Johnny Vedmore

Jeffrey could have easily reached across the table to obtain the salt but Dershowitz was so close that he decided to risk asking him again. Epstein asked politely, “Sorry Alan, could you pass me the salt shaker?” Dershowitz didn’t react straight away, he was trying to cut through the tough steak which lay like a slice of compressed ash on his dinner plate. Alan looked up from under his questioning brow, “I’m sorry Jeffrey, I don’t have the salt shaker.” Dershowitz continued sawing into his slice of meat/dolomite, he didn’t like to be bothered while he was busy concentrating. Epstein looked up towards Peter Mandelson who was sat on the other side of Dershowitz. Mandelson smiled at Epstein as he picked up the salt shaker, “Do you want this Jeffrey?” asked Peter as he poured the salt onto the floor. Once every grain had been shaken onto the damp slate floor, Mandelson screwed the shaker top back on and threw the empty glass container to a slouched and ever frustrated Epstein.

I enjoy researching family histories. I’m always fascinated by how genes express themselves from generation to generation. We are the same creatures as our ancestors were. Even though we may have become healthier, more savvy, and live in a very different reality from our distant relatives, doesn’t mean we can’t learn anything from their journey. In fact, the process of researching your own family tree will often leave you feeling as though you’ve been looking in a mirror. If you go back far enough, you may even come across yourself.

On a background of a red flag with yellow stars, Ghislaine Maxwell and Sarah Kellen are captured by photographer Patrick McMullen at an extremely exclusive event in New York. The photograph will be used again and again on articles all over the globe covering Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine Maxwell, and their gang of child trafficking pedophile helpers and enablers. But how much do you know about a photo that you’ve seen over and over? Let me provide you with a little context to understand what you are actually looking at.

This is possibly the most ironic story that I’ll ever tell.

I turned off the television. I’d made a cup of tea for bed, fed the cats, and I’d even planted a little Brie on a piece of toasted brioche with a couple of grapes resting atop. The dark red grapes almost tasted like pomegranates and apparently they had come all the way from Chile, according to their plastic label.. I was busy snacking on the midnight tidbit as I walked towards my front door to secure it for my intended sleepy night ahead. Suddenly there were a loud three bangs on the door just as I was only a few feet away. The cup of tea I was holding spilled over my wrist as surprise and fear rushed through my very soul. I automatically sprang backwards in an attempt to social distance myself from the person rapping on the other side. I glanced across the room for my face mask in a panic only to find my little tuxedo cat was using it for her catnap bedding. I whipped it off the chair in great haste, to the cat's severe dissatisfaction, and began wrapping it around my face as I walked towards the now silent door. I tried to say hello but the mask was encrusted with my cat's thick black and white hair that had begun to shed for the coming summer months. I pulled off the mask quickly and spat hair at the door, I had inhaled it into my nostrils and could feel some tickling the back of my throat. I spluttered and coughed at the door for a moment until my saliva was dribbling down my face.