching to self-managed hosting via renting a VPS. Other than that data that uploaded to this website, much of my online work is now deleted and / or lost; mobile phones, SIM and memory cards were also stolen from me. To give an idea of how much data has been lost, I have taken since the 9th of March 2024 at least 8000 from my Panasonic DC-FZ82 and from iPhone 11 and 14 over 10,500 photographs and 1,419 videos in two or three years least psychologically harassed whilst settled into stable accommodation within the Scottish Borders. I've coded this website static, primarily for security reasons; the other reason being wanting control over how my content was displayed and catalogued. Much self-censorship was done in face of being potentially prosecuted for my writing, in view of current laws of "political correctness" and future laws of state repression that may or may not come into force as our Marxist-Leninism two-tier democracy imprisons political dissident for discourse published on social media. All media stored / displayed on this website is the property of myself, Léonie Blaire-Cooper.

I purged this blog of media other than that of my own due to copyright laws and the blurring of what Fair Use exemption actually means; I have also excluded political discourse and thousands of hours of historical research taken to realise "our" predicament; this has been published on another separate "black" website built, updated and maintained by myself. It's been a great endeavour to both self censor and depersonalise grievance and hatred from these two websites; in this I have left out my personal viewpoints, in place of historial facts that pertain explanation to the current globalised evil of "Socialised Universalism" humanity is now facing; people crucified in spite of their world view. Namely a zealous deprivation cult liquidating our inherent futures as multicultural fertiliser, concepts of alienation cultivating a fear, loathing and envy that'll dispossess us of an existence, least deface us unrecognisable from our ancestral legacy. But on the "white" website I will endeavour to share my life, excluding systematic intrusions, hopefully as an inspiration for others to live on through this madness; in hope that somebody, someday will derail what I know to be an orchastrated ethnocide, from the states torturous, contorted tracks of psychological bondage.