Autism. And yes, I remain angry and fed up with Portsmouth.

Because NOBODY in Portsmouth wants to talk about what is going on here. (Other than make remarks about dogs and what not.) Much more fun to leave me on the tarmac and watch lorries drive over me after I was hit by the bus that represents whatever the hell is going on in this town.

Former Lib Dem City councillor and former Deputy City Council Leader Steve Pitt, for one, knows a heck of a lot about what is going on. But he stays mum.

Out of the blue, when he still ran a pub, he wrote to me that I should go to him if people were bothering me. I had no idea what on earth that might have to do with him.

Later, when I had started to become really scared and had already lost my income, I asked him whether he knew so and so. Never heard of him. I knew – and half of Pompey knows – that that was a lie. The person in question not only used to frequent his pub, but… well, half of Portsmouth can fill in the dots. We all know that Mr Pitt hates music, don’t we? Yes, that last sentence was an attempt at English humor aka sarcasm.

Later he informed me that if I didn’t like seeing my life ruined by Pompey I should go back to where I came from, but… I think that that e-mail was spoofed. (The tone of it was off, in my perception. But maybe I was just too shocked by what he wrote to be willing to accept that it came from him.)

I do not necessarily mind the idea of dedicating the rest of my life towards bridging the gap between autistic people and neurotypicals…



I would want to do that in a professional capacity, but I cannot support myself while in my current situation.

And anyone who now wants to spread the myth that I am autistic, after so many other nonsensical myths that have been spread about me locally. HELL NO! My mom was bonkers and kept me on a very short leash. I was not to play with or talk with other kids, certainly not play at their homes, only at my own place. ‘Scuse me? I did defy her but not often enough. In primary school only ONCE was I allowed to go to another kid’s home. My mom took me there and also collected me. The kid was moving to another town shortly after. I was the eldest, so I bought my mom’s nonsense for a long time. (My sisters had me to compare their situation against and they were not kept on a similar short leash.) After my mother had died, I found myself really conflicted one day when I had missed classes because of the flu and needed to know what home works had been given. I decided to make the phone call anyway, even though I was not sure whether such a thing was allowed. I also started sending myself to the movies, theater performances and so on. That’s not autism. That’s the effect of a nutty, somewhat unworldly mother who had grown up in a highly protective environment and loved the 1960s “Camelot” story. I remind you that it is 2021 now, folks.

(But my sisters still seem to buy into the myth of the perfect mother. Nobody’s perfect. A good thing too. The world would be so boring if everyone were perfect. I appreciated my parents’ good sides and I accepted their weaknesses instead of idolising them and denying them their mere humanity.)

Everything else you want to tag on me for is mostly the result of nearly 17 years of English otherisation and so many years of wanting the hell out of here.

This morning: A spoofed message from a Dutch copyright organisation. In my personal mail box.

Followed by another one, stating the following utter BS:

“Geachte heer/mevrouw,

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And all Gerald Vernon-Jackson does when I beg for help to put an end to my slavery situation is shrug while I haven’t been able to support myself for over a decade on account of this kind of hacking and other interference. I am smarter and equally qualified. He lives in splendor. I live in squalor. He considers that normal.

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