My Expert Opinion of the Sussex Police and Crime Commissioner Candidates

THE RACE TO BE SUSSEX POLICE AND CRIME COMMISSIONER

Having met KATY BOURNE, GODFREY DANIEL and IAN CHISNALL during four Hustings events organised by the Sussex Association of Local Councils, I feel qualified to deliver my expert opinion on each of them, exploring their suitability for the top job.

So, lets start with the delightful, KATY BOURNE.

God forbid she gets the job. As I said publicly in the Hustings at Battle in Sussex.

“I would be so disappointed if Mrs Bourne wins Sussex Police and Crime Commissioner election.

Its got nothing to do with her personally. She's a wonderful woman, successful in business and a loving mother.

What upsets me is that without the Conservative political machine behind her, Mrs Bourne is actually less qualified to do the job than I am.

We are both passionate about politics. We are both successful in business. She may be older, but we can both recount stories of sitting on our parent's knee, getting political lessons which have moulded our political thinking until today.

But... Whatever she can DO, I can EQUAL and do BETTER.

This election should be about competence not political party backing.

It should be about the three i's, Integrity, Intelligence and Independence.

I hate to think that the Sussex voters are brain-washed sheep. But it seems as though they will blindly vote for a Conservative candidate regardless of the candidate's competence to do the job.

It's as if they've forgotten why they vote Tory in the first place, they just do....

So if Mrs Bourne is voted PCC, it'll be a disgusting perversion of democracy in Sussex.”

We know from an article Katy wrote for the Independent Newspaper on 3 December 2009, that she wanted to be the MP for Suffolk. Alas, she wasn't selected and as a result vowed to carry on and try, try, try again.

I get the impression its all about POWER for Mrs Bourne. She doesn't care what the role is, whether its as a Member of Parliament or as Police and Crime Commissioner. The idea of being a woman in power is all the motivation she needs to carry on.

I'd feel sorry for any Chief Constable who's unfortunate enough to be landed with her. In her own words she says she'll be in his office asking 'Why?' Why hasn't crime fallen? Why hasn't this or that been done? Why Chief Constable, why?

I for one hate that approach. I'd rather ask, how I can help?

I'm not the only one who feels the same way. An ex-barrister called Duncan Roy (Scrapper Duncan) interviewed her for his blog and he feels the same way as I do. Namely to spoil your ballot paper, rather than vote for her.

But before you do so, lets move onto GODFREY DANIEL.

Again please read Scrapper Duncan's interview for a more in-depth analysis. But from my own experience, I just see an old man trying to recapture past glories.

He's on the Sussex Police Authority, the very same organisation which the Police and Crime Commissioner office is being brought in to replace. He's been a Hasting councillor and a magistrate.

To illustrate his unsuitability, I want to bring to your attention a news story from the Bognor Regis Observer.

As it reports; Godfrey visited Bognor to discuss the problem of street drinking. And here is a response posted in the comment's section, by a commentator called 'Kingzog.'

“As a Labour councillor in Hastings over the past 20 years or so, Mr Daniel has made such a good job of controlling street drinking that we now have a large contingent of junkies and alcoholics in the centre of St. Leonard's openly drinking and drug dealing. Very rarely do we see any patrolling police and rarely do we see clean pavements.”

“Really”, I thought, and as I said to his face during a Hustings at Arundel, “How do you expect to deal with Sussex Police and when can't even deal with street drinkers in Hasting?”

Mr Daniel boasts of his talent for town planning. He says he likes 'Rules' and believes he's got the character to be a fair and competent Commissioner. But I don't think so....

God help any of the poor souls who found themselves before him in his capacity as Magistrate. He's one of those guys who will enforce a rule whether he believes in the rule or not.

Like Katy Bourne claiming a right to be Police and Crime Commissioner because of her business skills, Godfrey Daniel is claiming a right to be Police and Crime Commissioner because he's a good town planner. Both are kidding themselves if they think they'll make good Police and Crime Commissioners.

Which brings us nicely onto IAN CHISNALL.

As a Street Pastor, he does a fantastic job caring for the less fortunate in society. He feeds the hungry and warms the cold. He clothes the naked and heals the sick. He wears sandals and prays. In another time and in another place, a crown of thorns would have been placed on his head...

I'm sure his voice will always be heard in Sussex Police and his contribution to the under-belly of Brighton's street-life is massive and commendable.

Its a shame he denies any corruption in Sussex Police and it's a shame he has connections with Common Purpose.

I'd otherwise consider voting for him.

As a conspiracy theorist and proud of it, anyone with a connection with Common Purpose rings alarm bells.

Common Purpose is a 'not-for-profit charitable organisation' which claims to train the leaders of tomorrow. While others claim its a fraudulent ‘educational charity’ acting as a change agent being used to recruit and train the commissars and apparatchiks needed to implement the British government’s hidden New World Order communitarian agenda.

This is what Common Purpose see themselves as and this is what others see Common Purpose as.

Regardless of his Common Purpose connections, you really need to read his interview with Scrapper Duncan.

In my expert opinion, Ian Chisnall should keep to tending to his flock and leave the running of Sussex Police to someone with more Integrity, Intelligence and Independence.

So, in light of having sat on the same platform as all the prospective Sussex Police and Crime Commissioners, I've come to the same conclusion as Scrapper Duncan.

There is only one thing to do: SPOIL YOUR BALLOT PAPERS.

And I'd like to go further and recommend you write S.O.S across it.

After all, all spoilt ballot papers are counted. And any with S.O.S written on it will naturally indicate a vote for the SOS Party.

But wait..........BREAKING NEWS.

On Friday 12 October, there is a public meeting where Nigel Farage will be speaking and Tony Armstrong will be introduced as the official UKIP candidate.

Congratulations Tony Armstrong, (who I've met on one occasion.) I look forward to researching him further and giving you, my expert opinion.

But until then Folks? Sussex Needs You....

Out of 1.5 million residents, it seems only a few have stepped to the plate to be counted.

Ooops, I nearly forgot...

Matt Taylor

David Joe Neilson

The anti-corruption candidates.

Click on their pictures to be taken to their campaign websites.

They're all in it together....

Interesting that Ed Miliband should be calling for a debate on immigration.

I curve ball out from no-where. I mean, its not as if anyone else was talking about it.

I'm more interested in David Cameron's attack of Jimmy Carr. 

I'm waiting for our Great British press to dig up dirt on the Conservative front bench and their tax evasion schemes.

Come to think of it, any good journalist could just as well dig up dirt on the opposition's front bench tax evasion schemes as much as the Conservatives.So, all in all, Ed Miliband has done David Cameron a favour.

Bring up the aged old subject of immigration. He knows it's the nation's favourite subject to bitch about and in the process deflect press attention away from the tax evasion issue. Helping the Conservatives and ultimately helping the Labour front bench who's hands are just as dirty.

After all, they're all in it together...

WHERE'S OUR CHANGE!

Brighton Parking Department,

I am writing to complain that none of the parking meters in Brighton and Hove give change.

Further-more, as unlike your website promises, neither do they allow users to pay for the amount of time required.

Please allow me to explain:

1, Anyone popping into town to drop a cheque into the bank or buy an essential piece of merchandise from the shops will on average complete the task in between 15 to 30 minutes.

The parking meters will not allow users to pay to park for either 15 or 30 minutes. Users are left with no choice but to pay for an hours parking regardless or whether they park for 5 minutes or 30 minutes.

2, To park up to an hour will cost £1.70 on most parking meters in the city. But if you haven’t the exact change, which many people haven’t, you are forced to put either a £2 coin, or £1.80 change into the meter.

As a result:

a, No change is given,

b, No extra time is given in reflection of the extra money taken.

3, The cities parking enforcement team would without hesitation, issue a parking fine if they find a vehicle which has out-stayed it’s allocated time by 5 minutes.

This means that even though a resident would have paid £2, for a fee of £1.70 up to one hour, and for whatever reason was delayed in getting back to their vehicle by 10 minutes, would be fined, even though they would have paid for the over 1 hours stay.

4, Many coin operated machines, from telephone booths, to crisp, chocolate and drink dispensers, to parking meters in Churchill Square, to changed givers, stamp dispensers, condom dispensers etc, all provide change.

How can you justify your parking meters not providing change?

This practice of keeping change and not allocating extra time for extra monies paid constitutes fraud on a massive scale and a criminal act of swindle.

I intend to bring this matter up with my MP, and conduct a campaign through local media to highlight this grave and criminal act against the residents of Brighton and Hove City. I also intend to raise this issue with the European Ombudsman.

I wish this email to be my formal statement of complaint.

Matthew Taylor

Letter to the Queen: A Royal Pardon

Ma'am,

I am interested in running in the November 2012 election for the Police and Crime Commissioner for Sussex.

As once a Royal Military Policeman of Your magnificent Forces, I believe I am well minded to be an excellent Police and Crime Commissioner and make a real difference in the community I live.

Sadly my duty to You was regrettably brought to a swift and undignified end, when in September of 2001, I was dismissed from Your Forces with immediate effect and demoted in rank, for the possession of an illegal drug with the intent to supply.

This distorts the fact that I sent five cannabis joints to my dying mother to alleviate her pain while she lay on her death bed.

I hope you agree that what I did in no way makes me a drug dealer as the offence implies.

I am bringing this to your attention because a requirement to become a Police and Crime Commission, one cannot stand for election if one has ever been convicted of an imprisonable offense.

Even though I broke the terms and conditions of the 1955 Army Act, I am concerned that it would be confused as a civilian offence and result in disqualification from standing.

With this in mind I humbly beseech You my Queen and Majesty, to Pardon my offense to ensure I am eligible to stand in the November 2012 Police and Crime Commissioner election for Sussex.

Please Your Majesty, you are my last best hope for Victory.

Ma'am, I have the honour to be and remain Your Majesty’s humble and obedient servant,

Private Taylor MD

25074661

The Golden Cube: Chapter Three

With the rain lashing out its fears and disappointments upon the ground below, a lone figure darts from door to door, with his coat pulled up over his head in a vain attempt to keep as dry as possible.

Eventually he arrives at the door he knows so well.

Deep in the heart of Brighton City, deep in the lanes which are so enjoyed by tourists and shoppers alike, resides the Crowley private members club.

Named after the notorious Aleister Crowley, an influential English occultist, astrologer, mystic and ceremonial magician, not to mention a bisexual, recreational drug experimenter and a social critic, whose motto in life was ’Do What Thou Wilt.’

The club is renowned to attract a certain type of person unique to Brighton society, a type of person who couldn’t care less for law and order, but everything for chaos and rebellion.

The lone figure pants out of breathe and shivers. He looks up at the sign above the door with a tinge of disappointment.

‘Arh you ‘R’, I hate yer,’ he thinks to himself.

“A far better role model for the community,” he’s argued more than once, “is to have our club named after Harry Cowley, a renowned Brightonian political activist who devoted his life to helping the poor and fighting fascism. Isn’t it better to remember a true hero rather than a man credited with being the wickedest man in the world?”

Many people agreed but the most vocal opposition came from Pete Moon, his best friend, and as a consequence the Crowley Club remains the Crowley Club.

An old hunch-backed Chinese woman owns the freehold, and whose name is on the publican licence. Legend says she won it from an English Gentleman over a game of poker in an opium den in Hong Kong during the 1960’s. She came to England on the back of it.

Her daughter runs the business side, she’s in every night to clear out the tills, a manageress called Victoria is employed to run the day to day affairs, but other than that the members are left to their own devices.

The front door is like any other front door to the world. The building’s windows are painted over with black paint. It looks like a private house on a street of shops. It’s sufficiently sounded proofed, to dampen the noise of the bands and performers which take to its stage. There’s nothing from its outward appearance to give the passer-by the impression of a popular private members club in full swing. On entering, the bar is on the left and chairs and couches are on the right. The right wall is covered with books, free to use by all members. Walking further in, alongside the bar, you come to a large open space where the entertainment is provided. Beyond the stage area are stairs down to the toilets and garden, upstairs to the office and further upstairs to a two bedroom flat, which coincidently, Victoria and Pete share.

With a rap on the door, a small box slides to the left. Someone peers through to take a look. Four bolts are heard being unlocked and within moments you’re inside.

“Hey Bingo, just in time, Scrabble’s up.”

Bingo also known as Leonardo Ashman, sometimes called Leon or Leo, but more often than not just Bingo, is a regular at the club. A popular member, he’s an important player in the political activist group which has based itself at the Crowley Club for the past decade.

With a trademark red beret on his head, and when it isn’t, rolled up and stuck in his trousers belt loops, black hair hidden underneath, standing at an average height of 5'9", average figure neither too fat nor too thin, wearing black jeans, a red tee-shirt with the logo ’Keep Calm and Carry On,’ red scarf, a collection of bangles on his wrist and Nike trainers, Bingo is as average as any other guy in Brighton you’ll hope to meet.

“Alright? Shit weather out there tonight, but it should clear up by morning,” Bingo said to the half a dozen people hanging around the bar.

Stacy’s behind the bar, the barmaid for the evening. At five-foot-tall she’s a Kylie Minogue look-alike, and the club’s sexy vixen. Even though her pop star body stays hidden under layer and layer of Oxfam leftovers, her cute and friendly face brings a smile to all who meet her.

Then there’s Pete, Dave, Richie, Toadstool and Larry.

Stacy, Dave and Richie have a scrabble bar in front of them and another reserved for Bingo.

It would be hard to imagine a game of Scrabble being played in the Crowley Club without Bingo. He loves the game with a passion and everyone knows it. He usually wins, but more often than not, he doesn’t. He isn’t a great user of long words, but comes to win the games with clever protection of the red squares and strategic use of double and triple letter scores.

A game between Bingo and Pete many years ago is still talked about with great fanfare and reverence. They were neck to neck with their scores. Pete had pulled away in the lead with a magnificent eight letter word using all his letters giving him 150 bonus points, but Bingo had slowly but surely levelled the score with his trade-mark triple and double scoring strategies. Pete’s magnificent eight letter word is all but forgotten, expect by Pete of-course, because it was a three letter word that Bingo put down that everyone remembers.

“No way,” Pete said shaking his head, “U.F.O is an abbreviation.”

“I beg to differ mate, ufo is a word, pronounced you-foe,” Bingo countered.

The Oxford Dictionary only inflamed the situation. Everyone was tired. As with many games, it starts off with four players and usually lasts for a couple of hours. But on this fateful night, it went on much longer.

“The dictionary says it’s a noun Pete,” someone says, only for Pete to reiterate, “it’s an abbreviation for fucks sake. U.F.O stands for unidentified flying object, you morons. It’s not allowed,” leaning over to flick the letters of the board.

Bingo slapped his hand away.

“If the dictionary says it’s a noun, then it’s a noun, OK. I’m having the score, leave them alone,” said Bingo with a glint in his eye saying he’s willing to go all the way.

Pete then changes the whole dynamics by slamming his fist on the bar, making all the letters jump from their positions and making everyone else jump too.

Pete, as the leader of Brighton’s SMASH HELL political activist group from its conception, way back when New Labour came to power, is a successful leader, as much as Tony Blair is a successful leader, for being a tolerate bloke.

A bloke who doesn’t get hot under the collar and who certainly doesn’t lose his rag in front of the troops.

So it was this display of aggression that made everyone stop what they were doing and pay extra special attention.

“Oh for fucks sake Pete. Calm down. It’s in the dictionary as a noun. You have no more tiles and with these points I win. So yes mate, I am having it OK,” said Bingo eye to eye.

You could hear the collective intake of breathe. An affront to Pete’s leadership. What Pete says goes and God help anyone who says otherwise, let alone his best friend. Reality drama at it’s very best, made all the better when Pete slaps Bingo full across the face.

Bingo reeled back in either pain, of more likely shook, because it wasn’t a punch, more like a very loud slap which left a blazing red mark on his cheek. It was more laughable than serious, but everyone waited to see Bingo’s response, and Bingo didn’t let them down.

He waited, one, two, three, four, five and then launched himself. With his hands clutching Pete’s throat, Bingo literally lifted him off the ground, slamming him onto the wooden floor on his back.

“UFO is a word,” said Bingo, face to face before letting go and running out of the club.

Everyone remained silent for the at least ten seconds as Pete stood up and dusted himself down.

They all wondered why he left so fast, but truth be told, Bingo was on the verge of crying and didn’t want anyone to see.

After-all he's a gentle soul, and fighting his best friend, and being slapped like a girl in full view, was too much for his gentle character to take.

Pete and Bingo never talk about the events of that night, but after a few drinks, and when there is nothing else to talk about, people would often bring the story up and laugh to their hearts delight over Bingo’s look on his face at getting slapped, and then Pete’s look on his face at getting slammed to the ground and being told “ufo is a word.”

The Golden Cube: Chapter Two

A million meters high in the sky, a jumbo stealth craft flies at supersonic speed. The size of a football pitch, it zooms through the air using a propulsion system unseen in civilian flight. Undetectable to radar and flown on the outer rim of the Thermosphere, one hundred kilometres high, its existence is a secret to the world below, but more than anything, it’s a genuine ‘UFO.’

“Note,” the text books quote, “An unidentified-flying-object isn’t necessarily alien. It’s something no one can explain, neither a plane, balloon, cloud or helicopter; being unidentifiable is what makes a UFO, a UFO.”

Time to time orders are given for low fly-bys over populated civilian areas. It’s an ongoing directive to confuse the public and install fear within its psychology, “Mess with the public’s mind and they’ll never think straight again,” is the preconceived wisdom of the management. “Keeping the public on their toes and fearing an imminent alien invasion, is always prudent and should be promoted on any given opportunity,” the text books quote.

The craft had been in the air for over a month now, keeping tabs upon the world below, responding to events and creating events of it's own. It’s the command centre of the world’s most secretive organisation.

Many people would guess it to be the Knight’s Templar and many others would shout the Free-Mason’s. Both will be wrong because it’s never officially been named, but for arguments sake, ‘The Committee of the 300’, would be a fair guess, uou could describe the organisation as the top 0.000000001 of the population, or better still, why not just settle with the Illuminati.

Back on the craft, an operative knocks on the Commander’s door and enters.

“It’s gone sir,” he says coming to attention in front of the Commander’s desk, with a sharp click of the heels.

“And what exactly is gone, Spencer,” the Commander replies.

“The Golden Cube Sir, the Golden Cube has gone Sir.”

“It better not have,” the Commander replies sternly.

“It’s gone sir. It’s really gone.”

“Where, when and bloody well how?” the Commander shouts as he slams his palms onto the table and rises behind his desk ready to pounce.

“London, twenty seconds ago, theft.”

Hitting the intercom button to his secretary in the adjoining room, the Commander barks, “Brenda, get the British Prime Minister on the phone for me now.”

Turning back to Spencer he says, “OK, you know what to do, get on with it.”

Spencer turns and leaves the Commander deep in thought.

“Commander, the British Prime Minister is waiting on the line one, connecting you now,” interrupts Brenda.

“David, young man,” the Commander says, with politeness and a smile, “The dragon fruit has fallen from the tree and has landed in Loch Ness, the water is deep and there is a mermaid called Sally-Ann eating sushi and carrot fritters.”

“I’m listening,” he replies.

“Something important has gone missing and we need to pull out all the stops to get it back.”

“Yes, of-course, we’re at your disposal as always. What have you lost?” the Prime minister asks.

“The doomsday tool, David, the Doomsday tool has gone missing,” replies the commander in a dead-pan tone of voice.

“Wow really, the Dooms-day tool. It sounds really serious, what is the Dooms-days tool?”

“The Doomsday tool is what’s going to bury us all under six-foot-of-shit if we don’t get it back. Just open the door and say no more. I’m sending my people over, full cooperation on this one David.”

“Yes, yes of-course, mi casa es su casa, as they say in Spain, hey.”

“Good, OK, Loch Ness is 230 meters deep,” says the Commander before putting the phone down and looking at the list on his desk.

From a hundred and one things to do, four had been ticked, time for number five, “Brenda, get me Mother.”

Read Chapter Three

The Golden Cube: Chapter One

Deep in the opulent heart of Buckingham Palace, the Queen tossed and turned in her sleep. A film of perspiration coated her forehead, her breathing was heavy and laboured, in and out, in and out, in and out, and out and out, until suddenly it stopped altogether.

With no-one in the bedroom, no alarm was raised.  The guard outside was none the wiser. A spider that casually tiptoed across her bedside cabinet was the only witness to the Queen's deathly silence. 

Five seconds, 10 seconds, the Queen wasn’t breathing, 15, 20, 30, how long can one survive without one taking a breath?

Then a sudden convulsion, as if a soul had taken possession of it, brought life back to her body.

With a deep suck of air, her back arched and her eyes wide open, she sat up and slowly became conscious of her surroundings.

She pressed the red button on her bedside cabinet to summon the guard.

Yes, Ma’am,” he answered, poking his head around the door.

Get Percy for me, tell him it’s time.”

Yes Ma’am.”

Five minutes later, Percy knocked at her door.

Enter,” she beckoned.

Your Majesty, you called,” he answered, stepping into the room.

It’s time.”

Yes ma’am,” he replied with a sincere smile and a hint of genuine concern in his eyes.

Escort me to the jewel room,” the Queen commanded.

Percy had lived and worked in the palace all his life as the Queen's unofficial chauffeur. Service to the Queen was all he knew and he loved it. His father held the job before him and his father before him. 

Three generations of the Spinner family had been in the service of the British Royal family past and present. His mother, Margaret, was the Queen’s personal assistant or Gatekeeper as she was otherwise known. Working for the Queen was a family business, in which the Spinners found themselves privy to the Windsor family's most secret of secrets. 

This loyalty and sterling service shown by every member of the Spinner Family past and present was recognised by their appointment to the Royal Victorian Order.

Percy had been in paid employment as a chauffeur since he was 14 years old, driving her around the private estates of Sandringham, Windsor, Frogmore, Holyroodhouse and Balmoral. Twenty years on he knew every crook and cranny of all the Royal Palaces, except the one place he was about to go, The Royal Jewel Room in Buckingham Palace. The Queen knew the way better than anyone, having visited it on more than one occasion.

With a zest in her step, which Percy noted and found unusual, she put her purple velvet dressing gown on and slotted her feet into her purple velvet slippers.

Let's go,” she said as she slipped her arm through his, causing a sudden moment of shock to rock Percy from head to toe; never before had the Queen been so friendly.  

With the corridors of Buckingham Palace empty, the Queen led the way along the west wing to the escalator.

They went down, down to the basement, to take another escalator even further, deep into the bowels of the Palace.

Contra to popular belief, the Queen’s private collection of royal jewels, her gold, gifts and other treasures, were not kept in the Tower of London, instead they were stored securely within the depths of Buckingham Palace. Underneath the sub-basements, underneath the nuclear bunker, the ritual sacrifice rooms and Masonic lodge sat a vault. This vault stored treasures of incalculable wealth: The Ark of the Covenant, King Solomon’s Treasures, golden armaments of the Egyptian Pharaohs, jewels and diamonds beyond value, works of art lost to mankind, books from the beginning of time, and artefacts of tremendous significance.

This was the Queen’s guilty pleasure and her most secret of secrets. 

Wait for me Percy,” she said as they approached the entrance.

She took off her necklace and used the ring attached to unlock the control panel. 

I am Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor,” she said into a microphone set in the door.

Clearance granted,” replied a computerised voice from overhead.

The Queen then looked into an eye piece set into the wall.

A green beam scanned her eye.

Clearance granted.”

She then placed her right hand on a piece of glass on the door, and waited for  a green beam to scan it.

Clearance granted. You may enter.”

She looked at Percy one last time and gave him a smile, stepping  back as a the meter-thick steel door slowly opened before her.

Wait for me Percy, I won’t be long,” she said stepping over the threshold.

Percy stood his ground and watched her walk into the darkness, disappearing from sight.

As the Queen walked forward individual spotlights turned on to illuminate the way ahead. Ignoring the splendours coming into view, she walked 20 meters, up to a stone altar built by the biblical hero, Aaron. The very same altar on which the Golden Calf once stood, according to the legend, the very same Golden Calf that angered Moses so much. 

So much for the story of Moses burning it, turning it to powder and throwing it into the river, she thought to herself, as she looked upon the golden surface of the calf’s backside.

The overhead light shone brightly, light bouncing off the solid gold casting. She ran her hand along the altar’s side until her fingers felt a slight indentation. Upon pressing it, a concealed panel extended out from the solid rock, revealing a shallow panel lined with black silk. In the centre lay a golden cube, shining and illuminating the air around it. 

About a quarter the size of a common Rubik's Cube, it appeared similar in every way. About 3cm in diameter, the cube comprised of 3x3x3 blocks with a total of 27 individual squares. It looked like one of the novelty Rubik's Cubes on a key-ring found in move and grab machines on seaside piers and arcades across the country. It rotated as would a common Rubik cube, though for its small size it weighed the same as a large packet of sugar, a kilo at least. Holding it in your hand would have given you a strange, confused feeling, as if it contained more than its outward appearance. It had a mystical and magical quality that was hard to explain. 

The Queen stretched out her hand and picked up the Golden Cube. As the weight was released from the pressure-sensitive pads, an alarm sounded 10,000 miles away.

She turned and departed the way she had come holding the Golden Cube in the palm of her hand.

Finding Percy where she had left him, she said in a hushed tone “Dark forces are at work in this country.” Taking Percy’s hand and placing the Golden Cube in the centre of his palm, closing his fingers around it, she said “Take this, you know what to do. The time has come. Remember what your father told you and what his father told him. I know my secret is safe with you. Hurry Percy and let God be with you.”

Chapter Two