The latest book from former Uk porn producer/performer John Langley – aka Johnny Rockard.

All the shit you need. None of the bullshit you don’t!

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

“Okay, I admit, I had lots of sex. However, as I’ve said before, this is groundhog day stuff that becomes incredibly boring and not in any way self-satisfying by virtue of being nothing more than an acting role, and if you’ve ever seen what was known as the Duracell bunny then you’ll relate to the point I am making. Still, it beats £16.99 per month gym membership in terms of exercise, I guess. Every cloud, right? Besides, it was never my intention to become the Ken Barlow character of porn into my nineties. Although, I’m sure would be a market among the elderly population for a movie where some female is giving me head while I’m sitting comfortably on a commode, as like everyone, the elderly need hope too.”

Of course, 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.

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.

Yep, this was me (image below), 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.’

As my sex worker pseudonym ‘Johnny Rockard’.

The above image represents just one of the 2000 sites I had products on while giving a snapshot of the 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’ will be published on Amazon/Kindle a few weeks from now.  Why a few weeks? Well, I’m only halfway through writing it, and I want to get the momentum going now to build up the pre-launch readership.

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.

Okay, without further ado, take a look below and enjoy just a few selected paragraphs so far to whet your appetite for when the rest in its entirety is published.

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?” 

So, to the preview.


“To cut a long story short I moved out into a bedsit and I don’t recall how or why exactly the circumstances came about, I found myself having a conversation with a female from Essex who was an exceptionally pretty blonde, and without having so much as a clue to what I was doing phoned the Sun newspaper who gave me the contact details of its Page 3 photographer, Beverly Goodway and secured a shoot for her, that I received a commission cheque for. At that time, as I subsequently found out, there were three big players in the London model agency business: Yvonne Paul, Geoff Wootten, and Samantha Bond who little inexperienced me was suddenly competing on a much smaller scale. Nonetheless, I scouted for and sent several potential up to Sun, and a few made shots, though not all were successful as Beverly Goodway had a very specific standard, and from which of all my hopefuls only one was published. Incidental to this I was also branching out into providing strippers for stag parties, and as this was paying immediate cash at every event I found it more profitable than scouting females for the Sun.” 

 “In the main, people back then were more open and less reserved, which is why I got into the adult entertainment industry with such ease and comfort. It was everything opposite to the very starched and rigid, groundhog day of Catholic life routine I’d grown up with, that to me had become monotonously boring, and being around people (family included) who quite sincerely and devoutly looked forward to the weekly fashion parade that was Sunday Mass where the answer to pretty much everything was provided by attending a building with a crucifix on top and kneeling, standing up, muttering words from a book of fairy tales about an imaginary man, and then suddenly everything in life was fine again for another week on leaving the premises and having already put money into a collection plate full of fivers and tenners as a thank you for a full-on hour in the company of a man wearing a smock who was master of ceremonies and otherwise known as a priest.” 

“I eventually saw absolutely no meaningful purpose in attending this ritualistic Sunday ceremony when, all things considered, I’d already spent somewhere in the region of 832 hours of my life thus far for absolutely no purpose whatsoever, other than because it was what my parents did. If however, during that entire period it had taught me to walk on water, or do the loaves and fishes trick I might have been persuaded to stay on and take it to just before being nailed to cross, where I’d have dropped out immediately on health and safety reasons.”

“Morality doesn’t exist in reality because it’s conceptual, and we ‘create’ our definition of morality through our interactions with the people around us. So, in the case of religious indoctrination, for example, whereby hundreds of thousands of people are conditioned into believing certain aspects of sexual practice are bad for them it means that exists as a concept, and a collective one, though not a reality because it isn’t inherent within us in the same way that eating and sleeping is. We know for an indisputable fact that if we don’t eat our bodies will gradually break down and we will die. However, if I choose to masturbate twice a day there’s no saying I may go to Hell for it because all ideas around Hell, or Heaven for that matter, are conceptual. Regardless of what anyone in a professional religious capacity may tell me. Charles Darwin, close to 150 years ago proposed that morality was a by-product of evolution, a human trait that arose as natural selection shaped humankind into a highly-social species – and the capacity for morality, he argued, lay in small, subtle differences between us and our closest animal relatives: apes.

It is arguably accepted by those of us in the Christian faith nations that the Ten Commandments were the top-down tenet of morals that all humans were to live by through being both simple and logical in translation and principal at least. However, given that the Commandments were written over 2,000 years ago, finding a set of universal moral laws that suits everyone and all ideological beliefs is not particularly easy because we live in a world where religious people fight religious people, religious people fight non-religious people, and non-religious people fight non-religious people.

Rolling forward to where we are now, over 2.000 years later religious people still fight religious people, religious people continue to fight non-religious people, and non-religious people carry on fighting non-religious people. Except the human repertoire has expanded vastly to where nowadays it’s just about anything people can be upset, or offended by, and humanity has been broken into smithereens.”

“Central London was and still is 24/7 due to tourism with dollars, and other currencies keeping the economy buoyant. For the most part at that time the US dollar was pretty much king and the Americans weren’t short on spending their dosh, and as keen as they were to spend it so too were the businesses around Soho that would take full advantage and relieve them of it. I suppose in not too dissimilar ways to me this little semi-square of London was a tourist eye-opener with its liberal attitude towards pretty much all things of a sexual nature where any sense of taboo about being there was overtaken by innate curiosity and a sense of freedom in being anything someone chose to be without judgment. You could be straight, queer, a crossdresser, leather-bound from head to toe, or whatever, because no one gave a shit. As long as you behaved yourself, accepted and respected difference, and got on with your life, so damn what! If however, you didn’t, misbehaved and found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time you’d be making an unscheduled appointment with a dentist to replace your missing teeth. So yes, there was a rough side to Soho as well.

Essentially the area was run by the Maltese underworld who by and large owned and ran most of the strip clubs/clip joints where they knew how to fleece the patrons who were sweet-talked into paying £100 for a bottle of champagne that may well have been the equivalent of Lambrini, by strippers who were at Ph.D. levels in terms of rinsing customers of money and did it with more style than a copy of Tatler magazine, knowing full well that by the time these punters had returned home several weeks later to find their credit card bills for the month zeroed when it was too late to do anything about it and they’d probably have to explain to their wives, or bosses, where all the money had gone.

These women were a class act even when they weren’t on stage performing. For every sip of watered-down beer, spirits, and fake champagne the punter drank the strippers would pour theirs into the nearest plant pot to ensure the customers were well and truly pissed in the shortest possible space of time while spending the maximum money. I wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised if Alcoholics Anonymous had opened a dedicated branch in Soho, for all the plants with addiction issues.

Then were the male and female scammers who would purposely stand in doorways shouting “Come on in, only £20 to watch our lovely ladies” to anyone who looked like a mark, sell them a ticket and direct these unsuspecting people down a flight of stairs into a back yard where the exit door was spring-loaded to return back to the closed position and no way back upstairs to complain and get a refund. Meanwhile, the scammers moved on to other streets to find the next lot of tourists.”

“Soho was dodgy in quite a few ways, but believe me, it was nothing compared to all the shenanigans and backhander rackets the police were running after The Obscene Publications Act 1964brought extra responsibilities, and the then ‘Club’ unit was given the task of enforcing the act. As a result, obscenity became a new part of their terms of reference, and boy, did they cash in on it! When chronic allegations of corruption came to a head with the detailed exposure in 1972 of systematic payments by pornographer James Humphreys, it led to seventeen policemen, including DCI George Fenwick, head of the obscene publications squad; his direct superior DCS Bill Moody; Cmdr Wallace Virgo, head of the Serious Crime Squad, in overall charge of the unit; and Cmdr Kenneth Drury, head of the Flying Squad in very deep shit. As the ensuing corruption investigations widened, the obscene publications squad was replaced in its entirety with a new group of officers drawn from the uniformed branch, and in all over 20 detectives were dismissed or required to resign. When the cases ultimately came to trial in 1977 the presiding judge Mr, Justice Mars-Jones summarised those involved as having engaged in “corruption on a scale which beggars description”.

Manchester –

“It was probably the same divine intervention that stopped any potentiality for gay shenanigans between us and I was left alone while he no doubt wrestled his Christian beliefs with his homosexual desires, and god won the argument every time. In equal fairness to Colin, I don’t even recall where at any point during my stay did he deliver private sermons to me, or got preachy in any way at all. Out of respect, I’d lower my head while having thoughts of Playboy centrefolds when he did the blessing bit before every meal, however, aside from this he didn’t even want me anywhere near the church while he was conducting his services as this had the potential to raise questions among his parishioners as to who this young man was living in the same house as him, and some might be clever enough to put two and two together that the Bishop would end up hearing about on the ecclesiastical grapevine of diocesan gossip.”

“Even the women were totally brilliant compared to southerners as there was absolutely little or no issue at all in approaching one and saying “Hello, I’m John. Do you fuck?”

The same question down in London had the potential to either be snapped back at, or they’d wither away in a corner somewhere at times.

Whereas in Manchester the females were even more open and to them the question would be a bit of cheeky banter they would respond to in quite a funny, gobby way that was either a very direct, “fuck off” or with humour that was hilariously barbed in delivery that meant they were game for it once the ice had been broken.

These females were Corrie’s Ena Sharples, Elsie Tanner, and Bet lynch personified by the way they spoke. Direct, dark, and cutting, sometimes brutal, that relied on self-deprecation, the desire to prick pomposity, and the ability to find comedy in the tragedy of everyday life, and with a strong tradition of Northern comic writers who could hold tragedy and comedy in harmonious balance about life in the North reflected that every aspect of it. Whereas, in contrast. the Southerners took themselves far too seriously when pitched against the genius of Tony Warren, who so brilliantly brought raw, Northern life to our screens by creating Coronation Street.

The older Mancunian females were generally hardened women who’d been through the war and raised families while their husbands were away fighting or the daughters of women who’d been through the war. They’d been around the block several times, and then several times more; and they knew hardship. If the son or daughter-in-law and spouse didn’t move in with them they moved in with the newlyweds and became the somewhat feared matriarchal figurehead of the family.”

“Clearly, the night crowds were far and away different from those in central London cafes too. As much as I missed the strippers, hookers, tourists, and hoodlums of Soho. I got to love the buzz of cab drivers in and out, and with Manchester being very much a 24/7 city there were always new, interesting people to chat with as well as regulars I got to know. In Soho, I always felt I needed to have one eye on the door just in case whoever I sat adjacent to became the target of a bullet, and I found myself having to dodge it.”

I’d been around gay men before, so this part of the equation didn’t phase me, I’d just never gone into the physical mechanics of it because I had absolutely no interest there whatsoever. Hey though, this was the adventurous part of my life, the language of money was universal in terms of speaking, if it was something I hadn’t tried I wouldn’t be in a position to make an informed decision about it, and even if I didn’t like it at least I’d given it a go and I’d be up by £40 anyway, so what the hell!

Off we went into some random backstreet behind empty offices and as I dropped my trousers and he undid his zip he exposed a cock that was the size of a large baby’s forearm while it was still flaccid. Full-on erect he could have probably picked his nose with it, or demolished an entire wall with one carefully angled swing. Being fucked is one thing I fully took account of before he got it out, just not being impaled though, because I could visualise this thing going into my arse and coming out of my mouth.”

My first escorting experience –

“Now, bear in mind that I’m focused on keeping my balance so hard while trying not to collapse and ruin his day, I’d completely forgotten that in the craziness of it all I was pulling that leash so damn hard that I was strangling his scrotum and cock to the point where the blood flow had stopped completely and I was probably only minutes away from separating him from his genitals forever, and all the muted muffles I’m hearing was Charlie in agony from potential castration rather than orgasmic bliss.

It was clearly time to stop and extricate Charlie from his harness, which by now was oozing with his sweat, and I didn’t know whether to offer him a bathtub of drinking water, or a bale of hay and if you’re in any way familiar with what purple sproutings look like from the fruit and veg shop you’ll have a fair idea of how Charlie’s genitals appeared. Imagine having to explain all this to a magistrate!”

Helping the homeless –

“Need a bed?” “No problem.”

“Need bedding?” “No problem.”

“Need a cooker?” “No problem.”

“Need a tin of paint?” “No problem.”

“Curtains?” “No problem.”

“Furniture?” “No problem.”

“Atari video game console?” “Sod off!”

Basically, whatever people needed to make the places home we provided, and all the money was put to good use right where it was needed. We helped people out with food, in fact just about everything to keep body and soul together, minus alcohol and fags. For a while, all this was working really well, and even those in the council homeless department who chose to remain one eye blind to what we were doing were sending people along off-record until someone in the finance department noticed the loophole for housing benefit we were using and proceeded to get an injunction against us that killed off our little enterprise, full stop. To be honest, this didn’t come as any great surprise as a friendly local councilor had already given us the heads up that our efforts to house people were showing up the local authorities’ incompetence and they weren’t up for being publicly made fools of if word of it hit the Manchester Evening News.”

Bolton –

“Anyway, that night Tommy was clearly and visibly in the mood, standing there, bollock naked in front of me with his one-eye jack almost winking in excitement. Having prior knowledge of his expectation I’d already swallowed a handful of these pills and made my excuse to visit the bathroom. To say these pills worked beyond all expectations would be an understatement because as I started to pee the entire room was slowly lighting up by virtue of near luminous coloured piss that I looked at and imagined would be exactly like the most toxic, nuclear waste. This was better than good! So I called Tommy in the bathroom explaining that I seemed to have a bit of a problem and he needed to see this.

So in he walks, manhood still pointing as it should in such an aroused state, takes one look at me peeing bright green, and I watch his facial expression change in seconds to one where his bathroom was now Chernobyl, and if a hazmat suit had of been in his wardrobe he’d have been in it, out the front door, and on his way back to the safety of Manchester like Road Runner on amphetamines. From my point of view, this worked well, perhaps even too well, as from that moment on if Tommy could have banned me to the outhouse for the rest of my stay I think he would have done so. I was toxic!

In his mind I was somehow Henry the Eighth reincarnated with Syphilis and Gonorrhea, and he was all for 999’ing me off the hospital as a medical emergency because I was scaring the shit out of him. He’d never heard of, or seen anything like this in his gay life, and I was told in no uncertain terms not to go near the gay community until this condition was diagnosed and treated. “Happy days,” I thought. A couple of weeks had gone by, by now, and I was having great fun with this particular little jape.

None more so than the day his face turned ashen, with a gaping mouth that would have touched his toes had it been possible, and a stance like he’d seen Medusa when he’d witnessed my piss coming out a lovely shade of blue instead of the usual green. This was simply too much for his head to handle, to the point where he was considering going either straight or celibate. Some things have unintentional consequences, and so I knew it was time to move on when he suddenly started taking Valium.”

Liverpool –

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!”

The Wirral –

“So I made my way across the Mersey to a suburb of Ellesmere Port, called Little Sutton to meet Mike, and view the house. Mike’s “small place on the Wirral” turned out to be a small mansion in my eyes, at least, set in its own grounds with a nice driveway, and very private.

It looked impressive from the outside and turned out to be just as impressive on the inside. The house had pretty much everything. Five comfortable bedrooms, two large lounges, a games room, large kitchen, en suite bathrooms, and without question a step-up from the comfortable squalor by comparison that I was used to. Oh, and did I mention the swimming pool? No, silly me!

As much as my eyes were literally on stalks wandering around the place in a semi-daze, my heart was slowly sinking as there was no way I would ever be able to afford the rent on such a place. I was used to paying around £10-£20 a week for a room, and here was I standing in a virtual bloody mansion, and Mike looked like a money guy from head to toe. Tall, broadly built, in his forties, tanned, and with all the mannerisms of a guy who could handle more than just ‘himself’.”

“People who are historically moneyed aren’t showy with it as they have no reason to be, and besides which, it would be seen as vulgar, and ostentatious anyway. Gerald was no more than five years my elder, grounded, and charming to be with. Even though we only briefly made conversation on a couple of occasions as our respective circles merely interacted rather than being one of the same, and tightly knit, I liked him as a person as many others did, and thought no more of it until it was pointed out as a throwaway comment that Gerald’s family owned the hotel we treated as our hostelry, which to me explained the money aspect as the hotel was Chester’s finest 5 star all the way.

His Grosvenor surname didn’t ring any bells with me at all until it was revealed that the Grosvenor hotel was just one component of a much larger estate that included the ancestral family home of Eaton Hall and most of central London – Belgravia, and Mayfair, to be precise. I was subsequently led to believe the Grosvenor’s were England’s second-largest landowners apart from the Queen. This family was insanely, insanely wealthy by all accounts! Remember what I said about my life going from one extreme to another? Well, here you have it.”

“The whole party, nightclub scene wasn’t my cup of tea and so I let the others get on and enjoy themselves while I pottered around socialising and building my network of useful contacts when I let slip without thinking any more of it that I was a photographer, and I’d previously sent girls up to the Sun newspaper. Within twenty-four hours I was having random girls introduce themselves and asking to be photographed. So I started to invite a few to the house and suddenly my popularity soared way above the roof and girls were quite openly flaunting themselves in all ways and means. Now, not wanting to appear rude in any way I felt it only polite to oblige them and it all went a bit mental with four, and on one occasion six in a bed including me. No one gave a shit to be honest as quite a few brought their own nasal entertainment. It was an interesting time.”

North Wales –

“The Talardy was owned at that time by a guy named Louis Parker, who hailed from Rhyll himself and ran a nightclub from the hotel that was ‘the’ place to go, and people came from miles away for a night out. He stood at maybe 5’7”/5’8 as I recall, and he was slim and bearded, as well as having a very sharp mind for promotion and publicity. In this respect, he was a bit of a promo deity in my eyes and I got to know him quite well. I think his most famous stunt was to produce membership cards to the club as pretty much exact replicas of the British passport which, when this reached the ears of HM government the ensuing shit hit the proverbial pan, as as I recall it made national headlines which of course became awesome publicity for this nightclub that was to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere, in a place no one had ever heard of – apart from the residents of North Wales.”

“We often stayed overnight in the hotel, and on another occasion, Louis decides to get a funfair on the grounds of the Talardy for the guests, and one of the lads in our little group had to make a court appearance up in Connahs Quay for some misdemeanour or other the following morning and arrived at the Magistrates Court hopelessly late for his case. Anyway, he managed to get his case heard and was profusely apologetic to the Magistrates for his late attendance, explaining to them the reason for his lateness being a rocket blocking the car park and he couldn’t get his car out. As highly implausible as his reason may have been the Magistrates believed him because why would someone invent such a far-fetched story if it wasn’t true? We were rolling about laughing when he told us later in the day on his return to Chester.”

London, again –

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.


This is the part you’ve been waiting for, right? After all, the title of my book is ‘The Sexual Philanthropist.’

Don’t worry, there’s more than plenty to come. Well, the fact is I’m going to reveal ALL to you – metaphorically speaking, of course. Before I do, take a pause.

Now, think back! Remember I told you I’d give you a mere snapshot of the “Sexual Philanthropist” to whet your appetite? Well, there are 25 pages MORE to come your way, interested? One of the things you’ll love about continuing my story until the book is finally completed will be the continual rollercoaster of emotions you’ll share with me on my life journey so far as I take you through, and just like the way I’m writing it, you’ll probably be reading the “Sexual Philanthropist” non-stop, from beginning to end. I hope you do and enjoy every minute of it.

You see, way back at the beginning, I stated this – “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.

Okay, you’re not just one of the few, more like the ‘important’ few! As a thank you, how would you like to be prioritised above all others? As you are in from ground zero on this with me I’m going to offer you the first 25 pages as an advance pre-published exclusive.

Drop your name and email address to me and I’ll tell you more in due course.

Thanks for being there.


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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 –