I never thought in my fifty two years this time around on the planet I would be writing such words in the 'land of hope and glory, mother of the free - how shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?' - but I fear I have to suspend these posts on Substack owing to the possibility of official reprisals.
The day before yesterday was April Fool’s Day - which I want to rename Idiot’s Day (and why not since the glorious president of the USA wants to rename Easter?)
Idiots Day, April 1st 2024, was when Scotland's Hate Crime Law came into force and, I have no doubt, will be used to silence those who are wont to criticise the establishment line so I now know I cannot (currently) continue to publish Ant’s Diaries.
It is ironic that the last post I entered of Anthony’s was entitled 'You Own Shakespeare? Five Years Hard Labour!' where he quoted me as saying they would never get legislation through that prohibited free speech to that extent. That was February 2022. How naive of me.
For over three months I have held back from Ant's next instalment because of this looming event and because my lawyers could not reassure me as to whether the material was likely to fall outside of the law. Reassurances that the law will not be used in a heavy-handed manner from those who purport to govern us fall on deaf ears since they are the usual mixture of lies and hot air. Legislation is generally designed to serve those in power not to protect the people. I feel like paraphrasing Neville Chamberlain announcing World War II to the country in 1939. 'I have to tell you now that no such (reassurances will be believed) and that consequently this agency is at war with the government.'
Some may observe that since I am in England and the Bill is a Scottish idiocy, why should it make any difference? To them I would say, don't be as naive as I was two years ago. I understand it would cover anyone who might live in Scotland who took offence about something published outside that once proud but now, sadly hijacked country. (Bit like England I guess. I refer to the opening sentence of this statement.) Around Ant's entries for the late spring of 2022 was a particularly scurrilous, if hilarious, observation about a one-time client of Pattie Regan Associates who Ant looked after and who also happened to be Scottish. Said client was very adept at taking offence in a particularly spiteful way with anyone who criticised their (not saying if male or female) work. After Pattie's demise this writer joined Notso, which was not an event encouraged by Ant even though he invited most of his other writers to join him. In fact, said writer's move sent Ant into such a fit of apoplectic rage that he wrote of them, plagiarising King Lear, 'thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.' The rest of that diary entry is hysterically funny but I can't risk publishing it,
I stated when I started this serialisation that it was in retrospect, non contemporaneous for obvious reasons, And when Ant embarked upon the diaries it was designed as a bit of fun, some gentle teasing observations of the vanities of many of those who seek celebrity status. Events soon took over of course but even then back in October 2022 I had no idea about the possible impact an insane piece of legislation like this would have. Technically, now, all my writer clients are at risk since there is no guarantee that this law will not be used in retrospect. If I know governments then I know that if they can they will. Look what has happened in the last four years. Many were coerced to take a potentially lethal medical experiment in order to keep their jobs and therefore their livelihood. So retrospective prosecution for a harmless insult but rendered by someone known for their opposition to government is small beer. Do not tell me that what they have done to Julian Assange amounts to any sort of justice.
And, speaking of justice, I think I owe it to Ant's readers to shed some light on subsequent events. In July of 2022, having sent me a series of entries related to certain prominent people possibly connected to Satanic Ritual Abuse, Anthony Eastwood disappeared. His disappearance was facilitated by, of all people, Kieran Bunot, after a little warning from Bunot Senior that it would be wise if Ant made himself scarce. The fact that a diplomat of the standing of Gerard Bunot was giving Ant a nod would suggest connections to those inhabiting the higher echelons of power. I am sure it is amusing Ant to this day, reflecting that the brunt of a good deal of his insulting humour did him the honour of helping him avoid the wrath of the rich and powerful.
Naturally I am aware of what Ant uncovered through Mary 'Dick' Barton's extensive knowledge and research, despite the last diary entry where Ant is trying to keep all knowledge from me in a misguided attempt to shelter me from what he had learnt about my father, the late Lord Ronson of Richmond. I returned from Los Angeles and verbally pummelled Ant until he gave me the truth. Despite his noble attempts at protection I would never want, in a million years, to cover up allegations about my father if they turned out to be true. I've had two years to process the imputations (still unsubstantiated) and I'm fine with it. I always knew there were question marks against his sexuality and accompanying activity and I'm not about to go into denial about the possibility, even if it is only a possibility, that some of those activities amounted to abuse. And although they were only allegations it would seem that the evidence that Mary had gathered regarding other prominent people was very compelling as one might tell from subsequent events. When you are over the target be prepared for a lot of flak.
At the end of March 2022 campaigners against Satanic Ritual Abuse convened a public, but sparsely attended and largely unreported (by the MSM anyway), meeting in Caxton Hall, London for Mary 'Dick' Barton - with the brave Ant in attendance - to make certain revelations and make public a number of names associated with SRA. Some of these names are very well known and feature in Ant's diaries (though not yet revealed in these pages.) Despite the disappointing attendance Mary's revelations made quite an impact and from then on the writing was on the wall. Ant was so incensed by the information Mary had given him regarding Pattie’s abusers (all now deceased) and their celebrity that he felt he could no longer be silent. Pattie’s abuse had been, of course, all news to him.
After this March meeting things became very strange for Ant. His home was broken into, he had suspicions that both his landline and mobile phone were tapped and many times he was convinced he was being followed. Since he had a couple of crime writers as clients, and one who specialised in the activities of the security services, Anthony consulted with them and was informed quite categorically that his suspicions were not paranoia but, under the circumstances, very plausible. In June his laptop seemed to take on a life of its own, as if someone was controlling it from the outside. And, after subsequent discussions with the security expert, he was warned that if someone had planted pornography of a particularly nasty character on his hard drive that he would stand no chance, and that this was pretty standard practice when the agencies wanted to discredit someone, Ant concluded that it wouldn't just be his reputation that was at stake but his liberty as well. The same day Ant dumped his laptop and mobile phone in the River Quaggy and rendered his resignation to Notso. It was then that he had it confirmed from Kieran, via his father, that he had aroused the interest of people he would wish he hadn't. One week after that was the last I ever heard from Ant (though not the last I heard of him.)
Sadly Ant had been right about the last ten years. As the insidious arm of censorship crept ever forward whether it be by legal or cancellation/woke means the quality of literature simultaneously declined and now the standard of new fiction either on stage or in the pages of a book is woefully low. We have become punch drunk on the writing standard's mediocrity. Were Shakespeare alive today would he have been cancelled because his Prince of Denmark spoke of country matters as he lay his head in Ophelia’s lap? I suspect so. But, even then, I don't think Ant ever thought in his wildest imaginings that the instruments of State would one day come knocking at his door. What possible reason he would have asked in his sarcastic way would they have to take an interest in a down-at-heel literary agent in an agency devoted to representing numbskulls? What possible reason indeed?
I don't intend for the suspension of Ant's diaries to be permanent but until I can see how the land lies I regret I have to be circumspect for now. Anthony Eastwood’s Diaries have, in submarine parlance, 'gone quiet'.
I will leave readers with an anecdote that perfectly illustrates the insidious creep of censorship that stealthily makes its progress without us noticing the dangers. This is from twenty five years ago when political correctness foreshadowed woke. I had a client, an actor, playing a regular character as a station Sergeant in a long-running police show, the precursor to Martin Spangler's 'Coppers.' One day Eric, my client, was casually chatting to a technical advisor on the show (all ex police) who told him of a friend who had just been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police for gross misconduct, thereby forfeiting his pension, because he called one of the women who served him in the canteen 'a good egg'. (This in the good old days when most police stations had canteens.) The lady in question, a delightful Jamaican named Sandra, had given our friend, call him Derek, an extra large portion of baked beans with his breakfast fry up. Hence Derek had complimented Sandra, calling her a good egg. Meaning a good person. Sandra loved it, and loved the banter. Unfortunately that day Sandra had an over-zealous supervisor who insisted she made a complaint, a grievance, against Derek for calling her a good egg. Sandra was astounded. Why? Because, explained the zealot, 'good egg' is rhyming slang. And it was racist. Sandra was none the wiser. Rhyming slang for what? Egg is short for egg and spoon, said the zealot. Just like Barnet is short for Barnet Fair which rhymes with hair. And what does egg and spoon rhyme with? Coon, that's what. And coon is a racist insult. And, said Mr. Zealot, if Sandra didn't complain she would lose her job. He'd make sure of it. Sandra reluctantly complained, Derek got dismissed for gross misconduct and forfeited his pension.
We should have seen it coming.
Tuesdays all the way down. (See diary entry '3rd May 2021 - Noon.')
The etymology or, more accurately idiomology I guess, of a 'good egg' is debatable but the zealot insisted it was rhyming slang. Certainly no member of a police inquiry is going to be intellectually equipped to even spell idiomology let alone know what an idiom is. But a sixteenth century origin of a 'good egg' is quite likely and therefore way earlier than when rhyming slang was invented in the nineteenth century as a code designed by villains in London's East End to confuse the newly formed police force. No-one bothered to research that though and Derek was summarily dismissed as racist. A cruel irony that a copper is tripped up by a code invented by criminals to confuse the law. Derek subsequently killed himself. True story.
Twenty five years ago.
We should have seen it coming.
Tuesdays all the way down.
I hope this is a temporary measure. There will be more to reveal I promise you and whether it becomes public via Ant’s diaries or by the overtaking of events I cannot say. Who cares, so long as they are made public.
In the meantime I reiterate, I have no idea where Anthony Eastwood is although I do know he successfully left the country. Perhaps knowing the odd diplomat might have been a little help there. A little bird told me that he was in a country whose name began with a B. Well that could be Brazil, Bogota, Bulgaria, Bolivia, Belarus or Bongo Bongo Land. Take your pick. I wouldn’t know.
Sadly, and possibly more ominously, at the time of writing Mary Barton’s whereabouts are also unknown.
Who knows, perhaps the solar eclipse on April 8th will start to turn things on their head. One can only hope. Five days to go.
We shall prevail. . .
With love
Sharon K.
Sharon Kozinsky Associates
My my my! What a turn off events. I knew something was brewing and I really hope all parties are safe and wise. And if only it were that Ant is in Bulgaria, I bet he’d have a helluva good time! The pints are crisp, cold and gold and the Tuesdays don’t run all the way down, just at the tip top. 😂 But most blessedly, no one gives two Tuesdays about covid or quaxxines.
I have absolutely LOVED following the diaries along and hope you leave them here for others to stumble into and get some much needed belly laughs. And should they resume at some point, I’ll be ready to follow along once again.