Someone asked me what the book was all about the other day, and it took longer than they expected to answer –

Forget the clickbait title, it isn’t ALL about sex! As sorry as I am to disappoint, yes, there is some content I’m sure you’ll enjoy, there’s more. In fact so much more, like –





The Underworld

Money Laundering



The sex industry


Humour – a LOT of humour




The UK



The music industry



Big Brother – as a casting agent.



Plus, plus, plus, a whole bunch of other stuff.

Oh, and the dead body and the shopping trolley! I almost forgot.

In fact, it’s crammed with so much I can barely remember myself. In fact, I think I may even have to read it again myself to catch up.

However, basically, it’s a bloody good read, with something of interest in it for everyone!

Trust me, now would be a good time to subscribe to this page for further updates.

Anyway, welcome along, and thank you for joining me right now in this very exclusive, preview circle of readers, of which you are one of the few.

Sex was boring! I should know as I was Johnny Rockard, the UK porn performer/producer who had been in the sex industry for all my adult life, and now it’s time to blow the lid on it all. I took retirement in 2020, partly due to the pandemic, partly because I felt there was no more I could do – having been there and pretty much done it all in over 30 plus years of being active, and more importantly because I wanted to turn my talents to writing instead. I’d already cut my teeth as an author when I published ‘The Awakening/The Penis with Half a Brain (non-autobiographical, by the way) on Amazon/Kinder back in 2021, which became the deciding factor in actually writing about my life under the title of the ‘Sexual Philanthropist.’

I had products on over 2000 sites and video views, followers, fans, and supporters that ran into the millions worldwide. In leaving it all behind me having worked so tirelessly to build it all up the question I get asked is “why?” Well, nothing lasts forever, even my own life that’s now hanging in there due to emphysema, and while it’s still possible to do so I want to get this book written and out there.

 Okay, so let me explain how this works. The ‘Sexual Philanthropist’ has now been published on Amazon/Kindle.

Get your name on the mailing list NOW and what you’ll have available to you at the time will be the pre-launch, final draft to read and enjoy at a discounted rate as my thank you for engaging with this and participating in it. As a novice to publishing, I’m not entirely sure if this approach has been taken before, however, as you’ll read from the pages I’ve written so far you’ll get to understand and appreciate my unique approach to most things in my life up til now, and how I think outside of the box.

London –


“I suppose, in hindsight, the good old university of life has helped in a lot of ways as far as further education goes. So too the sex industry as it’s introduced me to the widest possible variety of people and in the process, I’ve learned so much about them in the generality of humankind. You see, we are pretty much all by nature sexual beings here for the purpose to have sex and in doing so repopulate our planet, and this is fundamental to our very existence so that humankind continues as it historically has since time immemorial. We may have nice houses, clothes, cars, food in our bellies, enjoy holidays in sunny climes from the money we make in our chosen careers, and take pleasure from a plethora of opportunities presented to us in one form or another, both socially and in terms of leisure to prevent us from all getting bored and killing each other out of frustration. However, as enjoyable as all the fringe benefits of life may be in terms of filling our time on this planet there’s no getting away from the fact that we are programmed to have sex. On this you have to agree with me, right, otherwise, why do you think you exist and what are you doing here?” 

By the way, some of the stuff in my book can be found on YouTube under my ‘Naked Truth’ series. However, the full story is in written form as the YouTube clips are nothing more than just snapshots of my thinking around certain topics, as you’ll see below.

We checked both wrist and neck before I finally placed my hand on his chest, followed by an ear, and still absolutely nothing. No breathing or heartbeat and I looked at Keith and said, “He’s bloody dead!”

“Now what do we do?” Keith asks. I said, “Look, there’s a phone box just down there, see? Call an ambulance. “What are you going to do?” Keith asks. “Oh, I’ll just sit here and keep an eye to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere,” I replied. Keith, “How can he go anywhere if he’s dead!” Me, “Oh, never mind. Just go dial 999, quickly!” A few minutes later I see Keith panting as he’s running back towards me and the presumably now very-dead, Norman.

Keith, “The phone’s been vandalised, now what do we do? Maybe we should just leave him and find a phone somewhere else.”

Me, “No, we can’t do that. Just leave him here, on his own! We need to get him to the hospital.”

Keith, “Why, they can’t do anything for him if he’s dead!”

Me, “It’s not about that, you bloody fool. He needs to be cared for and his body looked after. Like properly, nicely. Right?”

Keith, “Okay, I’ll go and nick a trolley from the supermarket. Won’t be long!” and he starts to peg it.

Me, “Oi! Come here, you bloody fool! We can’t go wheeling a dead body through the streets in a supermarket trolley, are you fucking mad!”

Keith, “Okay, we’ll carry him then.

Me, “Shut up, you idiot! Let me think.”

So, there I am racking my brain as to how we are going to get him to the Royal Infirmary, that’s probably no more than ten minutes walk from where we are, without it looking like we are carrying a corpse. Then, inspiration arrives with a solution.

Me, “Right, take your laces off, I have an idea.

Keith, “Laces, what are you going to do?”

Me, “We’ll walk him there.

Keith, “He’s dead. His legs won’t work!”

Me, “ Just shut up, listen, and get your bloody laces off! The plan is for you to tie your left leg just above the ankle to his right leg just above the ankle, and I’ll do the same on my side. Then as we walk, he walks. Got it?” Then all we have to do is put his arm on your side over your shoulder and around your neck, and I’ll do the same on my side. Hey, presto, no one will know the difference as we walk him.”

Brilliant. We do it, and everything works fine until we stand up and his whole neck is still slumped forward and resting on his chin. So again, I turned to Keith.

Me, “We can’t walk him like this, he looks too dead!”

Keith, “What do you mean ‘too’ dead. He’s either dead, or he isn’t. There’s no in-between.”

Me, “Look at his head, it’s a bloody giveaway. He doesn’t look drunk. He doesn’t look like he’d dozed off and we’re taking him home. He looks ‘brown bread, toasted to the point of cremation and black as coal’, DEAD, and we need to prop his chin up!”

Keith, “But he’s not black!”

Me (now losing patience), “ For fuck sake! Sit down, undo the bloody laces and go find something, ANYTHING, we can use to keep his chin up. PLEASE!”

Keith has now gone off again, and I’m doing everything I can to now stop poor, very dead Norman from falling all over the place because there are no muscles working. A short while later Keith appears again with a surgical bloody collar, what the actual fuck?

Me, “Where the bloody hell did you get that from?”

Keith, “It’s alright, isn’t it? Some kid in a wheelchair down the other end of the park.”

Me, “Yeah, very droll. Now, where the fuck did you get it from? Simple question, simple answer?”

Keith, “I’ve just told you, a kid in a wheelchair.”

Me, “Are you absolutely and totally out of your mind, taking a collar from a kid in a wheelchair! What were you thinking? Jesus, this weed you’re smoking has sent you right off the plot.”

Keith, “I offered him a quid but the cheeky little bastard wanted more. So I gave him a fiver and a bag of smoke to sell to his mates. He was well happy!”

Me, You gave this kid in a wheelchair a bag of weed? Holy shit, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here! First a bloody corpse, sorry Norman, and now supplying a kid with weed! How the fuck will we ever get out of this if we’re caught? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, we have to get out of here. Like, leave, NOW!”

Money is a necessary corruption. Yes, you read that right, Money is a necessary corruption. Necessary in the sense that without it we wouldn’t be able to keep a roof over our heads, or put food on the table. However, get your wallet or purse out and take a look at what you have. How do you know that the five, ten, or twenty-pound note wasn’t part of a money exchange for Class A drugs that killed someone because it was laced with rat poison, and now you have that note unconsciously in your possession to pass it on to someone else in the money chain for groceries, or vehicle fuel? I’ll leave you to think of other possible examples yourself – there are plenty if you put your mind to it. The point I’m making is that we are all a part of the corruption. Unconsciously for the most part, nonetheless neither you nor I know the history of the money we are handling on a daily basis. Though, with a million or three I’d still buy a bloody island just to escape the insanity of the world!”

TAUNTON – Somerset.

“Taunton, in the County town of Somerset is a somewhat unremarkable conurbation off the M5 that people either choose to drive past or drive through. Most, I suspect opt for the former because it really has little to offer other than cricket, and cider. Long gone are the days when it was a thriving market town, and the main hub of the county. Nowadays it’s more of a limbo town, in situ, as if waiting for inspiration as to what it should do with itself next, and growing steadily grey in the process. Bovines aren’t particularly known for being the most intelligent of the animal species, and while those with their fingers on the flatlining detection monitor that keeps Taunton functioning will tell you otherwise, my suspicion is that even the cattle at the Saturday livestock market that was once, got so bored they took a mass vote between them and opted to relocate up the motorway to neighbouring Bridgwater, a town made internationally famous by a visiting songwriter called Paul Simon who wrote the song that just about everyone on the planet knows the words to – ‘Trouble over Bridgwater.’ Of course, in this respect I could be entirely wrong. If so, let’s hope all respective lawyers share my sense of humour.


Thanks for being there.




Copyright: John Langley/The Sexual Philanthropist 2022. All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests ONLY, please write to –