My Monday Morning Blog

My Monday Morning Blog

Monday Blog One

I have decided to create a short, sweet, Monday Blog to help me self-motivate.  This blog really is just for myself and I don’t intend to educate or pontificate or lecture to anyone, with it.  Its simply a way to self-discipline.

I have found my concentration waning from one extreme to the other lately so I want to record things so that what I produce when I’m motivated, can motivate me to do more of the same, without zoning out.

I’m not going to post highly edited works of fictional art here – simply sentiments of how I feel about what I have done and how my novel writing is going and try and keep myself targeted and focused.  I thought I would post and share because then I can’t simply forget about it and this will help me to keep my promises to myself.

I aim to write it on Mondays, because Mondays is ‘office day’.  That is, I don’t ride the horses, which takes up quite a lot of my time and energy, so I can usually spend it catching up on things I haven’t bothered to do the rest of the time.  Even though we’re in the middle of the Great (as in ‘enormous’, not ‘good’) Covid19 Lockdown of 2020, when I find myself with more time, I am still trying to keep my office day going, and hence I’ve called this my Monday Blog.

Feel free to add anything you may feel is useful to me, especially where I’m struggling.  Thank you 😀

Monday 6th April 2020. Monday Blog 1

Number of words written last week: 3000 (weekly target min 6,000).  Argh!

This week’s target: min 5000. Argh!

Last week’s focus: research, research, research.

This weeks focus: write, write, write.

As you can see, I failed abysmally with actually writing anything, but I DID get a lot of really good research done, which then motivated me to get an awful lot of scribblings down which I aim to transcribe into something amazing this week.   I also read parts of my African journal that I had completely forgotten about, like getting fake ID in order to get through an airport to travel from Buta to Kisingani in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo).  Very unlike me.  But it was great research because I had also described staying the night in a small village and sleeping in a real mud hut, which I will use in my novel.

As a PR excercise, I tried to get people to read my first chapter, and I didn’t get a very good response on Twitter.  No-one shared or even liked it, despite me re-tweeting.  (But thank you to those that are reading this who did leave a comment on the blog, I am very grateful).  I find Twitter quite frustrating…  it seems so difficult to interact effectively and achieve followers. It seems you have to have the wit of a professional comedian, or a brain the size of planet to get followers. I have little hope, but maybe this will help.  Anyone?

So my focus this week is to create more chapters, add more content and aim for 5000 words MINIMUM!

My motivational quote for this week: PUSH YOURSELF BECAUSE NO ONE IS GOING TO DO IT FOR YOU.

 Let’s go.

Beneath the Ceiba Tree – Chapter 1 (draft)

Beneath the Ceiba Tree – Chapter 1 (draft)

Back Cover info:

©Beneath the Ceiba Tree by Justine John

Africa 1972. Ed and Charlie, two successful English confectionary company executives, are travelling at night along a dirt track towards Accra, the capital city of Ghana.  They have a gun in the car for protection.  After a loud and scary tyre blow-out, they are terrifyingly ambushed by a robber desperate for money. Both men are panic struck and in the following seconds a resounding gun shot is heard and the robber suddenly drops down dead.  But which of them killed their attacker, Ed or Charlie? They are too shocked to talk about it in the dark together – and as they flee the scene after burying the body under a mystical ceiba tree – they swear to each other to secrecy, forever, both believing they are loyally supporting the other, but are they?

England 1997. Ed and Charlie’s lives have changed dramatically, both with wives, Judy and Michelle respectively, and children. An unexpected, additional death reveals unbelievable facts, leading to the two wives travelling together, to Africa to unearth the unthinkable truth of what lays beneath the ceiba tree.

A tension-packed, phycological thriller, with unexpected twists and turns about love, guilt, honesty and the devastation secrets can bring. A truly fast-paced, page-turner, which will keep you guessing until the end.

©Justine John


APRIL 1972

The hot, African night and the dirt road were illuminated by the bright moon but the Land Rover’s head lights had dimmed so the two men had to feel around to find the wheel jack. Charlie shone the torch on the front wheels. Thankfully, only one front tyre was completely flat. They had driven over something sharp that was for sure. They didn’t dare go back to find out what – it wasn’t important. They simply needed to change the wheel as quickly and quietly, as possible. It was approaching 10pm. Charlie and Ed had driven for hours from Adjeiki – through the heat of the day, passed parched mud-hut villages where scrawny youngsters in dirty t-shirts chased the car like dogs. They waved madly, calling and shouting. The men had negotiated deep, rutted, bumpy, once-muddy terrain and were looking forward to reaching the tar sealed road closer to the city. They were tired, sweaty and achy – and Accra was still more than a hundred miles away. The last thing they needed was any delay.  The meeting at the cocoa farm had gone well, but they ran late, not wanting to reject the warm hospitality of the farmer and his family, who were thoroughly excited by their unusual guests’ arrival. They were being collected early tomorrow morning for their flight home, and Charlie hadn’t packed yet. There was a strange scent in the dry, humid air of melted rubber mixed with the warm vegetation and an unusual aroma from a nearby ceiba tree. Bush crickets sang and two bats flew overhead, disturbed by the loud explosive bang and engine pop following their loud dirt skid.

They both knew about the gun, but only Ed thought of it at this moment. Kobi had shown them how to shoot it, should they need to. It was well known that white men would have money. Ed took the gun out of the glove compartment and placed it on the bonnet, near the bottom of the windscreen, so he, or Charlie could grab it easily if they needed to.


“Thanks, that’s better,” said Charlie as the torchlight appeared.

“And, in case we need it,” I said slowly, so as not to worry him, “the gun is on the bonnet.”

“Okay, Columbo,” Charlie smirked. “Help me get these nuts undone, they’re pretty solid.”

Working together, we soon swapped the wheel in a matter of minutes. Both of us were pretty fit and strong. Charlie was thinner than me though – I probably drank more beer – and he cycled more.  We were both members of the local cycle club, and I was about to say something about the route planned for next month, when there was a sudden movement from the bushes on the side of the road. A man jumped through the undergrowth – actually holding a gun – and pointing it at us. He was shouting something in African, but then screamed at us in English.

The light was so bad that I shone the torch in his face and saw his sweaty chocolate skin shining and the whites of his eyes, which were filled with rage. His checked shirt was ripped at the collar and I wondered, with surprising clarity, why I noticed.

I moved backwards and came into contact with the car so suddenly that I dropped the torch and it rolled away into the shrubs, but remained on, illuminating the greenery.  As I stepped forward to follow it, the man moved in front of the car. I thought about the gun but couldn’t reach it without an obvious movement, which could be a fatal mistake. Charlie was to my right, pinned against the passenger door. I could see him holding up his hands – he could reach the gun maybe – or had he already? It was too dark to see.

“Give me your money,” the man shouted with a thick accent. “Money. Now.”

And suddenly, there was an explosion so loud it shook my body and rang in my ears and the black man fell to the floor. Charlie must have got the gun, I thought. I wanted to look at him to see what had happened but my body was frozen with fear. The black man hit the hard ground, writhing helplessly and then suddenly did not move at all; his gun lay by his head. He must be dead.


Ed was sometimes a bit of a girl, and if it wasn’t for his beautiful wife, Judy and how tactile they were with each other, I would wonder if he was gay. He was certainly effeminate. But it didn’t detract from his clever and mathematical mind. He was a genius in so many respects. We couldn’t have done this deal without his forecasting, and his knowledge of cocoa farming, and I admired him completely. He was opening doors for us both with the chocolate factory investment – it was risky but could bring wealth to us – as well as its owner and the local farmers. The risk however, was not as big as being on the side of a dirt road, in the middle of a country we don’t know in the dead of night. I could sense his nervousness as he told me he’d put the gun on the bonnet, but it was probably a wise move.  He was careful like that always checking facts.

God knows what we’d driven over, but now the spare wheel was installed we could continue with this godforsaken journey. I was about to get in the passenger side – Ed had said he’d drive the rest of the way – when there was an almighty crashing sound and I turned to see a local man with a gun. I almost wanted to laugh, but then the fear transferred, like a shot, from his eyes in the torchlight to my body and I thought I would shit myself. Ed dropped the torch and as the man moved around in front of the car, I put my hands above my head. He was hollering something, demanding money. But a moment later a gun fired and he was silent as he fell. Ed, thank God. You, beauty! I thought. He must have picked the gun up from the bonnet – what a hero. But something stopped my trail of thought as I watched the local’s body writhe on the ground before it became still. The headlights illuminated the blood as it seeped out of his mouth to form a small but growing puddle. Who could have heard? Would this attract attention? We needed to get out of here fast. But first – what do we do about the body – would Ed be arrested for murder? Would I be an accomplice?  With that unthinkable idea, a plan came to mind and I found I could speak again.

“Ed, we need to bury the body. And fast …”

Actually, I Can Write Again

Actually, I Can Write Again


My publishing journey has been on hold. After a break I didn’t emerge for quite a while. I discontinued going to my writing group.  Then I became involved in another project – collecting animals, including: three horses; three dogs; and two donkeys – and I bought some land to put them on! Most importantly, I ran out of money and was defeated by several publisher rejections. It drowned me and I gave up my writing.

I did think I’d pick it up again but couldn’t visualize when.  However, I didn’t stop reading my writer’s group emails. After about two years, an email arrived in my inbox entitled; ‘Stepping Down’, with the news that the current chairman was doing exactly that and he wanted to hear from anyone who would be interested to replace him. I could do that, I thought. And maybe, I could make the writer’s group a little more interesting. Make it work better for everyone. Perhaps, invite authors and coaches as guest speakers and, it might encourage me to write again. So, I went to the AGM and nominated myself. As it happened, I was the only nomination and I became Chairman, there and then. I guess that’s what you call grabbing an opportunity.

The following year, we designed a new website, we hosted a reading event during our local arts festival, and we had two highly successful meetings with guest speakers, a visiting author and author coach Wendy Yorke. She and I connected immediately and we talked together, late into the night. I discovered she was also a literary agent with very good publishing contacts. So, I gave her my first book Gilding The Lily to read, she loved it, and offered me representation a few weeks later. As soon as this amazing person gave me the thumbs up, my writing spark came alive again. New ideas sprung into my mind with a vivid vision and I immediately wrote the synopsis for my second book.

Sometimes you only need one person to believe in you. Right now, I don’t feel anything can stop me. Thank you, Wendy Yorke. You have helped me come back to my writing and I love you for it. My second book is awakening and taking shape happily, and it feels fabulous!

9 Things About Dogs I Love

9 Things About Dogs I Love



An infinite amount of forgiveness.

They get excited just because… they’re alive.

Their enthusiastic zest for life.

They run for the joy of running.

They wear their hearts on sleeves – just like us.

Their willingness to be trained.

The possession of a deep, deep love for their owner.


Pretty Ugly

Pretty Ugly

I wanted to share this wonderful poem because it’s so clever and uplifting.  I don’t know who its by, but if anyone out there does know, do please let me know.



I’m very ugly

So don’t try to convince me that

I am a very beautiful person

Because at the end of the day

I hate myself in every single way

And I’m not gong to lie to myself by saying

There is beauty inside of me that matters

So rest assured I will remind myself

That I am a worthless, terrible person

And nothing you say will make me believe

I still deserve love

Because no matter what

I am not good enough to be loved

And I am in no position to believe that

Beauty does exist within me

Because whenever I look in the mirror I always think

Am I as ugly as people say?



Just A Dog

Just A Dog


When my best friend died, I held him in my arms as he lay with his head on my lap and the vet injected him with a lethal fluid.  I curled my body around him and whispered ‘good boy, good boy’ against his soft face. His eyes glazed, but didn’t close and it was all over in about sixteen seconds.  My breath was lost with his.  I seemed to leave the room with him and didn’t want to come back to a world without him.  And when I uncurled, it was to a cold, hard floor and my bones ached.

On the way home, I thought of nothing but him.  I wanted to remember every last detail about who he was and this is what I thought:

How he snuggled his nose into the blanket with multiple miniscule nods before he succumbed to sleep.

The way he changed direction suddenly to fool his pursuer on a chase.

His curly-ears, my name for how his ears hung when he was particularly happy.

His doe eyes.

His constant attempts at levitation of food from our plates.

His high 5.

His whale song – my name for the sound that he made when he wanted something – he rarely barked.

His hug – when he would put both front paws on your shoulders and lean in.

His trotty front feet when he became excited.

His smile – he really did smile.

His lovely smell – he didn’t smell of dog – but something warm and close.

His love of kisses – especially between his eyes and on his head.

His stretches – he made the most out of every one.

The way he audibly breathed in when taking a treat ever so gently from your hand.

His Dalmatian markings – a Bindi on his face, an exclamation mark on his head and black kohl around his eyes.  His straight line spots, and his quincunxes.

His skinny tail and how it wagged – slow meant ‘inquisitive’ and fast meant ‘very happy indeed’.

The little pink bit at the end of his nose which felt like velvet and needed sun protection cream in the summer.

The softness of his cost, the silkiness of his ear.

How he hated his nails being cut.

His love of sleeps, especially next to, or on top of, one of us.

His jump ups at “walkies” and how he loved tummy rubs.

His rolls in the grass, his sunbathing and his reluctance to go out in the rain.

His health and safety issues – he’d bark at other dogs when they went in the water – couldn’t they see it was dangerous!

His tolerance of Yoda when he arrived as a smelly stray.

His disregard for Molly’s tellings off with his ‘whatever’ look.

Woofing tunefully in his sleep, his back legs pushing the air to the finish line in an imaginary race.

His yaw yaws – my name for his verbal yawns.

His paddle up the bed just to be closer to you.

His quick expectant look when you stopped stroking too soon, and then a shove and a paw slap if you didn’t respond.

His special blanket, chewed to a quarter of its original size, and how he asked you to pass it with a stare and a yaw-yaw.

His pink lips.

How he’d cover his eyes with his paws when he slept.

The way he would squint and turn away as the dirt flew up in chunks when the other dogs kicked the ground to scent mark.

The way he would drink half bowl water furiously before going for a walk – ‘hydrations is important’ he would silently say.

And how he loved to streak through the long grass in the early summer and then roll and crouch to hide from you and jump out when you got close.

All these things made him… him.  Not just a dog, not just an animal, not even just a human, but HIM.  DJ.  A friend.  A true, blessed companion.  An irreplaceable part of my heart.  Love personified, given, received.  Happiness in warm ball of fur.  A loving being, a true friend. But NEVER, never, just a dog.

New York, New York. So Good They Named It Fear City!

New York, New York. So Good They Named It Fear City!

When my parents divorced in the early 70s, in the days before travel was popular and flying to places became easy, regular and cheap, my father moved permanently to New York.   My only impression, as a six year old child, of America came, of course, from what I saw on the TV. The likes of The Brady Bunch, Happy Days, Charlie’s Angels, Columbo, The Bionic Woman to name but a few.  My favourite shows helped me create a spotlight on the USA.  It was fantastic, modern, and bright and WOW.  The American Dream became My Dream.  People said ‘cool’ and it sounded right, or held up their two fingers in the name of Peace, and it looked right – they wore huge sun glasses and they seemed to fit; and, after all, if Dad left us to go there, it MUST be an amazing place.  The images in my mind were of sunny days in hot, busy streets, crowded with successful, happy school kids, fit business people, roller skaters, colourful clothes, yellow taxis and shiny, new tall buildings – everyone, but everyone with a smile on their face.  “One day I would like to be there” I thought. Of course.


My brother had a different opinion – he was slightly older and grew up with Mad Magazine, which seemed to show off New York as a vision of violence and backstreet mistrust, amongst ironic viewpoints of underlying corrupt politics.  Both comic and brother were most probably way ahead of their time, and I refused to agree with either; not that I understood, but because I didn’t want to shatter my dreams.


Quite probably, my sibling’s opinion was more accurate.  Because, in reality, in the middle of that decade, things in that city weren’t quite as hot as I imagined.  On arrival in New York, tourists were handed leaflets entitled ‘Welcome To Fear City.  A Survival Guide for Visitors’, a shrouded skull emblazoned on the front.  Inside, the pamphlet warned people to ‘stay off the streets after 6pm’, ‘avoid public transportation’, ‘safeguard your handbag’ and ‘conceal your property’.


‘Remain in Manhattan.  Police and fire protection in other areas of the city is grossly inadequate and will become more inadequate.  In the South Bronx, which is known to police officers a ‘Fort Apache’ arson has become an uncontrollable problem.’


In 1975, New York Mayor Abe Beame was responsible for a city that was more than five billion dollars in debt and practically broke.  As well as fiscally, the city was in a steep moral decline – crime was rampant, rents were nominal, infrastructures were crumbling and urban decay was all around.


In order to begin the desperate and necessary change that summer, Mayor Beame laid off 20% (more than 10,000) uniformed police officers and firefighters, and up to 45,000 workers by that autumn.   The unions, of course, were outraged and reacted as such.  At a time when their presence was most crucial, they fought back, and were supported by many other related departments.


The leaflet opened with a paragraph explaining that ‘crime and violence in New York City is shockingly high, and is getting worse every day.  During April 1975, it was reported that robberies were up 21%; aggravated assault was up 15%; larceny was up 22% and burglary was up 19%.  It did however encourage visitors that ‘some New Yorkers do manage to survive and even keep their property intact.’  ‘Fear City’ was designed to provoke a reaction – what it said wasn’t entirely true – the streets were not deserted after 6pm and probably quite safe, as were many other neighbourhoods outside Manhattan.  And a reaction it did provoke.


The City’s legal team attempted, unsuccessfully, to block distribution of the leaflet and their reaction was to send representatives to Europe’s main cities to abay the fear that it may have caused.  By this time, after much discussion, some unions began to reassess the situation and withdraw their support for ‘Fear City’ – eventually its distribution just stopped.  Instead, other unions supported the city and instead of bring it down, decided to support it financially and got behind the debt.  By winter, a solution had been found and city was saved.


So, no-one can judge a book by its cover.


When I finally did visit New York for the first time at fourteen years old (some ten years later), I saw the city of my dreams, with eyes of a child; like Alice in Wonderland.  It was exactly how I had imagined – busy, clean streets – vibrant colours – huge, crowded buildings – sunny weather and happy people.  I loved it.  It didn’t make any difference to me that the Fear City campaign happened, even if I had known anything about it.


Later, in the 90s, I got into Friends.  It became a firm favourite and I still watch it on Sky when I can.  It helped secure my image of New York, when even floozy Phoebe can survive on the streets, and not-so-bright Rachel can do fantastically well in her career.  For them, it’s a city, a world, where hopes and dreams can, and did come true.


Today, I think, New York continues that trend and certainly seems more affluent – with some areas overhauled, renovated and improved vastly.  Crime continues to drop as do murder rates and tourism us at a high.  Shop until you drop, see the shows, eat until you can eat no more, stay up and party for 24-hours, be a culture vulture.  This is truly a city where anything is possible… and more.


I always understood why my father never wanted to return to the UK.  To me, over the almost forty years he lived in New York (his last house was Glen Cove in Long Island), he was happy and enthralled by its way, it’s energy and its people.  I don’t remember him ever mentioning Fear City.  The gifts he brought home for us kids – skateboards, Jets T-shirts, ‘I Heart New York’ stickers, spoke of another utopia and it never left my mind.


But thinking back, I remember him describing Coney Island.  I use this place and his description in my novel, and it could be a true image of how it was then, during that awful time.  Perhaps he did tell me about Fear City, but I was just too young to understand.


New York and I have something in common – we’re survivors.  New York survived its ungracious Fear City scandal and uncompromising arguments (and probably much more over the years).  At the same time as I survived my parents’ divorce, their passionate battles, and labours of love.  Thank goodness we both came through with all our hopes and dreams intact.  All I can do now is hope that I’m growing old as gracefully and charmingly as that amazing city.

15 Historical UK Remorseless Killers

15 Historical UK Remorseless Killers


I always find it hard to believe that people can actually, remorselessly kill each other.  At times I can see why someone could do it, but this is mostly in fiction.  If you’re an avid crime reader, when you’re deep into a great novel, you can understand a character’s motives.  It’s a skill of the writer to draw you in and help you visualise a character and truly feel what he/she is going through.  Sympathy is harder though in real life, when a story is spread across a newspaper cover and screaming to the world what has happened.  When you see on TV the news of a murderer being whisked away in a police van, with the hungry press flashing at the blackened windows; it’s almost impossible to be sympathetic.   Here are fifteen British real-life killers that I have no sympathy for.


Beverley Allitt was a paediatric nurse who suffered from a psychological illness.  Over a two month period in 1991 in the children’s ward at the Grantham and Kesteven Hospital, a series of mysterious, illness, injuries and deaths took place. Two years later, Allitt was convicted at Nottingham Crown Court of murdering four children, attempted murder of a further three, and grievous bodily harm to six children.  A large air bubble was found in one dead child, and she had administered insulin to at least a further two, but the remaining causes of death are still unestablished.  She was given thirteen life sentences.


John Childs was known as the most prolific hit man in the UK.  He was convicted for a series of contract killings, though none of the bodies have been found. He confessed to the murders in June 1979 after being arrested for a series of bank robberies and was sent into solitary confinement.  And in 1980, Childs claimed he burned the bodies of his six victims at his east London flat. He was issued with a whole life tariff in 1983.


John Christie (known to his family as Reg) was and English serial killer active during the 1940s and 50s.  He was a landlord who killed at least eight people, including his wife, and sexually interfered with their corpses. Three of his victims were found in alcove in his kitchen at 10 Rillington Place, Notting Hill; two further were discovered in the garden, and his is wife’s body was found under the floorboards in the lounge.  He was hanged in 1949.


Mary Ann Cotton poisoned her stepson and likely three of her four husbands, in order to claim from their insurance policies.  It is believed that she could have murdered more than 20 victims, using arsenic which causes terrible gastric pain and rapid decline of health, leading to death.  She tried hard to scale the social ladder but was eventually caught when her child’s post mortem revealed arsenic as the cause of death.  Her trial began in March 1873 and she was hanged at Durham County Gaol in March 1873.  However she died by strangulation caused by the rope being rigged too short (possibly deliberately), and not from her neck breaking.


Ken Erskine was known as the ‘Stockwell Strangler’ and murdered seven elderly people in 1986, breaking into their homes in London and strangling them; most often they were sexually assaulted too. Erskine was arrested in July 1986 at a social security office. He was identified in a line-up by 74-year-old Fred Prentice, who claimed Erskine tried to strangle him in his bed a month before.  He was jailed for 40 years in 1988, and since been found to be suffering from mental disorder and sent to Broadmoor and unlikely to be released before 2028.


John Haigh was known elaborately as the Acid Bath Vampire, because he claimed to have drunk the blood of his six victims, and actually claimed to have killed nine.  After befriending them, he battered or shot them and then used concentrated sulphuric acid to destroy their corpses, before forging papers in order to sell the victims’ possessions.  Although he tried to plead insanity, Haigh was led to the gallows and hanged in August 1949.


Colin Ireland was a British serial killer known as the Gay Slayer after he terrorised London’s gay community, torturing and killing five homosexuals.  He had already committed various crimes by the age of 16 and served time in borstals. He had been married twice and said that he only pretended to be gay to befriend his victims, which he lured into a sexual restraining game, before killing them.   He was jailed for life in 1993 and died in 2012, aged 57.


The Moors Murderers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, were two of Britain’s most demonised figures. Between 1963 and 1965, their attacks on five small children, whom they disposed of on Saddleworth Moor, scandalised the nation and continue to cause outrage.  They confessed in 1966 to killing three children and then another two in 1987.  Hindley died from pneumonia and heart disease in 2002, aged 60. Brady died in 2017 aged 79, after he was declared criminally insane in 1985 and confined to a high-security hospital. He had made it clear that he never wished to be released.


Dennis Nilsen disposed of body parts in local sewers, in 1983.  He confessed calmly to the murders when a drains engineer followed up complaints of a bad odour, which turned out to be putrid human flesh.  Police were called in and found that Dennis Nilsen had killed 16 young men by inviting them to his flat in Muswell Hill, before strangling them. When they questioned the killer, he showed the police more body parts, including two severed heads he had yet to dispose of. He was convicted of six murders and jailed for life in 1983.


Jack the Ripper was never identified or caught, he killed at least five women around London’s East End area of Whitechapel in 1888.  His victims were typically prostitutes whose throats he cut before mutilating them and removing internal organs.  His name originated from a letter from someone claiming to be the murderer, which was believed to have been a hoax in an attempt to increase newspaper sales.  In criminal case files, the killer was called ‘The Whitechapel Murderer and ‘Leather Apron’.


Dr Harold Shipman was a GP and a prolific serial killer.  He was jailed for life in January 2000 for murdering fifteen of his patients.  It was concluded in a later report that he had actually killed 250 people over 23 years, mostly elderly women, and had also forged a will.  After being sentenced to life imprisonment, with the recommendation that he never be released, he hanged himself in his cell, on 13 January 2004, one day prior to his 58th birthday.


Peter Sutcliffe was known as the infamous Yorkshire Ripper and inspired fear all over the country in the 1970s.  He was the subject of one of the largest police manhunts as he victimised prostitutes, saying they had swindled him out of money. But he later claimed he was driven to these 13 murders by messages from God.  He was sentenced to no less than 30 years behind bars in 1981.


Rosemary and Fred West abducted, raped, tortured, mutilated and murdered a variety of young women between 1967 and 1987.  They buried their victims’ dismembered bodies in the cellar or under their patio in Cromwell Street, Gloucester, which became known as ‘the House of Horrors’.  Rosemary was found to have murdered her 8-year-old stepdaughter, Charmaine, in 1971, whilst Fred was found guilty of at least 12 murders.


Source: Wikipedia

Ten Great British Characters

Ten Great British Characters

James Bond – English MI6 spy, most recently played by Daniel Craig.

Harry Potter – thank you J K Rowling.

Sherlock Holmes – modernised by Benedict Cucumberpatch, sorry, Cumberbatch.

Macbeth – Scottish king by Shakespeare.

Winnie the Pooh – honey-loving bear (was never American despite his accent).

Ebenezer Scrooge – haunted by his past.

Jeeves – saddled with a juvenile dandy footman, for his sins.

Miss Marple – beautifully created by wonderful Agatha Christie

Robin Hood – philanthropist immortalised by Kevin Costner and also never American (Robin Hood, not Kevin Costner obvs).

Mr Bean – English social ineptitude epitomised in a small minded man.  Thank you Rowan Atkinson.

Why Is The UK So Called?

Why Is The UK So Called?

There are a number of names ascribed to the lands that comprise the countries of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, together with their outlying isles.  So the answer to this question is: it depends.

Geographically, the lands are known as the British Isles.

Politically, they are known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain & Northern Ireland. The southern part of Ireland is a republic, and so whilst the land mass is part of the British Isles, the Republic is not part of the United Kingdom.  Northern Ireland is, however, politically a part of the UK, a transition which gave rise to the ‘troubles’ in the twentieth century.

The land also has been known as Albion (from the latin albus which means white, after the white cliffs of Dover), and Britannia.  The Great of Great Britain goes back to the time when Brittany in northern France was under British rule, and was known as Britannia minor (as opposed to Britannia major).

The principality of Wales was joined to England in 1536 forming the Kingdom of England and Wales. In 1707 Scotland and England were united to form the Kingdom of Great Britain. In 1801 the Irish and British Parliaments were combined to form the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

Very few British people seem to know the reasons for, and the difference in meaning between these various terms, so for the record, here they are:

The British Isles: England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales.

Kingdom of Great Britain: The political union of Scotland, England and Wales from 1707.

United Kingdom of Great Britain & Ireland: The political union of Great Britain (above) and Ireland from 1801.

United Kingdom of Great Britain & Northern Ireland: 26 of Ireland’s 32 counties separated from the UK in 1922, forming the Irish Free State (or the Republic of Ireland).

At the height of its influence, Great Britain was in possession of an Empire, which was composed of about one-fifth of the entire world’s population and covered about a quarter of the world’s total land mass. The British Empire held Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Tonga, Fiji, Western Samoa, India, Burma, Papa New Guinea, Malaya, Sarawak, Brunei, Oman, Iraq, Egypt, Libya, Sudan, Kenya, Uganda, Northern and Southern Rhodesia, Tanganyika, Zanzibar, Mauritius, the Maldives, South Africa, Swaziland, Nigeria, Gold Coast, and Sierra Leone, among other countries during its reign. It has also held a portion of the present-day United States and China. Technically, Great Britain is still in possession of an ‘Empire’, though it’s territories now number fourteen:

  • Anguilla
  • Bermuda
  • British Antarctic Territory
  • British Indian Ocean Territory
  • British Virgin Islands
  • Cayman Islands
  • Falkland Islands
  • Gibralter
  • Montserrat
  • St Helena & Dependencies
  • Turks and Caicos Islands
  • Pitcairn Islands
  • South Georgia & South Sandwich Islands
  • Sovereign Base Areas on Cyprus.

The Channel Islands and the Isle of Man have their own constitutional relationship with the UK, but are still under the sovereignty of the Britsh Crown.

The irony, which most Brits will get, is in the weather.

Source: NewWorld Encyclopedia;; B.Crystal; A.Russ