No picture for this entry--don't want some mugwump nicking it.
Peter Sutcliffe is evil, of this there's no doubt. For a little while, over forty years ago, he formed an important part of my life--and before other mugwumps such as Jock Strap Vomit Box aka Larry David (eats, sleeps and poos David Bret, Scotzine, footballers Stan Collymore and Ched Evans, and lives only to insult Katie Hopkins, has only one Twitter follower and will doubtless acquire hundreds after this, assuring all the loony eggs will be then in the same basket) start grabbing their chests and thinking they're having a coronary (chance would be a fine thing!), I stress that it happened over FORTY years ago, before my mother's seemingly charming friend turned into The Yorkshire Ripper.
Pete Doonan--that was his name--popped up in my life when I needed him most, which meant that after staring at him one morning on the front page of a newspaper, it made joining the campaign to have him hanged that much more personal. I said it then, I would have personally put the rope around his neck, despite all he did for us at the time we were struggling to cope with an abusive husband and father. This was George Spurr, whose name I took when I was adopted--and which other mugwumps who have me on the brain 24/7 think I still have. I don't, but I guess it's up to them to believe what they want to believe. I could post a picture of my passport, but unlike them I'm not desperate to prove that I have what they clearly don't have--a life beyond obsession. And while they're harping on about me, I guess they're not frightening the birds!
Today, however, I read all sorts of crap about Pete in the tabloids--and anyone who knows me knows what I think about that breed of journalist, even if two months after trying to ruin my life, the same editor TWICE nominated me Book of the Month! Guilty conscience, perhaps, though the bank manager didn't grumble. If you believe this bilge, Pete Sutcliffe has recently written "hundreds of letters" to various people, and expressed an opinion about an issue I no longer give a flying fig about. No, he hasn't, and even if he had--well, I guess even psychopaths are entitled to an opinion as God knows they've opined enough about me! The letters have been written over a twenty-years period, and his "opinion" was made seven years ago. The tabloids--and I know exactly what I'm talking about--keep a reserve of "emergency" headlines, inasmuch as they have hundreds of pre-written obituaries needing just a line here and there when the person dies, for a rainy day when they have no other headline to report. Today was that rainy day.
Some years ago, I acquired visitation rights to go and see Pete--I know for a fact that in 1999, he wanted me to--but have never even thought of doing so. Now I've been asked to enlarge on "our story"--that very fraught nine months of my life, which could have culminated with one or other of us putting my father in the ground.
I will do this, and make no bones about why I'm doing it...for the spondoolies. I put most of my other demons to bed when I published my autobiography.