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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: potted.txt (pedophile psychology)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Potted Biographies
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Thank you for your consideration.
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Potted Biographies (pedophile psychology)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
***
Partial pseudoantidisestablishmentarianistic and
certainly not-to-be-taken-too-seriously biographical non-
fiction. Contains a few expletory adjectives to add
strength of feeling, but no real sex. Some funny people
may find it highly erotic, if so, that's their problem!
***
Everyone who knows anything at all knows that Lewis
Carroll modelled his Alice in Wonderland on the real life
little girl Alice Liddell, the ten year old sex-crazed
daughter of the co-author of the famous Liddell and Scott
Greek-English Lexicon. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (that is
Lewis Carroll to the uninitiated) was extremely fond of
little pre-teen girls and liked to see them romp about
naked before and after his photographic sessions with
them, during which he liked them to keep perfectly still
and watch the birdie while he made his exposures!
To call him a paedophile on this evidence alone is a
monstrous libel. And even if he did more than just look
or touch, who cares? Everyone remembers the end product
and Disney made millions out of it! And not a single
complaint was made during his lifetime.
Anyway, Dodgson was only one of an entire legion of
Victorians whose pastime it was to photograph naked
children. He was not even the best of the bunch - Julia
Margaret Cameron was by far the better photographer and
she was closely followed by another monstrous regiment of
women including Clementina Lady Hawarden before we come
to men like David Octavius Hill and Robert Adamson, Roger
Fenton, Talbot, Hawsworth, Nash and MacGregor who all
were streets ahead of the Alice photographer.
The fact of the matter is that little children,
particularly naked children, and especially naked little
girls were considered the personification of pure
artistic perfection. Indeed, if you were a middle class
Victorian English or American gentleman and did not have
in your possession numerous photographs of naked
children, not necessarily your own, you would be
considered a bit of a pervert. And it was the epitome of
child abuse and neglect not to have every one of your
offsprings photographed naked on a bearskin or in some
dramatic pose with all the naughty bits and pieces shown
to optimum advantage.
These are well-known facts! And they are as relevant
today as they were a century and more ago when Lewis
Carroll chose Alice Liddell as his model for Alice in
Wonderland. As relevant today because, having rid
ourselves of the reds under the beds syndrome, and having
come to terms with homosexuality in our next-door
neighbors, we have to have some other social trauma to
persecute and thereby add delight to our narrow little
alleyways of existence. And who better to torment than
adults who love children. And so we are prepared to set
scientific research into childhood problems (autism, just
to name one of many at random) back another fifty years,
because sincere, serious-minded researchers are shit
scared of being labelled, well, you-know-what!
Not so well known is the fact that JM Barrie based his
equally, if not more famous Peter Pan story on real life
children. Not that anyone cares a fart about the fact,
but Peter Pan has made ten times more money for a
children's hospital in London than he and Dodgson ever
made in their entire lifetime; and Disney didn't do too
badly out of it either!
When Barrie lived in Chelsea, he had a back garden the
size of a football field. The houses on either side had
similarly vast back gardens. On one side was Peter Pan
and Tinker Bell, brother and sister; Peter was in his
early teens when Barrie first conceived the idea of the
famous play, and Tinker Bell was about five. The eight
years or so difference in their age was explained by the
fact that their father had been a soldier of higher rank
than a mere major and had done most of his service as far
east as it is possible to get without falling off the
edge of the page.
The consequence of his peculiar situation meant that
Peter had learned to become head of the family (that is,
the only male) at a very early age, and it showed! In
fact, he was a pompous little bastard who treated his
mother and sister abominably!
On the other side of Barrie's Chelsea house were the
Darlings. The father in this case was a city banker who
came home each evening with the result that the Darlings
were legion, so many, in fact, that Barrie had to cull
them - there was room on the stage of the Duke of York's
Theatre for only three: Wendy Moira Angela, John Napoleon
and Michael Nicholas Darling. In fact there were no fewer
than seven surviving little Darlings; one had been
stillborn and two died in early infancy before Mrs.
Darling got the hang of breeding. Wendy was the eldest,
about the same age as Peter on the other side. From all
accounts she was an extremely pretty little girl who
locked her bedroom door every night!
JM Barrie loved children, especially early teenaged boys,
but again it is a monstrous lie that he was either a
rabid homosexual or a secret paedophile! In fact, he was
a pathetic, impotent little bastard - perhaps literally,
in the truest sense of the word. His mother, Margaret
Ogilvy, who lived her entire life on the breadline with
her stonemason husband, had for once in her weary
existence behaved like a slut, and it was once too often,
for she became heavy with another man's child, which was
akin to the cardinal sin of popery or a capital offence
(like spitting in public on the Sabbath) in Presbyterian
Scotland. Her husband, however, chose to ignore the
indiscretion (like Hosea in the Old Testament) and
brought the boy up as his own, the seventh of ten who
survived infancy.
His possible illegitimacy left an indelible impression on
the growing boy; being quite convinced that he had been
born in sin, he came to regard sex (and that sort of
thing in any shape or form) as not a good thing to get
involved in. He was even incapable of an erection, so the
rest is not worth discussing! He was also every bit as
self-conscious about his height; he never in his life got
beyond the five foot four inches he managed while
standing on tip-toe in his specially-cobbled boots with
platform soles and reinforced hub-caps.
Anyway, Barrie the bean-sized possible Bastard loved to
watch the children at play in their respective back
gardens. And the impression was implanted in his
imagination: their comfortably secure, tight little world
was a fools' paradise, a never-never land of make-
believe. He loved the children, but he felt extremely
sorry for them, and he wished he could make their dream
world a reality. You see, Barrie was no fool! He could
see what most other people at that time chose to ignore.
Less than a mile from where Barrie lived in Chelsea were
some of the worst slums in Europe, and just across the
river, if anyone ever cared to look, they were even
worse. Any night, summer or winter, there were at least a
hundred homeless kids around Chelsea Bridge. There were
in fact, more destitute children in London at that time
than there are presently living in Rio de Janeiro, and
the sad truth was that no-one cared a bugger. Kids were
being turned away from the fucking orphanages! Unless, of
course, they were more than passingly pretty little
girls, in which case they would be provided with a bed
for a few nights before being transferred to the thousand
or so brothels in London, Paris or Algiers.
Even Barnardo's and the Catholic sacred-heart convents
and the Church of England orphanages turned kids away in
their hundreds. One do-gooder (a son of the founder of
the Salvation Army) who wanted to prove how easy it was
to buy a little girl in central London for immoral
purposes was jailed for his efforts. And there, but for
the grace of the Good Lord, who cares for all his middle
class children, and the accident of birth, could have
been Peter Pan and Tinker Bell and Wendy and all the
other little Darlings, according to Barrie's way of
thinking!
JM Barrie was also aware, in 1904 when he wrote his
famous play, that the much lauded entente cordiale of the
same year was a piece of toilet tissue that would be used
to wipe the after-effects of Kaiser Wilhelm's visit to
the kazi; as worthless, in fact, as a similar bit of
paper, the Munich Agreement, was to prove in 1939. He
expressed such a view to his much respected Tory
representative in Parliament.
"For Christ's sake!" came the response. "Don't say things
like that! You'll have the fucking plebs voting socialist
and demanding free schools for their brats and votes for
their women!"
JM Barrie was absolutely convinced that if war were to
come to Europe, the way things were hanging at that time
in Russia, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Middle East,
the Balkans, Ireland and elsewhere, the result would be a
blood-bath that would make the famous battle of Waterloo
look like a Sunday School soiree. And then what would
happen to Peter Pan and Tinker Bell, Wendy and all the
little Darlings? Depending on when precisely it came, and
on the ultimate outcome, the boys would be killed in
action and the girls raped!
But, of course, Barrie was an idealist, and escapist, a
dreamer - all playwrights had to be. So he did what he
did best: he wrote plays to help people escape from the
reality that was the bugger of life. And who could blame
him? Those who sneered at him for telling the truth? When
all was said and done, one way or another, they would get
him for being impotent, a paedophile or a queer, or maybe
even for being a funny little Scotchman who could not get
it up.
What he did in fact was to knock a great hole in both
fences in his garden and introduce Peter Pan and Tinker
Bell to Wendy and her brood of brothers and sisters. And
for the next ten years, until the outbreak of the War
that was to end all wars, everyone had one hell of a
party in one large garden that was a little bit of
Paradise in a fucking terrible world of grime and grim
reality. When the long summer holidays from school were a
thing of the past, the adolescents and adults from both
their houses used to come together for evening symposia
on Barrie's back lawn and reminisce, and even at that
advanced age they played games.
Their little Never-Never Land was soon to be ruthlessly
shattered. Peter Pan was twenty-two when the dogs of war
broke loose in Europe in August 1914. He had followed his
daddy's footsteps into the army, was promoted to captain
and immediately killed in action in the late autumn of
1915 as were two of the Darling boys who just happened to
be with Peter at the time in the Middlesex regiment in
France. Another Darling boy was killed in action with the
Royal Flying Corps shortly after this.
Tinker Bell took the news badly. At the age of sixteen
she was admitted to a private nursing home for the
mentally disenchanted and died, a completely
disillusioned woman at the ripe old age of twenty-three,
in a lunatic asylum somewhere deep in the Shropshire
countryside. Wendy Darling, as one might have expected,
trained as a nurse at the outbreak of war and served with
great distinction in France. She never married, but she
inherited most of the Darling estate, retired from
nursing just before the second world war started in 1939,
and ended her days in an eventide home in the Lake
District.
One Darling boy and girl survived both conflicts. Michael
Nicholas and his younger sister, actually the two
youngest of the brood, emigrated, firstly to Kenya, then
to South Africa and finally to Western Australia. Neither
married. Neither found any need to; they were perfectly
happy living with each other. What if there was a hint or
rumour of incest about their relationship? Of the whole
shebang they were the only two to retain something of the
decency of being human and of the wonderland that was JM
Barrie's back garden; wherever they went they became
famous for their parties and for their repartee. They had
autographed programmed from every first night of a Barrie
play and signed edition of the first ever printing of
Peter Pan.
Two of Barrie's closest friends in London were John
Morrison and James Baxter both of whom were also Scottish
by birth and journalists by profession. These two talked
more sense about Barrie than all the college professors
of literature that ever there was and all the so-called
experts and biographers. But both were tainted. My God!
Morrison was nothing but a Libertine, a womaniser, who
could not be trusted to keep his hands and other naughty
parts off anything wearing knickers, and that other one,
Baxter, well, you know he never married, and we all know
what that means!
Morrison had worked with Barrie in Nottingham and moved
with him to London to work on the St. James's Gazette and
the British Weekly. Baxter was a London correspondent for
The Scotsman, the Edinburgh daily newspaper, and also
wrote the occasional article for the British Weekly.
Morrison, like Barrie, had a failed marriage. Unlike
Barrie, the cause for the failure was not impotence,
indeed it was quite the reverse - his wife sued for
divorce on the grounds of adultery with seven other
women, five of whom had proved productively fertile, and
two of these were under eighteen.
James Baxter, on the other hand, shared Barrie's
conviction that sex, in any shape or form, was a good
thing not to have anything to do with. He blamed most of
the social problems of Edwardian London on the mating
habits of the human female individual and advocated
sterilization as a prerequisite of receipt of public
charity. He also recommended the free distribution of
contraceptives among members of the fighting services and
the lower classes.
Morrison emigrated. Christ! He had to! He had half a
dozen husbands out to kill him, and law suits that would
have given any Californian attorney a lifetime of wet
dreams. Baxter returned to Scotland, took to drinking
more than quite a lot, and died of a liver complaint a
few days after his hundredth birthday. Both, to their
dying day, found it hugely amusing when it was suggested
to them that their friend was a homosexual paedophile.
As Morrison once said, "JM would have been flattered!"
And Baxter, in a drunken stupor, told his enthralled
audience in a public bar in Melrose, "If only you silly
buggers could have known the man!" Ah, well!
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 19