TRA Encounters of the Third Kind

A Schizophrenic Guide to Stalking

I speak to you today from the void. The screaming wilderness beneath. I commune there by night, laying on the floor in a trance, twitching, kicking and speaking in tongues.

I've been put into that trance by a relentless sequence of events unsettling the silt of years of historical unprocessed trauma. Absorbing the ambient psychosis of a prolapsing society.

Presently I'm in and out of court with my stalker like a schizophrenic hokey cokey. Going to court with the expectation that he might not further humiliate himself by attending. But you should never under-estimate the criminally insane.

Not only did he attend, he brought the whole circus with him, turning court into his own personal mental illness reveal party. The stink was indescribable; I could smell him coming off the elevator. It killed the plastic plants. He brought with him his sour faced girlfriend and the severed head of his mother which security guards had to prevent him from fucking.

My solicitor looks like she sleeps in her clothes and drinks in the morning. The Valium clearly losing all effect as she recoiled in horror at the unfolding pantomime. Stating that in all her years as a Netflix subscriber she had never seen such untethered mental illness.

In spite of being arrested and his devices seized my stalker continues to consider himself a victim. He's not a stalker, he claims. Simply monitoring everything my partner and I say or do under the yolk of a chilling persecution complex.

It wasn't a good start to the year I must admit. Even before Jeffrey Dahmer started up. I came into this year ready to gas myself in an electric oven. I couldn't break out of the comedy grass roots, stuck listening to society's ginger step kids using Fuck The Tories as a punchline. My dad was dying, my Nan wasn't far behind. I found myself at Andy's Man Club, crying into Meat Loaf's tits.

I was ready to quit comedy. I had substituted it for a symphony of drug addictions only to see it usurped by the Khmer Rouge. I was on the cusp of giving it up and surrendering to the inevitable relapse when I was punched on stage.

At the moment of impact something in me snapped. All my fucks began to haemorrhage from my person at an alarming rate. The same month I joined Twitter and started putting out unfiltered content. I got booked onto Comedy Unleashed when they established their second night in Leeds and I started burning the fields of the comedy grass roots.

I was boarding a flight from Benidorm when I first noticed my stalker. Trolling my advertised gigs using multiple false accounts in an orgy of defamation and malicious communications. Giving perverse attention to my partner, stalking every reference to our names, activities or whereabouts, day and night like a crack addled pervert. Within weeks we had deduced who it was and the police were called.

Life went on in his diabetic shadow throughout Spring. I was making ground in comedy but couldn't enjoy it with Peter Sutcliffe wanking in the comment section. I should have been spending time with my terminally ill Father. I should have been seeing my Nan.

My dad died in June. He'd fallen foul of his own addictive spiral at the time that I had cleaned up mine. Watching him breath his last knowing precious time had been devoured by that balding, black hole of failed masculinity. That weekend my stalker posted over a hundred defamatory posts.

Desperate to fulfil my obligations, I played Comedy Unleashed June 13^th. If you watch the video and notice that I'm somewhat discombobulated that's because I've just watched my Dad die two days prior.

The next month absconds from memory in the thick treacle of shock that contorts all time. I felt like I'd witnessed a murder. Sleep happens but once a while only to visit nightmares and echoes of the long night. The funeral was a surreal dissociative parade. I spent most of the ceremony wondering when the police were going to act or if I'd need to handle this the gypsy way as the mad bastard continued to escalate.

He had been posting relentlessly for days when a stalking advice initiative advised calling him out to legitimise police action. The second he was called out on Twitter, his campaigned stopped dead. And he turned up at my address.

The police removed him from the residency using holy water and magic crystals. They advised non-molestation orders were put in place while they investigated and he was served papers the following week. It would be the first time I had laid eyes on him.

My stalker, who shall not be named for voodoo reasons has a vaguely translucent human form. Like the fading memory of a person. The void of humanity where a person should have materialised. Populated instead by the unadulterated rage of a living stillbirth desperate to perpetuate it's sorry beginnings. His wretched misery radiating outwards to his grimaced face, his eyes sunken as though he were nursing a brain tumour.

Finding a partner wretched enough to replicate his mother had proven impossible for him. So he'd inseminated an enchanted scarecrow, adorning it in her clothes and droving it around town before court, slipping it a finger and asking it if it loved him over the sound of his mother's festering skull rolling around in the boot.

At night it whispers to him.

My sister got married in August. Before the hangover had lifted my girlfriend and I were boarding a plane to Sharm-El-Sheikh in a desperate bid for respite. The five star resort was a sprawling paradise of decadence and fulfilment where people will wait on you hand and foot or else they will starve.

The heat was oppressive and only got hotter after dark. On the third night I fell ill. The familiar descending, aching symptoms of drinking foreign water. I practically collapsed by the pool the next day and was coerced into the clinic. I was hooked up to a drip and told I had acute tonsillitis and gastroenteritis. This killed the next three days and I spent that time floating around the pool like a boozy cadaver.

The Red Sea is famous for it's diving and marine life. Everyone said we should take a boat excursion to the Muhammad Al-Fayed Memorial Shark Farm which included a stop at the famous White Island, better known locally as Whore Island. The boat moored up in a nondescript spot over a reef among dozens of other boats, each polluting the waters with oil and Instagram.

I launched myself into the water and immediately realised I was drowning. Too weak to tread water, in among a retard soup of clumsily kicking tourists. I managed to scramble back aboard. Then had to be rescued again when we stopped at Whore Island. So I spent the rest of the journey persecuting Italians and trying not to commandeer the boat.

In our second week we were informed that our stalker had been arrested and his devices seized. But the adulation was short lived. I was soon informed that my Nan was on palliative care in hospital following a stroke. My Nan was old enough to predate racism and her death had felt forthcoming for some time. But reeling from the whiplash of psycho exposure, the imminent death of my family matriarch was the final straw. I fell into a calm, brooding rage and sheltered in the pool from the intolerable heat as the pink blossoms lay a thin veil atop the water.

We boarded our flight that Friday evening and spent five hours at altitude in conditions you'd expect reserved only for battery hens. We went straight to the hospital where the old bird had hung on all week. She responded to my voice and I said my goodbyes dying hours later. The family went into collapse. In the quiet I began to simultaneously mourn both my Dad and my Nan.

My last safe space, my last person of purity had slipped from the world and I hadn't had the room to comfort her in her dying months. Precious minutes that I could have spent at her side these last months have been stolen by that chromosome-abundant, autistic fuck.

A gypsy funeral is quite an affair but this was uncharacteristically sombre. My clan were horrified at the unfolding story. About the ordeal my girlfriend had suffered at the hands of the circus in a previous life and deeply disturbed by the depth of their paranoid schizophrenic narcissism. In my world this would have been resolved brutally and I am constantly aware that I am only a relapse away.

My girlfriend was summoned to court again not long after in a surreal attempt to derail the active police investigation. The usual big top was erected. The clowns rolled out of the car and the courtroom lights flickered. The permeating stench of their misery running so thick that our solicitor was sick in a waste bin and I later had to burn my coat. Inevitably the ruling was thrown out as it had no bearing in reality and the cast of The Hills Have Eyes rolled off into the sewer.

I return to my therapist. We undertake wicked ceremonies and sacrifice a goat, bringing me to my napalm centre. Police take extra statements and psychological damages are taken note. I draw a line in the sand.

Each encounter renders him less tangible. Since our last meeting it is now impossible to attribute human qualities to my stalker. Tommy Lee Royce has disembarked so far from reality that he is no longer a person by any description. Rather a disembodied malevolent force like the Eye of Sauron atop Emley Moor transmission tower. It must see all or else collapse into the shadowy depths of it’s despair.

The above account is my sole responsibility and nobody has encouraged me to post it. I’ve made a decision to not affirm a delusional world. This statement bears no mention of the societal collapse that plays setting to it. The cultural prolapse, the violation of reason. The race wars, the erasure of women, gays, lesbians and the butchery of children. Of cancel culture and the dismantling of the arts while Britain sinks into the sea. But all this played in the background like some abominable dubstep record.

I'm a man approaching forty recovering from twenty years of heinous drug abuse to medicate from narcissistic child abuse and an attempted murder in 2006. I have moved mountains to get where I am now and have endured things that most people couldn't begin to imagine making me pathologically intolerant rendering my fucks well and truly depleted. There will be no more summons, no more petty courts, no more having to shower in their insufferable unhappiness. I'm up to my tits in schizophrenics and I won't abide them or their delusions. My health crumbles, like my relationship which has broken down like an actress accepting an Oscar. Most gravely my time with those I love has been violated and I am very fucking aggrieved. Now, as a free agent I’ll do as I fucking please.

In the smoking ruin of this year stockpiling for the oncoming escalation in the Culture Wars. Incanting my gypsy curses against the Cholesterol King and that wretched child abusing shrew of a mother. You and yours all.

Beware your shadow, when the moon is fat.