Rolf Harris: The Royal Connection


Christopher Spivey


If anyone is still in any doubt that the 82 yr old man arrested by Operation Yew-tree detectives is Rolf Harris, clock the fact that the 82 yr old is now being referred to as the 83 yr old in the National press.

Yes, it was Rumpy-pumpy Rolfs 83 rd birthday yesterday (30/3/13)… Bet that was a bundle of fucking laughs.

Course, it is quite obvious that the MSM propaganda machine is working overtime in a bid to sway public opinion into the usual wrong is right and vice versa way of thinking. You only have to ask yourself why, not one of the MSM newspapers or TV News programs has named Harris to realise that.

Now, don’t go thinking that the reason he hasn’t been named is because the MSM are taking the high moral ground and adopting the old ‘innocent until proven guilty’ stance. The MSM are devoid of morals. Remember, they had no qualms what so ever about naming convicted nonce Gary Glitter.

Likewise, the MSM name and be dammed policy also applies to has been’s such as DLT and politically incorrect stand-up comedians Freddy Starr & Jim Davidson – both of whom are shunned by TV Executives.

Moreover, and as I said yesterday, there is no injunction in place to prevent the MSM from splashing the singer of dubiously titled songs’s, name all over the front pages.

But they haven’t.


Instead, what the MSM propaganda rags appear to be doing is trying to garner sympathy for the perverted Australian entertainer – the Daily Mirror in particular for some reason.

The Mirror newspaper is doing this via the age old, tried and tested method of the ‘friend of the family’ leak.

Yesterday’s Mirror had ‘the friend of the family’ telling us how ‘poor’ Rolf was in torment after being nicked, and how he couldn’t understand why he had been accused of these heinous crimes.

Total fucking tosh in other words.

Tosh, never the less specifically designed to get the reader feeling sympathetic to an ‘old man’ while at the same time planting the first seeds of doubt within the readers mind as to whether Rolf is being falsely accused.

Today’s Mirror – the Sunday edition – has another friend of the family giving us details of Harris’s arrest from the entertainers wife’s point of view. The friend is described as being a “lifelong showbiz pal of the entertainer” who is an “internationally known singer who has played the London Palladium”.

Since Harris’s wife, Alwen Hughes is Welsh, as are Rolf’s parents, I would imagine that the friend is question is Tom Jones – A man I have long suspected of being a sex pest. However, I must stress that I am only guessing that its him, and the suspicion is entirely my own.

Never the less, this is what the friend said in today’s Mirror on Sunday:

“His wife was grateful for my call, thanked me for it and said it was good to know who their real friends were. My family is confused and upset, too, because we’ve known them and enjoyed their company for over 50 years.”

So straight away, you kinda get the feeling that this friend has been enlisted specifically to fill the roll of the Harris family spokesman. I say that because if he isn’t, he is at best betraying their confidence and therefore, not the good friend he claims to be.

The friend – whom I will call Tom even if it isn’t – then states:

“In fact we’re dumbfounded by the latest events and my heart goes out to him and his loved ones.”

The celebrity added: “I don’t know what all this is supposed to be about but I wonder when and where all this police activity is going to end.”

So, what we have there is Tom laying the groundwork towards making a case for Rolf’s innocence. Like Rolf, who supposedly couldn’t understand why he had been arrested, the friend doesn’t know what it is all about either.

However, since Tom continues by saying that he wonders when & where all this police activity is going to end, that to me, suggests that he knows exactly what it is ‘all supposed to be about’.

As you continue to read the article, it also quickly becomes evident that Tom has an ulterior motive for bringing the “police activity” up, since the very next sentence in the article comes across as being a complaint with a hint of ‘persecution’ thrown in for good measure:

“Is everyone in their 50s and 60s, or older, often in the twilight of their careers, even genuine national treasures, going to be hounded for what may or may not have happened in the past – while the police go off with smiles on their faces?

Loosely translated, Tom is saying that Rolf, DLT, Freddy Starr and the others have been singled out because of their age and career status as opposed to what they are accused of doing. He then continues:

“It’s easy making historic allegations against showbiz names, which was why I’ve always followed my mantra of ‘go on stage, get off and get out quick’.

Well yes, I suppose it is easy Tom? However, If it is easy to make the allegations, then it is just as easy to refute them. Having said that, I now get the feeling that Tom could be said to be doing a Paul Daniels (

Carry on Daily Mirror:

“That way there’s no risk of being compromised by anyone who could later invent stories.

No doubt about it – Tom is definitely doing a Paul Daniels.

“It appears there’s a witch-hunt going on, looking at the number of high profile celebrities arrested.

“When I walk into the pub, regulars jokingly ask if I’ve had my collar felt lately by cops, but it’s no longer a laughing matter.

“Even if those arrested are never charged, their lives will still have been ruined and that’s unfair.”

Hmmm… “Witch Hunt”? “Lives have been ruined”?

Now, let me think, who else has trotted those words out?

Oh yes, Wilfred Dea’th, the ex BBC producer who has just been cleared by Operation Yew-tree  In fact, I believe that all those who have been arrested or questioned have said something along those lines at one time or another.


Here is the Sunday Mirror article in full:

Operation Yewtree: Wife of celebrity, 83, arrested by Jimmy Savile police tells of torment at sex claims

The Daily Mirror

The wife of the latest household name arrested by Jimmy Savile police has revealed how the worry has driven them both to despair.


The 83-year-old celebrity was quizzed for hours last week by Operation Yewtree officers on suspicion of historic sex offences – four months after he was originally interviewed under caution.

Telling a lifelong showbiz pal of the entertainer about her fears, she said: “My poor husband. It’s terrible, we’ve been up all night worrying about it.”

The showbiz pal – an internationally known singer who has played the London Palladium – said : “It was important him and his wife know that I am there if ever they need my support and help.

“His wife was grateful for my call, thanked me for it and said it was good to know who their real friends were. My family is confused and upset, too, because we’ve known them and enjoyed their company for over 50 years.

“In fact we’re dumbfounded by the latest events and my heart goes out to him and his loved ones.”

The celebrity added: “I don’t know what all this is supposed to be about but I wonder when and where all this police activity is going to end.

“Is everyone in their 50s and 60s, or older, often in the twilight of their careers, even genuine national treasures, going to be hounded for what may or may not have happened in the past – while the police go off with smiles on their faces?

“It’s easy making historic allegations against showbiz names, which was why I’ve always followed my mantra of ‘go on stage, get off and get out quick’.

“That way there’s no risk of being compromised by anyone who could later invent stories.

“It appears there’s a witch-hunt going on, looking at the number of high profile celebrities arrested.

“When I walk into the pub, regulars jokingly ask if I’ve had my collar felt lately by cops, but it’s no longer a laughing matter.

“Even if those arrested are never charged, their lives will still have been ruined and that’s unfair.”

Scotland Yard said that the latest arrest followed an interview under caution last November after a warrant was executed at an address in Berkshire.

The celebrity is one of 11 people held as part of police Operation Yewtree.

Others include comedian Freddie Starr, PR guru Max Clifford, DJ Dave Lee Travis, comic Jim Davidson and pop star Gary Glitter.

All of them deny the allegations.


It is in fact a bit of a mystery exactly why Roving-Eye Rolf’s wife has stuck by him. You see, not withstanding all the rumours surrounding Harris’s  ‘hands on’ approach towards the likes of  TV’s female wardrobe dressers and  make-up artists, the weirdy beardy fella is a manic depressive, prone to long spells of depression.

On top of that, he is apparently plagued with self doubt, is by his own admission, very needy and is reported to take himself very seriously. In other words, he’s a typical Knob Ed Celeb, with a Jeckyl and Hyde character. The following anecdote taken from the Daily Mail sums the real Harris up perfectly:

John Lennon once grabbed a microphone during Rolf’s act and told jokes. Rolf lost his rag, telling the Beatle: “**** up your own act if you want to, but don’t **** up mine.” I wonder if, deep down, he thinks he is a fraud. When the Rolf Harris Show was cancelled at the end of the Sixties, he says he expected it.

As it happens, living with a self obsessed, selfish, philanderer almost did get too much for Alwen in their early years of marriage. In fact, by her own admission she wrote in her diary that she was contemplating suicide due to her loneliness. The following is from the Daily Mail in 2008:


His lust for fame drove his wife to the brink of suicide. So why is Rolf Harris STILL chasing the limelight?


Last updated at 11:05 03 January 2008


Rolf Harris is barking. Literally. At me. ‘Woof, woof!’ Has Britain’s bestloved children’s entertainer spent too much time in the Animal Hospital? Can he be brought back? Yes.

“I’d do anything for attention when I was a child,” he says. “I barked at people. I was very annoying. Woof.”

He has had the most fascinating career in British TV. From his debut with Fuzz the puppet in 1952 to sobbing over dying cats during the 19th series of Animal Hospital, Rolf’s had more reincarnations than Madonna.

Of course, he does have his detractors; the critic A. A. Gill, for example, who wrote: “Rolf Harris is a hard man to hate, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”


People’s polymath: Rolf Harris at 77

So what’s at the heart of the Wizard of Aus? He ambles in and kisses my hand. “I wore a smart suit to try to impress you,” he says, gravely. He is 77, though he looks ageless. He is tall and more handsome in the flesh than on TV.

Rolf grew up in Australia in the Thirties, the son of working-class Welsh migrants. “I was not a typical Australian,’ he says. ‘Everything I liked – painting, singing – was different.”

The seeds of Rolf the entertainer were there, waiting to flower into wobbleboards and wizardry. “I played Waltzing Matilda on my accordion to anyone who would listen,’ he says. ‘I would do anything for praise.”

By 1952, after a brief spell working in an asbestos mine, he fled to Britain. He survived the long sea voyage by busking and had an experience in Paris he has never shared on CBBC: some fellow travellers dragged him into a brothel.

“The woman said: ‘Would you like to stay and make some love with the young ladies?'” he says. “I just wanted to get out of there.”

Arriving in London, the young Rolf smashed into the class system. “When I landed in Britain, I realised the world was divided by class and I came from the bottom one,” he says. “The English accent made me feel as though I was a peasant tugging at the forelock.”

In Australia, Rolf had been an artistic prodigy and champion swimmer, but in England he was no one.

Art is his passion; when he speaks about it, he looks intensely serious and his voice drops to a whisper. “I am an artist above all,” he says.

Rolf met his wife, Alwen, a Welsh-born sculptress and jeweller, at the Royal Academy of Arts, where they were both exhibiting paintings. They married in 1958, with a dog as a bridesmaid.

He says he saw a kindred spirit in Alwen’s shyness, because underneath his performance persona, Rolf insists he is quiet, too.

“I’m shy and I make a lot of noise to cover it up,” he says. “I come through the door and think: ‘What am I going to say? What am I going to do?’ And the noise covers it up.”

And it’s at this point that the dark heart of Rolf pops out. He tells me his workaholism and desire for praise almost destroyed his family.

Rolf was offered his own show in Australia, and after dragging his new wife over there, he basically abandoned her.

Rolf hit the big time in 1959 with Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport, but as he thrived, his wife wilted. Stuck in strange country, she contemplated suicide, and her husband didn’t even know how she felt.

It wasn’t until 30 years later that Rolf found her diary in a pile of rubbish.

“I feel like killing myself, I am so bored,” she had written. “My days are filled with such emptiness. Please take me away from here.”

Rolf says she never said a word, but as he tells this story, he looks devastated. “I was so absorbed in my own career and trying to impress people that I had forgotten about Alwen. I had assumed that what made me happy made her happy.”

The ticking bomb in his marriage didn’t go off, he says, until the Eighties. As he was walking down the street with his daughter, Bindi – now 43 and also an artist – he did what comes naturally. He signed an autograph.

Bindi turned to him and said: “Do you know that you pay more attention to any child who stops you in the street than you do to me? You give them more time and your attention. Why didn’t I ever have that?”

Again, he looks devastated. “It was a huge shock, because you realise the truth of it,” he says.

“So you have to try to redress that. We never talked about anything important in my family. It seemed so hard.”

But when his wife and daughter confronted him, what did he do? “I made a contract with them,” he says. “I promised that I would put a bubble around myself – not of invisibility, but of self-containment.

“Today, when I am out with my family, I don’t meet people’s eyes, because then they won’t stop you to talk.”

He finds it hard. But Alwen couldn’t leave him. “We never thought of separating,” he says, looking shocked. “Never.”

He said sorry, and the family worked it out – though his constant working, he says, “drives my wife mad”.

The couple returned to London and Rolf climbed the TV ladder, watching the Sixties unfold. “I didn’t understand the Rolling Stones at all,” he says, looking surprised. “I just didn’t get it.”

But in a strange twist, Rolf’s song of friendship, Two Little Boys, was the last No.1 of the decade. It sits on top of the musical revolution like Mary Whitehouse.

He was becoming famous – and notorious. By 1975, the comedy troupe The Goodies attempted to catch “a wild Rolf Harris”.

They put him in a zoo, but he escaped, mated and caused “a Rolf Harris plague” in Britain. The real Rolf’s reaction to this is sanguine. “I would have loved to play myself,” he sighs.

I can see an Alan Partridge quality to Rolf; a naivete that is lovable, despite his preference for puppets and animals over people. He says he once played a venue in Epsom, Surrey, and was shocked to see children smoking and drinking alcohol. They were, in fact, jockeys from the local racecourse.

After he saw Woody Allen in New York in the Sixties, he told his agent the comedian ‘had no future’. Like Alan Partridge, he takes himself very seriously, though he thinks he doesn’t.

“For years, I’d been waiting for someone to say: ‘You aren’t up to this: we’ve found you out,'” he says.

Today, he is the People’s Polymath, has been dusted with honours – CBE, MBE, OBE – and painted the Queen in 2005.

Rolf’s rise to glory has annoyed some people. Melvyn Bragg – a much easier man to hate – accused the BBC of “a dereliction of duty” by employing him. How did Rolf feel about this? Does he want to hit them with his wobbleboard?

He just shrugs and gives me his Wizard of Aus smile as he ambles off into the cold. Perhaps it’s the wind, but do I hear a tiny “woof”?


Strange that they only had the one child then, don’t cha think?

The Harris’s marriage is in fact a very similar set up to Tom Jones’s. This also from the Daily Mail albeit first published in 2006:

Tom Jones reveals the night my wife beat me black and blue

By Clemmie Moodie

Beaten: Tom Jones was hit by his wife after a kiss and tell affair was published in a newspaper

After having countless affairs during their 49-year marriage, Sir Tom Jones could hardly argue that he didn’t have it coming.

He has revealed that his womanising ways once caused his long-suffering wife to beat him black and blue.

Linda, who has stood by the 66-year-old singer throughout decades of well-publicised philandering, snapped after reading about one infidelity in a newspaper, he admitted.

Speaking in an interview on American television, Sir Tom said: “She beat me up physically one night.

“I said, ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ and she’d got the newspaper there.

“She said, ‘You?’ I said, ‘There it is [pointing at chin],’ and she went ‘Bang!’ And then started kicking me.”

Sir Tom did not say when the battering took place, or which affair caused his wife to crack. But there is no shortage of candidates.

The Welsh ‘Sex Bomb’ recently admitted that he has lost count of the number of women he has slept with – despite being apparently happily married to his childhood sweetheart for nearly half a century.

In 1999, shortly after it was announced that the hipgyrating singer would be made an OBE, he had a fling with a 21-year-old Stringfellows lapdancer.

“It was encore after encore,” Christine James later kissed-and-told.

Another ill-fated fling in 1989 resulted in Katherine Berkery, then a 24-year-old model, having his illegitimate child.

Sir Tom, who was knighted earlier this year, denied paternity but a DNA test proved he was the father of her son, Jonathan.

In another hugely embarrassing episode, Las Vegas student Cindy Montgomerie let slip that Sir Tom liked to dip his private parts in Listerine mouthwash.

His other conquests have included Mary Wilson of The Supremes and former Miss World Marjorie Wallace.

Sir Tom’s latest admission belies the ‘doormat’ reputation his wife has acquired over the past 49 years.

In the singer’s official biography, author Robin Eggar claims that Linda led a ‘lonely, timid existence’ and rarely ventured out of the couple’s Bel Air mansion.

Her reclusive lifestyle saw her turn to alcohol and during an infamous argument – after Jones had invited a couple of friends around unannounced to play snooker – she threw empty bottles of vodka at his head.

Despite this, she has always publicly defended her husband. After his fling with Miss Berkery hit the headlines, Linda said: “I love Tom just as much as I ever did, and he loves me. And nothing that these women throw at him will ever destroy that love.”

In his television interview, Sir Tom revealed that he, perhaps wisely, decided not to fight back under his wife’s onslaught.

“I took it,” he said.

Read more:
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook


You hopefully will have noticed by now that both men, despite having dubious characters, have both been decorated by the Queen. Fair to say in fact, that Harris appears to have done particularly well:

Harris was appointed a Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE) in 1968; he was advanced to Officer (OBE) in 1977, then to Commander (CBE) in 2006.In 1989 he was appointed a Member of the Order of Australia (AM), and was advanced to Officer (AO) in the Queen’s 2012 Birthday Honours. In 2001 he was awarded the Centenary Medal “for service to entertainment, charity and the community”.

Harris has received two Honorary Doctorates: from the University of East London in 2007; and from Liverpool Hope University in 2010.

In 2008 Harris was inducted into the ARIA Hall of Fame. He was joined onstage by The Seekers to perform “Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport” and his Jake the Peg routine.[46][47] In 2012, he was made a Fellow of BAFTA (Wikipedia)


Indeed, both Harris and Jones appear to be at ease with members of the normally miserable as fuck Royal family and vice versa. Moreover, Royalist Rolf was invited to paint Bizzy Lizzy’s portrait…  Bet there was some interesting conversation taking place during those sittings.

Certainly Rolf would be at home in the Duck of Edinburgh’s company since both are racist. The article from the Daily Mail which follows on from the photographs below is testament to that fact.



Rolf Harris says sorry for racist song lyrics… then goes on to slam ‘lazy’ Aborigines


UPDATED: 01:23, 29 November 2008.


It was the song which made his name both in Britain and his native Australia.

But Rolf Harris came to regret the lyrics in his 1960 hit Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport for their racist slur against Aborigines. Yesterday, the veteran entertainer apologised for the reference to ‘Abos’ in the song.

However, Mr Harris, 78, then went on to undo all his good intentions by telling Aborigines to ‘get up off your arse and clean up the streets your bloody self’.

 rolf harris

Rolf Harris, with his ‘wobbleboard’, has apologised for a racist slur in his Tie Me Kangaroo Down song but then went on to add a new insult to Aborigines

He was referring to communities of indigenous Australians who complain about their poverty and filthy conditions.

The reaction in Sydney’s Redfern district, where many Aborigines live, was anger coupled with calls for a further apology.

‘It’s a disgrace. He’s got to watch his lip,’ said one young man.

‘It’s the same old story – kick the Aborigine in the guts and blame him for everything.’

Mr Harris had initially sought to make amends for the lyrics: ‘Let me Abos go loose, Lou… They’re of no further use, Lou.’

He said he had tried to replace ‘Abo’ with ’emu’ in recordings over the years but with limited success. ‘It was a mark of the times, done innocently with no realisation that you would offend at all,’ he said.

Rolf Harris

The Australian entertainer playing the didgeridoo. The new racial controversy erupted as Rolf launched a book of illustrations in Melbourne during a visit from his base in London

‘I just trying to create a fun song for a bunch of Aussies who were drinking themselves stupid on Swan Lager in London at the time.’

The new controversy erupted as Mr Harris launched a book of illustrations in Melbourne during a visit from his base in London. He turned the grievances of many Aborigines back on to the people themselves.

‘You sit at home watching the television and you think to yourself, “Get up off your arse and clean up the streets your bloody self” and why would you expect somebody to come in and clean up your garbage, which you’ve dumped everywhere? ‘But then you have to think that it’s a different attitude to life.’

He said Aboriginal children were never disciplined or expected to adhere to rules until adulthood. ‘Till then, they have a totally carefree life to do what they want and that quite often involves smashing everything that they have,’ he told The Age newspaper.

Mr Harris blamed Aboriginal traditional values for the appalling conditions in many communities.

He added: ‘The attitude is that, in their original way of life, they would really wreck the surrounding countryside that they lived in and they would leave all the garbage and they would go walkabout to the next place.

‘The traditional attitude is still there and I wish there was a simple solution – but I’m not certain.’

Mr Harris has previously apologised for the song lyrics, telling Radio Scotland in 2006 that he had not sung the offending verse since 1960. ‘I have great love and respect for the Aborigines,’ he said.

The song was recorded in an era when racism against indigenous Australians was rife.

Read more:–goes-slam-lazy-Aborigines.html#ixzz2P7RR71z9
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook

Hmmm, least said, soonest mended.

Personally, I believe that it is this association with the Royal family that is keeping Racist Rolf’s name out of the newspapers. That isn’t to say that the Royal Parasites are protecting him. More a case of the sponging paedophiles protecting themselves.

This Royal self preservation, could in fact be the reason that Jonathan King hasn’t been pulled in by Operation Yewtree as yet. After all, JK, like the majority of  the others who have been pulled in and arrested had a long association with the BBC. And, he is certainly a notorious predatory paedophile. The following is from the Guardian in 2001:


The fall of a pop impresario

Jonathan King was last week exposed as a serial abuser of young boys. For the past year, Jon Ronson has built a relationship with King that reveals him as a man of no little charm, stunning ego – and completely unable to accept he has done anything wrong

September 10, 2001. The Old Bailey trial of the pop mogul and former pop star Jonathan King, in which he is accused of a series of child sex offences dating back to the 1970s and 1980s, begins this morning. Back in July, Judge Paget decided, for the purposes of case management, to have three trials instead of one. So the jury will hear only the charges that relate to the years between 1982 and 1987. There are six within this time frame – one buggery, one attempted buggery, and four indecent assaults on boys aged 14 and 15.

I have been having an email correspondence with Jonathan King for the past nine months, and last night he emailed me to say, “I think you know, young Ronson, that whichever way it goes for me you could have an award-winning story here, if you’re brave. You can change the face of Great Britain if you do it well. Good luck! JK”

I have just returned from New York, and in the canteen on the third floor of the Old Bailey – in the minutes before the trial is due to begin – Jonathan King comes over to make small talk about my trip. “Did you bring me any presents back?” he asks. “Any small boys? Just kidding! Don’t you think it is amazing that I have retained my sense of humour?”

He smiles across the canteen at his arresting officers. They smile faintly back. Jonathan has always told me about his good relationship with the police, how kind they were to him during his arrest, and he looks a little crestfallen at their evident withdrawal of affection. “The police are far less friendly than they were,” he says. “Quite boot-faced, in fact.” He pauses. “And there doesn’t even seem to be a senior officer around. I’m getting quite insulted that I’m so unimportant that only constables are allowed anywhere near the case.”

He looks at me for a response. What should I say? Yes, his crimes are so significant and he is so famous that it would seem appropriate for a more senior officer to be in attendance? In the end, I just shrug.

There are half-a-dozen journalists here today covering the case. In the lobby outside the court, Jonathan approaches some to shake their hands. “Who’s the gorgeous blonde with a TV cameraman?” he whispers to me. “Sorry if this ruins my image.”

“I felt terrible about shaking his hand,” one reporter says a little later. “I felt disgusting. I was standing there thinking, ‘What’s he done with that hand?’ I should have refused to shake it.”

“I just asked my solicitor if it’s unusual for the accused to make a point of shaking the hands of the press and the prosecution barrister,” Jonathan says as we walk into court. “He said it was absolutely unheard of!” Jonathan laughs, and adds, “You know, I fully intend to change the legal system just like I changed the pop industry.”

And, at that, we take our seats. The jury is selected, and the trial begins.

On November 24, 2000, Jonathan King was charged with three child sex offences, dating back 32 years. In the light of the publicity surrounding his arrest, a dozen other boys (now men) came forward to tell police that King had abused them too, during the 1970s and 1980s. Some said he picked them up at the Walton Hop, a disco in Walton-on-Thames run by his friend Deniz Corday. Others said he cruised them in his Rolls-Royce in London. He’d pull over and ask why they were out so late and did they know who he was. He was Jonathan King! Did they want a lift?

He told the boys he was conducting market research into the tastes of young people. Did they like his music? His TV shows? Were they fans of Entertainment USA, his BBC2 series? He asked them to complete a questionnaire – written by him – to list their hobbies in order of preference. Cars? Music? Family and friends? Sex?

“Oh, really?” Jonathan would say to them. “You’ve only put sex at number two?”

And so they would get talking about sex. He sometimes took them to his Bayswater mews house, with its mirrored toilet and casually scattered photos of naked women on the coffee table. Sometimes, he took them to car parks, or to the forests near the Walton Hop. He showed them photographs of naked Colombian air hostesses and Sam Fox. He could, he said, arrange for them to have sex with the women in the photos. (Sam Fox knew nothing about this).

Sometimes, within the bundle of photographs of naked women he would hand the boys, there would be a picture of himself naked. “Oh!” he’d say, blushing a little. “Sorry. You weren’t supposed to see that one of me!” (When the police raided King’s house, they say they found 10 overnight bags, each stuffed with his seduction kit – his questionnaires and photos of Sam Fox and photos of himself naked – all packed and ready for when the urge took him to get into his Rolls-Royce and start driving around.)

He told the boys that it was fine if they wanted to masturbate. And then things would progress from there. Some of the boys reported that his whole body would start to shake as he sat next to them in the Rolls-Royce. And then he “went for it”, in the words of one victim. None of the boys say that he forced himself on to them. They all say they just sat there, awed into submission by his celebrity. The boys all say that Jonathan King has emotionally scarred them for life, although almost all of them returned, on many occasions, and became the victims of more assaults.

Later, Jonathan King will spend his last weekend of freedom – the weekend before the guilty verdicts – recording for me a video diary of his feelings about the charges. At one point, midway through this 20-minute tape, he hollers into his camera about this perplexing aspect of the case. “They kept coming back to me again and again and again, although this vile behaviour was supposed to be taking place!” He laughs, as if he’s delivering a funny monologue on some entertainment TV show. “Why on earth would anybody do that? I’d be out of that house as fast as I possibly could! I’d make damned sure I was never alone with that person again. Mad!”

When the police asked Jonathan why all these boys – who have never met or even spoken to each other – had almost identical stories to tell, he replied that he didn’t know. I am determined to ask at least one victim why he continually went back for more.

The defence argues that the police actively encouraged claims of emotional scarring when they interviewed the victims, because, without it, what else was there? Just some sex, long ago. The danger, says the defence team, is that if Jonathan is found guilty, the judge will sentence him not only for the acts themselves, but also for the quantity of emotional scarring the victims claim to have. And how can that be quantified, especially in this age of the self, when the whole world seems to be forever looking to their childhoods for clues as to why they turned out so badly.

“Jonathan King,” says David Jeremy, the prosecution barrister, in his opening remarks to the jury, “was exploiting the young by his celebrity.”

When I first heard about King’s arrest, I looked back at his press interviews for clues, and found a quote he gave Music Week magazine in 1997: “I am a 15-year-old trapped inside a 52-year-old body.”

I talked to some of his friends from the pop industry, and one of them said, “Poor Jonathan. We were all doing that sort of thing back then.”

I attended an early hearing at Staines Magistrates’ Court. Jonathan King arrived in a chauffeured car. The windows were blacked out. Two builders watched him from a distance. As he walked past them and into the court, one of them yelled, “Fucking nonce!”

He kept walking. Inside, he noticed me on the press benches. We had appeared together on Talk Radio a few years ago and he recognised me. On his way out, he gave me a lavish bow, as if I had just witnessed a theatrical event, starring him. Outside, the builders were still there. They shouted “Fucking nonce!” again.

My email correspondence with Jonathan began soon after this hearing. In one email, he asked me if I would consider it fair if, say, Mick Jagger was arrested today for having sex with a 15-year-old girl in 1970. I agreed that it wouldn’t be. He told me that he was being charged with the same crime that destroyed Oscar Wilde – the buggering of teenage boys – and we perceive Wilde to have been unjustly treated by a puritanical society from long ago. I wonder if the reason why we look less kindly upon Jonathan King is because he sang Jump Up And Down And Wave Your Knickers In The Air , while Oscar Wilde wrote De Profundis.

In another email, he wrote about Neil and Christine Hamilton, falsely accused of rape while being filmed by Louis Theroux, whom Jonathan sees as my great competitor in the humorous journalism market. He wrote, “Louis EVERYWHERE . . . but who on earth would want to cover the Hamiltons, famous for doing NOTHING. Still, I do hope The Real Jon Ronson will have the balls, courage and integrity to take up the crusade (whatever the outcome) that it is GROSSLY unfair for the accused person/people to be smeared all over the media. Over to you, Ronson (we don’t just want a Theroux treatment, do we?)”

Later, in court, some of the victims say that Jonathan had a trick of making them feel special, as if they could do anything, as if they could make it big in showbusiness, just so long as they stuck with him (and didn’t tell anyone what had happened). Has King got legitimate grievances against the legal system, or is he simply trying to seduce me in the same way he seduced the boys?

His Jagger analogy, I presume, was alluding to some covert homophobia at the heart of the case. But perhaps the real contrast lies somewhere else. Mick Jagger (or, indeed, Bill Wyman) wouldn’t have needed to pretend he was conducting market research into the tastes of young people. He wouldn’t have needed to have promised them sex with Colombian air hostesses. But Jonathan did not, intrinsically, have much pulling power, so he did need those extra little touches. Perhaps the real contrast, then, is one of aesthetics.

The Walton Hop closed down in 1990. There were complaints of noise from the neighbours. But the Hop’s home, the Walton Playhouse, still stands. Jimmy Pursey, the lead singer of Sham 69, was one of the Hop’s most regular teenage attendees. He went dancing there every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday night throughout the 1970s. One day, shortly before the trial began, Jimmy gave me a guided tour of the Playhouse. “It’s so hard to explain to people who see in black and white the colour that existed in this club,” he said. “The Playhouse was a theatre for fringe plays and amateur dramatics. But on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays it would become paradise.” Jimmy took me through the hall, and towards the stage.

“It was inspirational,” said Jimmy. “This wasn’t table tennis. This was dancing. This was testing out your own sexuality. Normal people would become very unnormal. It was Welcome to the Pleasure Dome. It was everything.”

He leapt up on to the stage, and took me to the wings, stage right. We stood behind the curtains. “This is where the inner sanctum was,” said Jimmy. “From here, Deniz Corday [the manager of the Walton Hop] would have the best view of the teenagers who were a little bit bolder, a little bit more interesting.”

“Bolder and interesting in what way?” I asked.

“People like me,” said Jimmy. “If Deniz liked you, you’d be invited backstage and get a little bit of whisky added to your Coca-Cola. Backstage, you see. And you’d go, ‘Oh, I’m in with the big crowd now’. That’s all there was to it with Deniz.”

“And Jonathan?” I asked.

“He’d drive into the Hop car park, and come backstage from the side,” he said. “And we’d all be going, ‘God! There’s a Rolls-Royce outside with a TV aerial coming from it! Ooh, it’s got a TV in the back and it’s a white Rolls-Royce!’ Because you’d never know if it was the Beatles.”

“But it wasn’t the Beatles,” I said.

“No,” said Jimmy. “It was Jonathan King.” He laughed. “A very big difference there!”

The Beatles lived on St George’s Hill, in nearby Weybridge, and were often seen driving around Walton in their Rolls-Royces. The Walton area, in the 1970s, was London’s playpen, full of pop moguls and pop stars, letting their hair down, doing just what Jimmy said the teenagers at the Walton Hop did – being “unnormal”. In fact, a disproportionate number of celebrities who are now convicted paedophiles hung around backstage at the Walton Hop, this popular youth club, during the 1970s and 1980s. There was Jonathan King’s friend, Tam Paton, for instance, the manager of the Bay City Rollers who was convicted of child sex offences in the early 1980s. (It was Paton who first introduced Jonathan King to the Hop – they met when Jonathan was invited to produce the Rollers’ debut single, Keep On Dancing.) Chris Denning, the former Radio 1 DJ, was another Hop regular – he has a string of child sex convictions, is currently in jail in Prague, and was friendly with King and Paton.

For Jimmy Pursey, the trick was to pick up the girls who were drawn to the Hop to see the Bay City Rollers, while avoiding the attentions of the impresarios who orchestrated the night. “It was fun with Deniz Corday,” said Jimmy. “Deniz would say, ‘Oh Jimmy! Come here! I’d love to suck your fucking cock!’ Deniz was a silly, fluffy man. Then there was Tam Paton.

I remember being back here having one of my whisky and Coca-Colas one night, and Tam turned to me and he said, ‘I like fucking lorry drivers’. Chris Denning was more reckless. One time he placed his penis within the pages of a gay centrefold and showed it to my ex-bass player, who proceeded to kick the magazine, and Denning’s dick, and yell, ‘Come on, Jimmy, we’re fucking out of here!’ But Jonathan King was more like a Victorian doctor. It wasn’t an eerie vibe . . . but Jonathan had this highbrow, Cambridge, sophisticated thing about him. The Jekyll and Hyde thing. There wasn’t much conversation with Jonathan. And with Jonathan, you’d always had these rumours. ‘Oh, he got so and so into the white Rolls-Royce’. And they’d always be the David Cassidy lookalike competition winners. Very beautiful.”

“Would he make a grand entrance?” I asked.

“Oh no,” said Jimmy. “It was never, ‘Look at me!’ He never went out on to the dance floor at all. He was much happier hiding backstage up here, behind the curtains, in the inner sanctum.” Jimmy paused. “The same way he hid behind all those pseudonyms, see? He’s always hiding. I think that’s the whole thing of his life. He always says, ‘That was me behind Genesis! That was me behind 10cc! That was me behind all those pseudonyms.’ But what do you do then, Jonathan? Who are you then, Jonathan?”

Jimmy was referring to the countless pseudonymous novelty hits Jonathan had in the late 1960s and 1970s – The Piglets’ Johnny Reggae, for instance, and Shag’s Loop Di Love. These came after his hugely successful 1965 debut, Everyone’s Gone To The Moon, which was recorded while he was still a student at Cambridge. (Before that, he was a pupil at Charterhouse). It was a remarkable career path: a lovely, plaintive debut, followed by a string of silly, deliberately irritating hits.

One of King’s friends later suggests to me that it was his look – the big nose, the glasses, the weird lop-sided grin – that determined this career path, as if he somehow came to realise that it was his aesthetic destiny to play the clown. But one cannot categorise his career as a downward spiral from Everyone’s Gone To The Moon onwards. In fact, he has sold 40 million records. He’s had a hand in almost every musical movement since the mid-1960s – psychedelic, novelty bubblegum pop, alternative pop, Eurovision, the Bay City Rollers, 10CC, the Rocky Horror Show, Genesis, Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine, the Brit awards, and so on.

Within two years of leaving Cambridge, he was running Decca Records for Sir Edward Lewis, with his own West End offices and a Rolls-Royce parked outside. “Genesis,” he once said, “would have become accountants and lawyers if I hadn’t heard their concealed and budding musical talent when they were 15 years old.”

He is at once seen to be the quintessential Broadway Danny Rose – the buffoonish loser who was forever nearly making it – and also a powerful multi-millionaire whose influence is as incalculable as it is overlooked. He’s hosted radio shows in New York and London, presented the successful and long-running Entertainment USA TV series for the BBC, written two novels, created a political party – the Royalists – and published The Tip Sheet, an influential online industry magazine that, he claims, is responsible for bringing the Spice Girls, Oasis, Blur, Prodigy, R Kelly, and others “exploding on to musical success. We find and help break new stars around the world.”

In 1997, he was honoured with a lifetime achievement award by the Music Industry Trust. In a letter read out at the ceremony, Tony Blair acknowledged King’s “important contribution to one of this country’s great success stories”. A galaxy of stars – Peter Gabriel, Ozzy Osbourne, Simon Bates – came out to praise him, although no galaxy of stars is willing to do the same now that he’s been accused of paedophilia.

Nonetheless, he seems to delight in being the man we love to hate (theatrically speaking: he is mortified when he thinks his arresting officers really do hate him). “I love to infuriate,” Jonathan told me over coffee in his office, shortly before the trial began. “I deliberately set out to irritate.”

“Of course,” I said, “should you be convicted, people will hate you in a very different way. This is not a good climate in which to be accused of paedophilia.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “it’s not as though I’m sitting here thinking, ‘Oh I’m such a nice person. Will everybody please be nice to me.’

I know I tend to provoke extreme reactions, so I’m not at all surprised when they arrive.”

There was a short silence.

“So you see what’s happening now as a continuation of your public image?” I asked him.

“Absolutely,” said Jonathan. “And it is so. And it would be absurd not to regard it as so.”

“But there’s a difference between bringing out a novelty record that nobody likes and being accused of buggering an underage boy,” I said.

There was another silence. “Let’s not discuss it further,” he said.

September 11, day two of the trial, and things are already looking hopeless for Jonathan King. The first victim – now a painter and decorator from the suburbs of north London – takes the stand. I’ll call him David. Jonathan approached David in Leicester Square when David was 14 or 15. Although David had no idea who Jonathan was, he quickly told him he was famous. “It was exciting,” says David.

Jonathan gave David the questionnaire, the one that ranked boys’ hobbies in order of preference. He filled it out. Jonathan invited him back to his house and asked him if he and his friends masturbated together. Jonathan showed him pornographic movies on a cine projector. “We were talking about masturbation,” says David. “He told me to relax. He undid my trousers. He tried to masturbate me, which didn’t arouse me at all. He told me to do it myself, which I proceeded to do. I felt very awkward.”

David returned to King’s house on three occasions. Similar indecent assaults occurred each time. Later, Jonathan wrote David a series of letters. “He made it sound like I would be famous,” says David. The prosecuting barristor asks David to read one of these letters to the jury. “‘Maybe you will go on to be a megastar. Now I am in New York. I will call you when I next hit town. In the meantime, keep tuning in on Wednesday at 9pm for Entertainment USA, the greatest TV show in the world.'”

David says that Jonathan King has emotionally scarred him for life. He says he cannot hold children. He says it makes him scared and uncomfortable to hold and play with his girlfriend’s little boy.

After lunch Ron Thwaites, Jonathan’s defence barrister, begins his cross examination of David. His tone is breathtakingly abrasive. “We are going back 16 years because you decided not to make the complaint until nine months ago,” he says. “You’re not asking for sympathy for that, are you?”

“I was the one that was assaulted,” David replies, shakily.

“Do you think it’s easy for a man to be accused of a crime after 20 years,” says Thwaites. And then: “Are you interested in money?”

“I am nervous up here,” says David. “You are putting me under pressure. I was sexually assaulted by that man over there.”

“You must have been fairly grown up to go to London on your own,” says Ron Thwaites. “You can’t have been a boy in short trousers, crying for your mother.”

And so on.

We are unaware that, during this cross examination, New York and Washington DC are under attack. That night, I receive an email from Jonathan: “Makes whether or not I put my hand on a teenager’s knee 15 years ago seem rather trivial, doesn’t it? Are you dropping KING for the World Trade Centre? Boo hoo!

“What do you think of the jury? A lot of ethnic variation which,

I think, is probably a good thing. Not Ron’s best day, but not terminal! See you tomorrow. Love JK.”

A week later, Jonathan posts an extraordinary message on his website, “Well, it’s been a fascinating couple of weeks. Not many people are fortunate to discover first hand exactly what Oscar Wilde went through! This week is the crucial one for me – keep praying. And just one oblique thought . . . when you look at the teenagers from 15 years ago who grew up to be terrorists who killed thousands in America, wonder what changed them into mass murderers. Then wonder what turns other decent teenagers into mass liars.” Of course, they didn’t turn out to have been lying.

King’s demeanour remains cheerful throughout our time together. “I am living in clouds and happy flowers and love and beauty,” he tells me one day. “And if I go to prison, I shall enjoy myself.”

Even on the one occasion that Jonathan all but confesses to me – “I’m sure you’ve got skeletons in your own closet, Jon. ‘Honest guv! I thought she was 16!'” – he says it with a spirited laugh.

When the Guardian’s photographer takes Jonathan’s portrait early one morning before a day in court, he is frustrated to report that during almost every shot Jonathan stuck his thumbs up – as if he was doing a Radio 1 publicity session – or grinned his famous, funny, lop-sided grin into the camera. This was not the image anyone wanted. We were hoping for something more revealing, sadder, perhaps, or even something that said “child sex”, or “guilty”. But Jonathan wouldn’t oblige.

One day during the trial, I hear a story about Larry Parnes, Britain’s first pop mogul. He discovered Tommy Steele and Marty Wilde. Like many of the great British impresarios back then, he based his business judgements on his sexual tastes. “If I am attracted to Tommy Steele,” he would tell his associates, “teenage girls will be, too.” Parnes’s West End flat was often full of teenage boys hoping to be chosen as his next stars. If he liked the look of them, he’d give them a clean white T-shirt. Once he’d had sex with them, he’d make them take off the white T-shirt and put on a black one.

Wham!’s manager Simon Napier-Bell – who was once invited by Parnes to put on a white T-shirt – has said that the great difference between the British and American pop industries is this: the American impresarios are traditionally driven by money, while their British counterparts were historically driven by gay sex, usually with younger boys – and that British pop was conceived as a canvas upon which older gay svengalis could paint their sexual fantasies, knowing their tastes would be shared by the teenage girls who bought the records. I wonder if the pop impresarios who seduced young teenage boys at the Walton Hop saw themselves not as a paedophile ring, but as the continuance of a venerable tradition.

Deniz Corday is desperately worried that the Walton Hop, his life’s work, is about to become famous for something terrible. “Jonathan didn’t want me to talk to you,” he says, “but I must defend the Hop with all my life.” Deniz is immensely proud of the Hop. There is Hop memorabilia all over his flat, including a poster from a Weybridge Museum exhibition, “The Happy Hop Years 1958 – 1990. An Exhibition About Britain’s First Disco: The Walton Hop”.

“Every day, someone comes up to me in the supermarket,” says Deniz, “and says, ‘Thank you, Deniz, for making my childhood special.’ Some say the Hop was the first disco in Great Britain. It was terribly influential. Oh dear . . .” Deniz sighs. “This kind of thing can happen in any disco. The manager can’t control everything.”

Deniz says that he knows it looks bad. Yes, an unusually large number of convicted celebrity paedophiles used to hang around backstage at the Walton Hop. But, he says, they weren’t there to pick up boys. They were there to conduct market research. “Tam Paton would play all the latest Roller acetates and say, ‘Clap for the one you like the best’. Same as Jonathan and Chris Denning. It helped them in their work.”

Deniz turns out the lights and gets out the super-8 films he shot over the years at his club. Here’s the Hop in 1958. Billy Fury played there. The teenagers are all in suits, dancing the hokey-cokey. “Suits!” laughs Deniz, sadly.

The years tumble by on the super-8 films. Now it’s the mid-1970s. Here’s Jonathan at the turntables. He’s playing disco records, announcing the raffle winners and grinning his lop-sided grin into Deniz’s super-8 camera. He’s wearing his famous multi-coloured afro wig.

Now, on the super-8, two young girls are on stage at the Hop, miming to King’s song, Johnny Reggae. “These were the days before karaoke,” explains Deniz.

For a while, we watch the girls on the stage mime to Johnny Reggae. It turns out that Jonathan wrote it about a boy called John he met at the Walton Hop who was locally famous for his reggae obsession. David Jeremy – the prosecutor at the Old Bailey – says that Jonathan’s “market research” was simply a ploy, his real motive being to engage the boys in conversations about sex. But I imagine that the two endeavours were, in Jonathan’s mind, indistinguishable. I picture Jonathan in the shadows, backstage at the Hop, taking all he could from the teenagers he scrutinised – consuming their ideas, their energy, their tastes, and then everything else.

The super-8s continue in Deniz’s living room. Here’s Jonathan again, in 1983, backstage at the Hop. He’s put on weight. He doesn’t know the camera is on him. He’s holding court to a group of young boys and girls on a sofa. You can just make out little snippets of conversation over the noise of the disco. He chews on a toothpick, looks down at a piece of paper, turns to a boy and says, “Who’s phone number is this?”

He spots the camera. “It’s Deniz Corday!” he yells. “Look who it is! Deniz Corday! Smile at the camera!” He lifts up his T-shirt and Deniz zooms in on his chest.

“In 32 years,” says Deniz, “we never had one complaint about Jonathan and young boys, and suddenly, after 32 years, all these old men, grandfathers some of them, come forward and say they’ve been sexually abused and it’s been bothering them all their lives. I think there’s something deeply suspicious about it. Jonathan’s a really nice guy and definitely not a paedophile. Anyway, I think it should be reworded. I think a paedophile should be someone who goes with someone under 13.”

The clothes and hairstyles change as the decades roll past on the super-8s, but the faces of the 13- to 18-year-olds remain the same. They are young and happy. Deniz says that, nowadays, we have an absurdly halcyon image of childhood. He says that the youngsters at the Walton Hop were not fragile little flowers. They were big and tough and they could look after themselves. He rifles through his drawer and produces some of the police evidence statements. He reads me some excerpts. “‘There was a crate of Coca-Cola kept backstage, and it was people like Jonathan King and Corday who hung around there. If you were invited back there you would get a free coke with a shot of whiskey.'”

Deniz pauses. “Now how ridiculous can you get? I’m going to give the kids of the Hop a shot of whiskey with a coke?” There is a silence. “Well,” he says quietly. “If I gave them a little bit of whisky once in a while, they’re not going to put me in jail for it. I used to call it ‘coke with a kick’. Anyway, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Jonathan. Have you heard of any charges against me?”

“No,” I say.

“Exactly,” says Deniz. “This is about Jonathan. Not about me.”


Deniz continues to read. The victim making the statement describes life at the Walton Hop and how Jonathan – a regular visitor – once went out of his way to talk to him. “‘I was obviously excited to be talking to Jonathan King. He offered to give me a lift home, which I accepted. This was the first of many lifts King gave me, and I recall that he always drove me home in a white convertible Rolls-Royce. It was an automatic car and the number plate was JK9000. We talked about music, and he often told me that he needed a young person’s point of view. King drove me home on a couple of occasions before he eventually assaulted me. The first assault occurred at a car park, which was situated on the left-hand side of the Old Woking Road. Next to the car park was a field and a wooded area. King seemed familiar with the location. I believe he had been there before. I was sat in the front passenger seat and King was in the driver seat. I noticed that King had started shaking, and I presumed that he needed the toilet.'”

Part 2 HERE 

So, having read that, do you not find it strange that not one person has come forward  with an allegation  against King, viable enough to warrant hauling him in?

Interestingly enough, since that article first appeared in 2001, both Jimmy Pursey and the Bay City Rollers Drummer, Derek Longmuir have been convicted of crimes related to noncing.

You will also have seen that Simon Bates’ name crops up. Bates of course, was best known for being a Radio 1 DJ alongside Jimmy Savile. Funny how all these people connect together isn’t it?

The following is a link to a Youtube video featuring Jonathan King talking to his “good friend” Simon Bates: Click HERE

And, while we are talking about connections, it seems that Kinky King was also friends with the record producer Joe Meek. Mighty Meek, the man behind the Tornado’s 1962 number 1 hit ‘Telstar’, was also a paedophile.

He was in fact, one of those vile nonces who used to attend party’s at Alan ‘fluff’ Freeman’s flat on the Lea Bridge Road in London, at which the Gangster Ronnie Kray was alleged to have supplied young boys for the party guests. Meek later got himself into financial trouble and committed suicide in 1967 after first shooting his landlady dead.

Freeman, was of course also a Radio 1 DJ.

King also says that he and former page 3 girl Sam Fox had a “very close” relationship. Sam first appeared with her bangers out on page 3 of the Sun when she was just 16 yrs old. She has since come out as a lesbian, but along the way she got involved with the Australian conman Peter Foster.

Foster hit the headlines when it became known that he was involved with the equally dodgy Tony and Cherie Blair. The following is from the Telegraph:

There was something so suspiciously precise, so linguistically cautious, about the first denials from Downing Street last weekend. “It is not true that Mr Foster was or is financial adviser to the family,” a Number 10 spokesman declared, in response to allegations that Peter Foster, a convicted conman, had helped Cherie Blair buy two flats. One could almost hear the outraged Mrs Blair in the background, declaiming in the style of Bill Clinton:”I . . . did . . . not . . . have financial relations with that man”.

Read the rest of this article HERE


Yes! But what has all this got to do with Jonathan King and  the Royal family’s self preservation?“, I hear you ask.

Good Question.

After reading between the lines in the article printed below, and knowing what we do now about Prince Big Ears, It sounds very much to me as if the vile kiddy fiddler King, was trying to blackmail the Vile Kiddy fiddler future King.

With that in mind, and knowing how close Reticent Rolf is to the Royal in-breeds, does it not follow that he too could be a liability to them?

Makes perfect sense to me… But then again, what do I know.

Anyway, have a careful read of  the article and see what you reckon.

And that’s just about it. So, until the next time, Fuck off.

Much love,



Charles’s fury over Palace note to pop’s evil child molester

SUNDAY EXPRESS December 28,2003

Jailed Jonathan claims he has Prince’s support after ‘stock reply’ from aide

PERVERT  Jonathan  King  has infuriated  Prince  Charles  by conning his staff into writing to

him in jail.

The  Prince  has  ordered  an inquiry  into  how  his  office  sent  a letter to the disgraced former music mogul and TV presenter which King is now attempting to use as bizarre ammunition in his campaign to have his child sex conviction overturned.

Jailed  King  is  showing  off  the letter, complete with its royal crest, to fellow inmates and claiming he has the support of the highest quarters of the land.

Last  night,  a  royal  source  said  it  was  the  SECOND  time  the  sex  offender  has  tried  to  fool Prince  Charles’  staff  into supporting him and insisted he  should  never  have received a reply.

A royal aide said: “Prince Charles is very upset that he could be used like this, especially when it was known this person  King  had  tried  it before.

“It’s horrifying to think that this evil man is waving Prince Charles’  royal  notepaper around the jail claiming he has royal backing for his cause.”

The one-time pop singer, 58, serving seven years for offences against schoolboys  lured  by  his  celebrity status,  wrote  to  the  Prince  from Maidstone Prison, in Kent.

On an Internet website he runs from prison, he boasted: “Re: Letter to Prince Charles, I have received a very nice and supportive letter from Prince Charles in response to this post,  which  must  remain  personal as  you  can  understand  but  which was much appreciated. JK.”

In his letter, King refers to former valet George Smith, who claimed to have  been  raped  by  a  member  of  Prince  Charles’s  staff,  and  warns Charles: “Three or four false allegations  of  rape…you  could  be ruined and the monarchy destroyed.

“It  will  never  happen,  hopefully, because the police would be on your side but, when they are not, when the quest for raised conviction rates overwhelms  the  desire  for  justice, men  and  women  are  wrongfully convicted.”

King has never shown regret for his crimes and failed to mention in his letter that he was being targeted by inmates sickened because he is a “nonce”, notorious prison slang for paedophile.

Many jailed paedophiles in King’s position  apply  for  solitary  confinement  in  order  to  escape  attacks from disgusted fellow inmates.

The  governor  at  Maidstone Prison has ordered his own inquiry into King’s use of the Internet after

a crisis meeting.

Last  night,  a  St  James’  Palace source said: “The Prince of Wales’s office  received  a  letter  from

Jonathan King and he, in turn, was sent  a  standard  two-line  reply acknowledging receipt of the correspondence.

“It  basically  contained  the message: ‘Thank you very much for writing,  yours  sincerely.’  He  didn’t get a letter from the Prince himself and the Prince was not even aware of the letter being sent.“

King  is  now  trying  to  use  this acknowledgement  of  correspondence  to  claim  he  has  Prince Charles’  support,  which  is  simply ludicrous.”

King has taken his fight against sex abuse convictions to Strasbourg and the European Court of Human Rights.

He was found guilty in September 2001  of  four  indecent  assaults against  boys  aged  14  to  15  in  the 1980s.

King, the self-styled King of Hits, has  always  maintained  his  innocence and complained about the justice system.

In January, he failed in a bid to have his conviction overturned at the Court of Appeal in London. He  has  also  asked  the Criminal  Cases  Review Commission  to  examine  his case.

King  had  his  first  hit  with Everyone’s Gone To The Moon in 1965 and was involved with discovering  new  talent  for Decca Records in the 1960s. He also produced records for Genesis, played  a  big  role  in  promoting supergroup  10cc  and  is  credited with a similar function for the Bay City Rollers.

He  was  fronting  the  TV  show Entertainment USA and running his UK Records label at the time of his offences.

At his trial, the Old Bailey heard how  the  Cambridge-educated impresario  lured  the  boys  to  his fashionable  mews  home  at Queensborough  Studios  in Bayswater,  central  London,  and showed  them  pornography  before assaulting them.

A  second  trial  based  on  allegations that he committed serious sexual offences against two boys in the seventies collapsed.