Alternative War

Release Date: 18/08/2017

In Alternative War, former police officer turned investigative journalist James Patrick tackles Russian interference in the UK’s Brexit referendum and the US election of President Donald Trump head-on, exposing the reality of the third world war in the face of fake news and sophisticated disinformation campaigns.

Based on interviews, documents, and information from both sides of the Atlantic, including an expedition to Sweden to explore Russian-sponsored alt-right disinformatsiya, this book uncovers the truth about the undeclared conflict which has rocked democracy, peace, and stability across the West.

Over the course of an extensive investigation spanning Europe, North America, and beyond, Patrick has brought together experts, classified intelligence reports, public records, and witness testimony to build the most extensive and accurate account of Vladimir Putin’s assault on the NATO allies to date. The book documents how detached and deniable assets, including Wikileaks and the far-right – including UKIP and Republican officials – were engaged by Russia to successfully subvert two of the world’s superpowers and install managed democracies in the execution of a strategy planned over decades, to enhance the Russian position and destabilise its perceived enemies.

Alternative War exposes the depth and complexity of a hybrid world war and captures the methods used to profile and manipulate populations in order for Russia to emerge victorious. The book leads us to question everything about Western regulation and enforcement, setting accountability at the highest levels while empowering the people everywhere to help ensure the world is never taken by surprise again.

E-Commerce #FlashFiction

E-Commerce #FlashFiction


That theer dingy bog at’t’ Blue Note reeked uh stale wazz un Southern Comfort but thon cubicles were miraculously clean – folk vommin’ in’t urinals un ower’t’ sticky, black dogshelf instead, leaving glowin’ globs ayit int’ UV light tuh avoid contaminatin’ true heart uht’ club – them flat, white ceramic cistern tops frum weer speed un coke were dabbed un snorted, once t’often wettin’ wraps – sliced un cut frum magazines then artfully folded – ‘ad been tecken frum kecks un pockets un socks un mingin’ shoes. Only’t’ unlucky ones, back in them days, would find ’emselves awkin about wit’ condensated dealy bags – them little plastic ziplock packets in whicht’ stodged gear would sweat un liquify. There wah no banging ont’ doors, no disturbance frumt’ bouncers. Both were ont’ payroll, patiently ignorin’ allt’ drug use un only turning away’t’ types uh punters likely tuh disturb’t’ peace by gettin’ bladdered, bein’ bladdered, or wearing shoes which indicated thay’d not come tuh enjoy’t’ secret delights uh Aas Music un illicit, class A chemical substances. Int’ dark club, painted blacker thun sky ower Bill’s mother’s, which would accommodate nuh more thun three-hundred people at its wost fire risk, provision uh’a weekend ‘aven at’t’ Friday Club wah crucial tuh its continued success as a tax free, money makin’ vehicle weert’ bulk uh legitimate sales come frum bottled water un dinky lollipops.

Sat’day night saw its return tuht’ drinkers, tuht’ owder generation uh Derby’s more tradishnul sloshin’ culture, but Friday wah a day uh worship at t’alter uh thumping beats un uplifting vocals, weer DJs like that Jeremy Healey un Alistair Whitehead would be just as mashed as t’ dancin’ throng, whoopin’ un blartin’ theer hearts int’ old disco style, un shaking euhporic sweaty ‘ands at th’ends uh theer sets.

‘Ad it not been furt’ escape tuh Wilmorton’s grubby inner-city college, away frumt’ maddening snootery uht’ wannabe grammar school int’ village, Billy might never uv come tuh experience t’ bitter taste uh anphetamines, t’ nasal burn uh coke, ort’ sheer joy uh a white dove. Ecstasy. A stomach-tinglin’, man-made joy int’ form uh a tiny stamped pill, cooked up in an Amsterdam lab un lovingly smuggled intuh his ‘and at’t’ cost uh a ten pound palm cross tuh Winston. T’ big, hamfisted lump made t’ perfect stooge, uh course. Imbecillic un delighted tuh carry enough drugs un cash upon his person ‘tween ‘andovers tuht’ club tuh send him far on wi’ slops fur a very considerable period. He wah equally happy, happen, tuh carry a lock knife in case things went wonky, despite also bein’t’ only punter int’ joint who wah allowed tuh hold ontuh a glass pint pot, in case a glassing wah required.

Poor owed Winstuhn di’n’t really see what wah coming when Billy first spotted his own opportunity tuh make a dent ont’ local economy – though it di’n’t cross his mind until’t’ end uh that first three months as a recreational fuckhead, coz’t’ high wah new un obliterated everythin’ but’t’ absolute enjoyment uh it. T’ tingling sensation int’ chest or belly as’t’ glorious concoctions began tuh release ’emselves intuh’t’ body, that shimmer-shake int’ major muscle groups as ‘is blood pumped’t’ artificial stimulation tuht’ limbs, then’t’ owerwhelming headrush as allt’ brain’s electrical impulses began tuh fire un’t’ world changed shape un tone under’t’ forced dilation uht’ pupils – greedily takin’ in light, even int’ black uht’ club.

Billy ad’n’t been very good at cannabis, neither skunk nor resin had particularly enthused him, un buckets un bongs had always led him tuh coughing fits, red eyes, un a slight nausea which disrupted his enthusiasm. He wah also an outdoor lad un theer wa’n’t much worse than sitting in a aas, surrounded by a cloud uh thick un smoggy pipe smoke produced by a group uh five or sex teenage boys, stale stench uh bongwater mixing with that unpleasant pong uh trainers. Even whent’ drinking years had started, when he wah fourteen, Billy had never really taken tuh that either. ‘E could shotgun a can uh lager witht’ best uh ‘um, un he could wipe aat a tenner’s worth uh one pound pints at Berlins no bother, but alcohol, like weed, provided too many setbacks fur it tuh be fully enjoyed. Hangowers were a cripplin’ ruination uht’ day which followed t’ night out un when you took it a step too far in taan, un theer wah always’t’ risk you’d end up spewing all ower yourself just as’t’ girl yud been watching all night met your peepers. No, neither dope nor booze were a good fit fur William Howard but, ‘s’if tuh prove t’old parental fear about gateway drugs, it wah both which provided Billy wit’ access tuh a world in which he found himself as happy as a pig int’ prowerbial shit. It wah through college he met Matt and it wah through a night aat fur drinks wiy Matt that he finally became acquainted wit’ delectible feast uh Derby’s controlled substance underground uh 1996…

#BourneAgain 1:

#BourneAgain 1:

Back in 2010/11 I knew I was making a rebellious declaration of war on Scotland Yard. I won’t bore you with it but you can either read my book, The Rest Is Silence, or read the whistleblowing section of this website to find out what went on.

Going into that, I made sure I was as fit as could be. I was in my early thirties, twelve-and-a-half stone of lean muscle, and trained two hours a day. A few years of trauma did quite the job, taking me down to six-and-a-half stone at the lowest ebb, and I walked away with my fair share of trauma from the stress, too.

After that, there came the real falling to pieces – I ended up bankrupted and living in a hell-hole on alternate day rations of Gingernuts while doing a physical job. By the time my 37th birthday came around in May, I was suffering the full effects of malnutrition, had no body fat left to go, and was suffering a headache which neither started nor ended. It just was.

Things have, thankfully, moved on quite a way and my body-weight is now back around eleven stone. But my joints are pretty much buggered, particularly in my hands thanks to the genetic gift of arthritis which my life provoked to pinch a little early.

Next month, my 38th birthday will arrive and it’s time to start to redress the way I enter my forties. I’ve been spurred on by my inspirational other half but I’m not doing my side of it for charity as she is. This is personal.

I remember how my body felt, and it bloody well will behave now I’ve fed it for a while.

I’ll also need to be fighting fit as I’ve turned my attention towards pursuing investigative journalism across the world – see here – and who knows when I’ll need to run or fight. Maybe never, but that’s a huge what if. I also hope my clambering back into exercise inspires others, or simply gives some good pointers on what not to do.

Today was the start and I ventured into the hallowed Sports Direct of Bletchley, where I got myself a haul of starter goods in the sale – it’s the only way to fly, my mum always taught me. These might not be ‘ethical’ purchases (if you’ve ever tried charity shopping as a bloke you’ll know why this is so hard) but these are budget pinching items I’ve saved up for from the day job. These are also the first clothes I’ve bought new in nearly two years.

I’ve bagged two Everlast T-shirts for £12, Two pairs of joggers at £12.99 each, a hoody at £12.99, two packs of sport socks for £9, and a pair of Karrimor trail runners for £69.99 reduced from £139.99 (the most expensive item here, but your feet need looking after and I haven’t bought trainers for five years now).

Because it was a sale, I’ve also snaffled a set of grip-strengtheners for £2.49 (to help my poor hands alongside a set of chinese medicine balls from Ebay), a resistance band for £8.49, a phone arm-band for £4.99, and some running headphones for £6.99

I also invested in a cast iron set of Lonsdale dumbbells, reduced by 50% to £39.99 and I still have and a doorway bar for pull ups and press ups.


Sit ups are, of course, free but I don’t know yet whether I’ll be reaching the giddy heights of the thousand a day I used to do after being inspired by American Psycho and Fight Club as a younger, less damaged man.

The only other essential equipment I already have is a firm knee support which I bought a few years back when an old injury started playing up.

All in all, this is not a bad way to spend your savings, though I am apparently still racked with guilt at buying things for myself that you can’t eat…

So, I guess this is me ready for the first run and exercises tonight.

I’ll let you know how it goes…



Fuck Pussyfooting. Beg.

Fuck Pussyfooting. Beg.



That’s the opener of someone who really means something.

And I do.

If you’re sick of ‘alternative facts’ and ‘fake news’ then this is for you. If not, don’t bother reading another word.

“No more alternatives, just good, old-fashioned investigative journalism delivered when you need it – which is when stuff is happening, not months later when it’s too bloody late.”

I don’t work for a newspaper, I’m not on big bucks. I was once bankrupt. I was once a whistleblower. I was once a copper. I’m none of those things now, but I want to make chasing far-right bullshit my full-time job.

And I don’t just mean being a keyboard warrior, I want to get up in their grubby little business and get to the goddamned truth. I’m doing this properly, as an NUJ card-holding investigative journalist.

“Fuck it, I’m begging and we all know it.”

I started doing this for free again earlier this year, being published by The Common Space and accidentally crowdfunded £2,000 to take on the alt-right over Trump’s comments on Sweden. As a result, I now write for Byline, an independent journalism platform which is fully signed up to the new Impress regulations – so it’s legit.

You can read the work out of Sweden so far on the links below, but I need to stop pussyfooting around and ask you something.

Fuck it, I’m begging and we all know it.

I want you to support my work so I can chase down the leads I’ve already picked up and follow the trail from Sweden, across the UK, to France, to Germany, and beyond. And I have to be honest, time isn’t going to fucking wait.

To be able to cover the work, drop my day job which puts food on the table, and cover the regular travel I need to be doing to kick these rocks, I need to be hitting £6,000 a month.

Sounds like a lot, right?

To you, that’s a quid a month if 6,000 if you sign up to monthly subscriptions at my Byline page. That’s also £1 not spent on the Express, Mail, or anything owned by Rupert Bloody Murdoch.

That means I can get on with this.

Some people have already committed more. Others have chucked in what they can as a one-off. Quite a few people prefer to donate to me directly through PayPal.

Yeah, I’m begging. No I’m not ashamed.

And yes, I do want to make sure that every article I produce is balanced, factual, and without a single sniff of fake about it. No more alternatives, just good, old-fashioned investigative journalism delivered when you need it – which is when stuff is happening, not months later when it’s too bloody late.

“I’m not prepared to sit here on my hands when there’s a chance my actions could make a difference.”

On that note, you can subscribe monthly via Byline here, or donate direct to me here by scrolling down to the Paypal button (which also lets you do monthly payments).

I don’t care whether you donate £1 or a £1,000 but what I can’t do is sit by in this mental world and do nothing. This is all I’ve got and I’m going at it hard, I just need a leg up.

Donate, share, slag me off, I don’t care. But I’m not prepared to sit here on my hands when there’s a chance my actions could make a difference. (And I know for a fact one person can make a difference because I’ve done that before).

“I don’t care whether you donate £1 or a £1,000 but what I can’t do is sit by in this mental world and do nothing.”

If you want to try out the quality of work, read the #skada articles already published (1 or 2), or get stuck in and help me fund the completion of an exclusive on Mexico’s hidden crimes, here.



That’s me begging. Fuck pussyfooting.

Donate, share, slag me off, I don’t care.