Matthew and I fell in love in probably January of 1993, just three-and-a-half years after the Tottenham rape-gangs had hold of me.
I was older, not much wiser - I was perma-numb, in fact, and finding some safety in chaos - and at university (one of the only things my dad did for me in my life was to help me get a place on this university course - I wonder if he had been advised to do so).
Me, Matthew, and Paul were out raving in London.
We were very high on extasy.
Matthew had the same birthday as my brother (back when me and my brother were the firmest of friends).
THE COINCIDENCE WAS HUGE, IMPORTANT, SIGNIFICANT!!!
I have to wonder now if that’s really his birthday.
He told me his dad was a porn-king.
I thought he was just being an idiot.
He showed me a picture of him when he was small.
He was so sweet, scared and tiny, at his grandparent’s (on his porn-king father’s side) standing in the garden in Muswell Hill wearing his little suit and bowtie.
I loved him more.
His grandparents looked a bit like the Cambridge-ugly crowd.
I do have to wonder…
I fell out of love with Matthew as soon as the brute showed up, which was not long delayed.
Nevertheless, always in good spirit, we remained firm friends over the years… at least that’s what I thought.
It’s only now I wonder if Matthew always assumed that, because we’d had sex he owned me, like everyone seems to do with women - having sex with them not even necessary, porn-voyeur sex is sufficient - and especially with the special ones who’ve been starring in sedated rape-porn without their knowledge for years.
Matthew probably knows Winston May, and probably fairly well too.
The evening I met Winston May, in August of 1989 at the Camden Palace, Willow and I had been in the car with them all after the club.
They’d driven to Matthew’s house to see if there was a party on.
There hadn’t been anyone in.
But Winston was keen we moved on elsewhere for some reason.
Later, in 2015, Matthew posts photos of music sessions on his Facebook with a man who looks like Winston May (face hidden) knowing that I will see them.
This was at exactly the same time I was writing my police statement to the Met about Winston May while living at Joan Fuster, 11, in Dénia.
If you’re unfamiliar, it’s packed full of lucid dreaming techniques and parallel universes.
I said to Matthew, when we were in love, why don’t we meet in dreams?.
He was interested.
I explained.
We pick a time and place, when we’re asleep, and we agree to meet there.
We picked the top of my road, underneath the lamppost, at 3am.
That night, I wake up to the sound of the front door knocking.
I run downstairs.
I open the front door.
Matthew is standing there.
It’s Matthew, but he’s a bunch of electrical wires, disconnecting, misfiring, broken, disordered, totally chaotic.
He says my name: Katie.
I’m horrified, and wake up.
It’s 3am.
I tell everyone about my dream the next day, including Matthew.
He says, yes he was there because he’d gone to the lamppost as arranged and I’d not been there so he came to my house instead.
But he could not have been conscious of what I saw of him, or he would have been a different person completely; a person who knows they need and want help.
Perhaps I don’t understand God well enough to understand what happened.
I know Matthew was asking for help, and I know I couldn’t help him, at that time.
At one point, I looked out of the window, then continued chatting, then looked again, and saw something strange hovering over the houses across the road.
I said to Matthew, hey, what’s that? and showed him.
He looked and agreed it was inexplicable.
I ran upstairs to tell my brother.
When I got back, the thing had disappeared.
Matthew said it shot off.
I didn’t believe him cos I didn’t trust Matthew.
I think they talked me into reporting it that night to the police.
I couldn’t describe it when the woman on the phone wanted to know what it looked like.
I told her it was brown/grey and shaped a bit like… (mind trying to find the closest thing it look like…), a sofa.
It did seem to be that shape and size, although it looked nothing like a sofa.
Of course, everyone laughed.
It was funny.
I wonder about that now.
Matthew was more freaked out than I was about all this because his dad, he told me, had seen objects flying in the sky; and he never told me anything about his dad without mentioning how he’d been battered by him, regularly.
One day in 1993, Matthew and I bumped into Geetha Singham/Joseph, and I was surprised to notice they knew each other.
They acknowledged each other in a cold, business-like yet familiar way, and I thought it strange and promptly thought not another thing about it, until now.
My brother noticed that Matthew’s numerous girlfriends were always really good looking.
I’m sure he didn’t mean me, never thought of that at all.
But now I’m wondering if Matthew didn’t have another purpose for all of us, after all.
Matthew and I have contact during periods of intense Las Marinas sedated sex attacks, and at no other times¶
The last time I saw Matthew was probably 2008 and before that, maybe 1995.
We have contact again in the Autumn of 2015 while I’m writing my police statement to the Met because the repeated sedated sexual assaults are triggering depression and trauma and I’ve nothing to relate it to except what happened in 1989.
When I contact him again about Ugly in 2025, he does not respond.
I ask Paul to contact him in 2025 to see if he can get copies of the original child gang-rape porn from 1989.
Paul never gets back to me on that; even though I’m offering £1000 a copy and Paul really really needs the money!
I’m certain that Paul, Matthew, Niall, Lee, all my male friends from the early 90s, and most likely my male family members too, have seen the porn I’m starring in without my knowledge.
Is anyone else noticing it’s the men who have been f**king everything up for decades?
Could Matthew and his ugly uncle be related to these snakes?¶
You know, there is a certain familiar look about them, particularly the monster one on the front page, number four of the trumpet-teacher teams.
Could they be related?
Whenever Darren told Matthew he was a gyppo, he’d get upset and shout about how his mum is Indian and his dad is Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, and Irish.
