erspective is everything. When I first watched this guy, the first time around, I liked his TV show, I thought he had a nice sense of humour and even his lopsided grin added to his appeal. Crown didn't seem to take himself too seriously. He had an original take on foreign lands. You would think he was a pretty cool guy.

After his convictions they didn't show his stuff again, but that didn't stop me having to view it again and again and again. My parents liked him you see and at my age (14 and a 1/2) you can't dictate what you want to watch on the TV. My parents liked the "Mike Crown Travels!" and they weren't aware of his dodgy doings, oh no, that wouldn't come out for years yet. Seventeen to be exact.

Even when you have lived as long as I have (and I really have lived a l-o-n-g time) you're never in as much control as you should be, strange impulses come to the fore, hormones flow, you don't do what you're supposed to, it's all part of growing up. Only difference is, I've grown up already, what's it must be nineteen, no twenty times, I am in my 20th incarnation.

Suffice it to say, I should know when to keep my big mouth shut. I've watched this innumerable times before, I have the same knowledge I did before, so why is it this time I say "I can't stand that creep!"

"Who dear?" My Mum says absent-mindedly.

"Him, that creepy, sick, child molesting smarmy scum bag!" Oh, god, I've done it again! You'd be surprised how often and faux pas happen when you're functionally immortal.

"It's a shame about your Dad, I'm really sorry." "What do you mean, my Dad's OK, I mean he's still not that great." (Then of course he drops dead!) Nowadays I don't offer any condolences, I just give people a sad smile if I think this might be one of 'those' times.

My parents think I'm depressed, when they don't think I'm mad that is. Often I think I'm mad for that matter. It's not easy keeping the accumulated knowledge of 20 life times in a brain built for only one. Luckily the brain is a resilient organ, that means I forget a lot of stuff and I don't miss it.

Anyway I'd better not do a Ronny Corbett so let's flash back to the present (well not exactly the present, but you know what I mean).

"Who?! What! What do you mean by that?" My mum gives me one of her penetrating stares.

"Oh he just looks like that type of a... guy that's all" I say lamely.

"You can't judge people based on their appearance, that was disgusting, what you just said. Bob! Don't you think that was disgusting? Did you hear him Bob!"

"Eh... what?" "What's that dear?" my Dad was having one of his TV naps.

"Oh for God's sake! Did you hear what your son was informing us? That he hates Mike Crown! That Mike Crown is a child molester! I don't know how you even know about these things! We have to have a look at your reading material young man!"

"I'm tired all right, I'm going to my bed OK!" saying so I head off leaving my mum still huffing and puffing with indignation. I'm not surprised it's not something I would like my kid to come up with on a quiet night in watching TV but having to look at that guy, knowing what he did exploiting all those poor kids well it means you can't appreciate his jokes, I'll tell you that for nothing.

I'd better check if there has been any real damage. I go up stairs sit on my bed and assume a lotus position (which isn't strictly necessary but it saves you from cramp) then I shift my perspective, levitate out of my body, push through the floor and hover above the fireplace. Hubbard wrote some rubbish but some of his shit really works.

I took a trip to one of his retreats in the US (third incarnation) and got quite high up, unfortunately at that level everyone is supposed to believe they are fighting a galactic war with invisible space men, real nutty stuff, still on the plus side they really know how to throw a party.

"I'm really worried about him" says Mum (that's me your correspondent on the ceiling) "I don't like it when he starts with his funny remarks, do you think it shows jealousy or emotional retardation?" (Christ not another psychology book - she's addicted!)

"I don't know hen, he's a smart kid."

"He is smart, maybe too smart for his own good. You can't go around in life saying whatever you like about people you don't even know. It'll get him in major shtook one of these days."

"He does seem to know things." That's my Dad.

"We're not talking about the bloody football again are we?"

"The score, the player who scored the first goal, the final score, what it would mean, all a year before the tournament started! Yes I'm talking about the bloody football!"

Oops! As a kid you can't help showing off but I really should know better - have to make another mental note - don't mention the World cup!

"For God's sake! Clever guesswork, that's all it was! We all knew what was going to happen, no-one wanted to believe it that's all. We'll get a goal but then get stuffed! It doesn't take a genius! Beside's the laddie's a dab hand at the magic - he probably switched the envelopes!"

"He could have - but he didn't, I'm telling you he knows things."

"It's just imagination, he's just a wee laddie."

"Aye well..." unconvinced but he doesn't want to push it. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right. I've got an idea though."

"What?"

"I'll tell you later, when I work it out myself. But I think it'll help."

They remained quiet for a bit after that and my Dad stared bleakly into the fire while my mum went back to her book so I popped back up through the floor at that point. Now I know how it seems, invisible spying on the parents, not really on is it, but you have to look at it from my point of view. I need all the information I can get.

Well I found out my mum's plan later that week I get in from football practice (easier since I started abusing steroids) and who should be waiting in the living room but the squinting child molester himself - Michael Crown! My mum's there as well with a smug smile.

"Look who's came to see you Mr Crown! All the way from London, I phoned his agent and he said he'd meet with you he does a lot of work with disturbed lads!"

"Oh God Mum! this is a b-a-d move. Look I'll chat with the guy but I'm not going in his bloody Rolls or visiting his bloody flat and if he's got any gold disks he can stick them up his a***!" Crown convulsively moved a package over to his bodyguard at this point. "I thought you said the lad was a fan who was interested in show business?"

"Oh he is, he is, don't listen to him!"

"Look pal - I say to Crown I don't mind your show ok, I suppose it's fine and everything and maybe I used to be a fan" (that's true, a few hundred years ago!) "But now I prefer Glen Michael, you know?"

"He does not! He said you should never trust a man with such poor taste in jumpers!"

"Aye well I was only joking. He's all right him, I like his talking lamp!"

"You do not - you said it's an awfy stereotype!"

"Aye, well I like the cartoons you know. I like Glen he's OK. But I find your show a bore, and you're not as funny as you think you are mate, are you I mean, come on eh?"

"I've never been so insulted, I'm afraid your lad is going to miss out on a special trip to London! Mrs errr..."

"Come on son!" Mum pleads "Don't be so daft! This is an opportunity to get into showbiz make friends and influence people. Mr Crown might be able to arrange a meeting with Michael Jackson! How about that eh?"

Oh my god! A weekend with Wacko Jacko! Next thing they'll be inviting Gary Glitter round for a sing song!

"Listen" I hiss urgently "this is his modus operandi! I'm not going with the swine and that's flat! I'd rather go for dinner with Hannibal Lecter as the main course! Or drop in for tea with Fred F****** West!"

SLAP! "Ay-ya!"

"Don't you swear at me! If I say you're going you're going!"

"No, he's no!" That's my Dad, looking very heroic at the moment. "Look pal" he tells Crown "I'm sure you're a great entertainer or whatever but our lad doesn't like you at all. I'm not sure why Isobel phoned you at all" (quick glare at Mum there). "But we're just not interested."

"I can see that. Bye sonny! Perhaps we'll meet again." With that Crown buggers off. He gives me a right suspicious look before he goes.

What a disaster! My mum is severely pissed, she rants and raves half the night then bursts into tears and my dad is pretty pissed as well. He doesn't actually belt my lug but I know he's thinking about it.

"Look how upset you've made your mother" he bawls. Then he says in a normal tone of voice - "have to admit though - that guy was a very shifty character. I would'nt be surprised if he gets up to, y'know, what you said."

"Aye, well he does! So thanks for saving me Dad."

"That's OK son but you go up and see your mum now eh?"

"Yeah OK."

"And I've never been keen on Jackson either, any man who lives with a monkey is very suspicious to me!"

"Dad, you don't know the half of it, wait till he turns whi. er well forget it but it's not good!"

"Ok son you forget about it now, just go see your ma." Mum still isn't pleased, she's calmed down though, she now just looks pissed off. "I hope you're content now, you've humiliated me. I phoned for hours to get the guy. I wanted you to see he was OK I just wanted to think you could act normal for once. Just leave me alone OK.... we'll talk later. With that she waves me out.

Well I hoped that would be the end of it but I doubted it. As it turned out I was right, as usual. A few days later I'm on my way back from school walking out the entrance to the public park when I feel a hand on my face with a chloroform hanky.

I had been musing about why I still couldn't impress the girls with my years of charm (amazingly I still stuttered in the presence of an attractive girl when a kid no matter how many times I became one. Nervousness isn't just prevalent as a teenager it seems to be chemical, anyhow I wasn't keeping my eye out and got kidnapped again.

It's always a shock. The first time it happened I was in my third incarnation. I still thought I could change things at this point. I wasn't a cynic like I am now and thought I could avert the conflagration (yes, yes, Nuclear, what else?) that means I never live beyond the age of thirty-six.

Quick tip - it's less painful to be in the big blast than outside of it. Once the big build up starts, you can't miss it, big war in the middle east, take a quick trip to Europe, you won;'t have long to wait!

Some people survive with very good resistance to radiation. I've never lasted long, thank God! Sometimes death is a relief, depends if you're keen on vermin pie or not. If you have a cast-iron stomach you might survive but quality of life is as important as the thing itself believe me. I tell you that from experience.

Well anyway I was naive and thought if I let the big boys know maybe they could sort it out. Well I was kidnapped and tortured, pumped full of drugs etc. Eventually rescued by some Guerrillas and I got out with nothing worse than a sore head, second degree burns and a lifelong dislike of Israelis.

I'm not keen on the CIA or the FBI either. My seventh incarnation's 19 years of hard work was ended by a bullet. Now I keep my nose out of international affairs. It's all bollocks anyway, it's not whether a politician is lying it's what he's lying about now!

Anyway I digress - when I felt the smelly cloth I slumped and grunted a bit but didn't breathe much in. I pretended to sleep, while I tried to analyse what was going on.

Obviously this was Crown but what was he after? I take a lot of steroids and work out hard so I look like a rather thuggish seventeen year old rather than a genuine kid so I can't imagine it's his usual 'kicks'.

This isn't his style so far as I'm aware. Usually he gets the kid along to some party then shows him dirty movies or some such thing - no this is information he's after. Don't know if he's even started 'his other career' yet. Must be wondering why I don't trust him. I need information. But maybe I'm wrong, a hand is on my knee.!"

I pretend to wake up with a start, and boot him in the kneecap "What's happening?" I shout and pretend to look tearful (it's not difficult - your emotions have a life of their own when you are that bit younger).

"Ahh--- Christ! Get a grip of him Martin, what the hell is wrong with you."

"OK, OK, Mister Crown, he's a big one."

"What's happening kid, is that you're gonna tell me what the hell you're trying to do to my reputation? I never saw you before but you're telling your mum that I'm some kid of child kidnapper!"

I look at him, at his pal with the chloroform, at my bonds. Then give him a significant raising of the eyebrow - Roger Moore style.

"Ok, ok smart ass! But this isn't a normal occurrence! I just want to know why you've got it in for me. How about it you little shit!"

I figure the best plan is to nod off again while I work out a plan of action. The bodyguard is big and strong. If it had been Crown on his own I could have taken him. I've not spend years in martial arts training for nothing.

I decide to do the flying bit again, I'm off and out, looking down on the driver, spot a certain ring, smiling to myself I plonk myself in the seat beside him and give my body less transparency.

"Wah!" he exclaims, then recovers, even when you know in theory about something it doesn't mean you're prepared for it. I wave an intricate symbol in the air then say "stop the car, fast, then smack the guard."

So the driver bangs on the brakes, Crown and the bodyguard are thrown forward on top of me. I nut the body guard in the Glasgow fashion. The bodyguard is holding his nose and blood is streaming through his hands, he grabs my windpipe but the pressure stops as the driver clubs him with his gun. Crown cowers in the corner, "Untie me brother." I tell the driver once he gets the gag off. "Now give me your gun."

"I want to help" he says "But even for a special brother there are limits." (Brothers Who Know God are a brotherhood of the masonic type (un-surprisingly similar to the Scientologists, cults share many strange things) who don't believe in aliens but are saddled with a lot of other rubbish including a very severe pecking order).

"Look pal I'm not just a special brother, I'm a Master Templer now gimme your f****** gun!" Reluctantly he hands it over, after I stutter out some "secrets" (haw haw!) which I won't bore you with here.

Anyway soon enough, Crown's slumped in the back seat, brains blasted over the leather upholstery. 'Martin' is still stretched out on the floor. "Thanks." I say, hand back the gun to the bemused driver and turn to leave.

"I don't understand young Master? Why did you shoot him?"