THE SILENT INVADERS.

THE SILENT INVADERS

The silent invaders enter our country daily. They are silent because of their need to infiltrate unnoticed until they find succour with their own kind.

As time passes they wheedle their way into positions of influence on Town Councils and then on to becoming more influential in stronger positions of power. 

Now, today, we have an unstoppable flow of humanity, which will change our country forever if allowed to continue. This will be a global tragedy because the shining light of Great Britain will be extinguished by the silent invaders who do not posses the ancient culture of our islands. I say 'tragedy' because Great Britain has led the world for centuries and will be sorely missed when the British pedigree of English; Irish, Scottish, Welsh and Commonwealth nations are diluted into some kind of mongrel society that the invaders crave. 

'Political Correctness' is a tool; or should I say 'weapon' with which to shape and bend our natural traits? I think more a weapon; a weapon which silences our natural wont to argue when we know things are moving in the wrong direction.

Our freedom of speech is threatened now more than ever and our government needs to prepare for the coming verbal battles that will transcend into becoming laws that will affect our children and their descendants, thereby initiating the demise of our culture.  

Part of  William Shakespeare's work:  

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son,
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!

Video Pitch for MOTHERLAND, Feature Screenplay by Christopher Chance

Syria and Ukraine (Change of subject).

SYRIA—UKRAINE: A LOST CAUSE?

Why are Putin and Obama at loggerheads just now?

That is a question on many lips and a lot of people are worried—and rightfully so, because there is a lot at stake, which has nothing to do with humanitarian cause or effort.

I personally don't know who initiated the 'putsch' against Assad. Maybe it's the so-called 'Arab Spring' (a media term for Arab unrest). OK, so who upset the Arabs to create the 'Spring'? Someone did and regime change is knocking on Syria's door just like it did in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Yemen and most blatantly with Saddam in Iraq.

So why Syria? Let's have a little look... But first let's just get something clear: If you think the Cold War is over and the KGB no longer exists, then it's a fair bet you believe in the Tooth fairy. The reputation of the KGB has not been erased by renaming it the FSB - the Russian bear is still alive and kicking.

First of all we'll start with Putin and the Russians. They have been pals with Syria for a long time, hence the Russian naval base in Tartus. So what? I hear you say. Well, it just so happens that it is the only foothold the Russians have in the Middle East and the only naval base they have in the Mediterranean. Also, it generates a multi-billion dollar arms business which certain people in the West would love to have a slice of. I feel I am wasting my time now because I bet you can see where I am going with this.

Okay, regime change; who wants one? If there is one, the Russian naval base could well be asked to sling its hook and find another port. If this came to pass the Cold War would very likely become very hot. Right now there is a lot of hot air about 'red lines' being crossed; similar rhetoric prior to Iraq and Libya... red lines were crossed then—WMD and all that bollox... all a pack of lies that cost many lives to create a regime change—to gain what? Oil, chaos - take your pick.

Right now we have the two most powerful men on the planet arguing the toss, one snubbing the other and behaving like a spoilt kid; the other lying like politicians always do. This does not look good. But now look what's happening in Europe; Ukraine is the bone of contention now and guess what? Germany and France are shaking in their shoes because they know Putin is unpredictable.

The Germans are so paranoid about Russia, they probably think Putin wants to rebuild the Berlin Wall (they might be right). And France... well, they're used to being invaded aren't they.

Currently there is a cease-fire agreement between Ukraine and rebel (Russian) forces in eastern Ukraine. That's about as believable as the non-existent Cold War and the KGB. Anyway, just thought I'd talk politics (bollox) for a change.

PRISON WRITING - UNCUT.

Dear Reader,
I must first tell you that writing has turned my life around and I am no longer an adrenalin junkie. Writing in my cell was both therapeutic and time consuming. Reliving the harrowing events to describe them in my books was a means of putting closure on things that could have been mentally debilitating; perhaps this may help soldiers suffering with the after effects of being in action... just a thought.
I was thrilled when my first book was published and ecstatic when the second book was on the bookshop shelves next to it. This gave me the confidence to write another book about drugs and arms deals based on actual events. The book is now published and is titled,THE ASSASSINS CODE 1.
This book was not the product of a prison cell. It was done when I was living in Cyprus enjoying the warm climate, which is more of an achievement for me because I am not formally educated and I didn't have the props of a prison to create the reality.
I wrote my third prison book when I was arrested in France in 2007 and thrown into the terrible 17th century Douai Dungeon where I stayed for a while before being sent to Bapaume prison and eventually going to Fresnes Prison, the harshest of French prisons. I was eventually extradited to Spain where I was held in Soto del Real Prison, then across Madrid to Valdemoro Prison and finished my time in Daroca Prison, Satan's Arena, near Zaragoza. I have published this book as an e-book on Amazon kindle and Smashwords. It is titled, SATANS' ARENA. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Satans-Arena-Christopher-Chance-ebook/dp/B0045OUGCE/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
This book is not for the squeamish or the politically correct brigade and like my previous prison books has plenty of anti-Spanish and French sentiment due to my undiluted emotions at the time of writing because of the treatment I received at the hands of my jailers. Welcome to the brutal, ugly and dangerous corridors of Satan's Arena. However, regarding political incorrectness, I intend to write further about 'nonces' (paedophiles), 'irons' (homosexual men in prison) and about various Arab and Gypsy tribes. The writing will be about my own personal experiences; bad and horrendous, during the time I spent in 11 (yes, eleven) different prisons.
Synopsis and blurbs can be read on my website: www.chrischance.co.uk
And my author page on Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Christopher-Chance/e/B001K88S64/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

National Geographic-The Daredevil Drug Runner.

Surviving in prison.
https://vimeo.com/25901906

LOCKED UP WITH A NUTTER (SOCIOPATH).

I was a remand prisoner in Malaga prison (Alhaurin de la Torre) in 2001. I spent twenty months in that hole and I was released on Christmas Eve 2002.

During my incarceration I had the misfortune to share a cell with a killer; a nutter with no conscience whatsoever, a real psychopath. This creature should never be allowed out of prison because he will kill and kill again. His name is David Baxendale, a name I’ll never forget because he bragged about the innocent lives he took. His glib tongue soon wore thin the superficial charm he tried on me before he started bragging about his crazy parasitic life.

Whilst high on heroin and all manner of pills he could find, he would relax on his bed in my cell and talk about how he stabbed this bloke and that bloke and how he liked the popping sound of lungs being punctured and especially the heart of the young man he killed in Fuengirola.

He is something of a Mummy’s boy. The only female he ever spoke about was her. One day he pleaded with me to call his mother because the duty prison officer wouldn’t allow him to use the phone. He knew I had privileges so he asked would I call his mother and pass him the phone. The duty prison officer was ‘Mad Jack’, a particularly nasty man who hated Baxendale. I called his mother and handed him the phone. That favour cost me dearly with Mad Jack.

Because I was the only Englishman on my wing, they put him in my cell with me, but I could only tolerate his company for a short time; I had to get rid of him. Luckily for me, he made many enemies in a very short time and was soon spending time in the infirmary nursing his wounds.

One of the quirky things about him was that he wrote poetry. Not that I could make neither head nor tail of it because it was quite strange and mainly about states of mind in a psychedelic way; he was often hallucinating because of the drugs he took.

At first he seemed to thrive in prison and was ducking and diving as though he knew his way around. He lived for the present and couldn’t hold a conversation about the past for very long, unless it was about stabbing somebody. He had no friends that he could speak of, not even past inmates from other prisons: a sure sign of the sociopath.

He started trading heroin, which meant treading on the toes of established gangsters who run the busy drugs trade in prison. But, more importantly for me, it meant storing the drugs in my cell. I could not allow this to happen. I wasn’t without influence in there so I had him removed to another cell; better for me, better for him.

After several fights with other drug dealers and the self inflicted abuse with all manner of drugs, it soon became apparent he was physically and mentally on a steep downhill slope. Following a particularly vicious beating from the chief gypsy on the wing, he was removed from my wing and fortunately from then on, I only saw him in passing in various places in the prison.

I read in the news he stabbed and killed a mother of three in Surrey on 10th May 2010 after being released from Rye Hill prison in Warwickshire 11 months earlier. He had been transferred from Malaga prison the year before to continue his sentence in the UK, but was released early to finish his sentence in the community.

Who is the incompetent prick who sanctioned the release of this sociopath back on the streets of Britain? I am in no way qualified as a shrink, but five minutes in the company of Baxendale is enough to realise I am sharing space with a nutter.

He is now serving a Whole Life Term sentence... too late for mother of three, Sarah Thomas, she's dead.

AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE.

It was winter, 2007 when I was extradited from France to Spain. After first being incarcerated in the Douai dungeon, I was transferred to Fresnes prison near Paris. Fresnes is notorious for being the harshest prison in France but I was soon to find myself in a much darker place.

 I stood on tiptoe to see through my cell window, the falling snow, wispily settling on the coils of razor wire mounted around the high walls of Daroca prison. The night was coming in fast so it was disheartening to see the shadows across the bleak countryside through the coils of wire as my spirits fell to a new low.


Even the name of the place sounds ominous; Daroca, say it to yourself, it is not a nice word is it? It goes well with the bleak landscape and approaching storm.



I climbed into my bed as the night enveloped the prison and the volume of the rumbling thunder increased. Pulling my blanket around me I listened to the sounds of the night in this evil place and thought about my day and the people I share my space with in this dark corner of the world.


A face looms into my thoughts, a calm face with bushy eyebrows over ice-blue eyes. He looks at me across the dining table in the comedor (canteen), his eyes look right through me as though he is elsewhere. I am sharing my space and the air I breathe with a man who has eaten his wife - a cannibal, and here he is within touching distance chewing on a piece of meat and looking at me!



To my right is a young man who chopped off his uncle's head with a Samurai sword. He chats amiably to the man next to him who raped and mutilated his thirteen year old niece, thirteen was unlucky for her, and especially considering the length of time it took for her to die. I could go on describing the creatures around me but it would become unbelievable for you and you will doubt my word.



The storm is now a tempest and the thunder is reminiscent of ice cracking across a pond, but a million times louder. The lightning is alarming and illuminates my dank cell like a disco strobe light giving me the awful feeling that it is heralding the arrival of something evil and malevolent.



I can hear the cockroaches scratching the floor under my bed as they search for food and beneath that I hear the susurrations of the sleet and rain as it runs in rivulets down my cell window. The muffled sounds of the screams of madmen are barely audible through the thick walls, but they are there; the storm taking its toll on the warped minds of my fellow prisoners.



I feel sleep is near so I curl into my foetal position before taking a last look at the window and falling into sleep.



I could see condensation on the glass, fogging my view of the night sky through the bars of the cell window. The pale glow of the sodium security lights shone through the rivulets of rain on the cracked glass creating a ghostly shimmer.



My heightened sense of imagination played havoc with my mind's eye as I peered through the sparkling glass to see two shimmering points of light which slowly changed colour to that of red glowing coals. Pinpointed in the centre of each red glow is a glittering diamond which formed the eyes of Satan. He is here, hovering over Daroca prison, sinister and threatening.
His murky features taking shape and form with the movement of cloud and the upward glow of prison lights, El Diablo is here, spreading his evil shadow over the netherworld of Daroca.



A numbing sensation sweeps over me, paralysing me with a feeling of total helplessness as the fetid face looms near.



His fangs move as though gnashing his teeth and every sinew of his monstrous form drips with evil as I realise he has come for me. In the silence of the moment I freaked out internally and choked on the scream that didn't come out.



It was as though I was lying face down on a water bed and it was suddenly flipped over so the water bed was suffocating me with its weight. The terrifying emotion of stress and panic created feelings of intense heat across my back followed by ice under the hot skin. My arms and legs felt like they were covered with raspberries because of the size of the goose bumps.



I was frozen with fear as I felt his force searching my soul. 'My God and His son Jesus Christ are in there; so get ye behind me Satan.' The prayers spilled out of me as the fear intensified and the terror gnawed into my heart as the evil loomed over me, trying to consume me.



My heart was racing as the monster's face descended towards me. My chest felt crushed and my stomach started to liquefy as the brilliant white light hit my face.



'Recuento, recuento!' Shouted the duty prison officer, as he performed the final head count of the day, his voice and bright light dissipating the evil red eyes of Satan.



In his accented English, Don Gabriel, the duty screw said, 'Good night, Christopher, the storm has gone. Sleep well, Englishman.'



He slammed the big steel door and noisily crashed the massive bolt home and was gone to chase the demons from the minds of his charges.



I got out of bed and knelt in seizan, the martial arts meditating posture and meditated on my mind cleansing waterfall method of dissipating stress. I then said The Lord's prayer and jumped into bed, never again to be disturbed by Satan, thanks to Gabriel, the angel in prison officers' uniform.