Shatter The Night

Shatter The Night

Love belongs to no single day,

Resides in no single heart,

Fills no single soul.

The love I know is home.

The sun,

The moon.

The earth beneath my feet does not ground me,

Family provides me roots.

The skies cannot contain my flight.

My love soars with me to the stars,

For we were born of a dance in darkness,

And our glow shatters night.

My heart is set within a ruby,

For now.


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…