Hoist by their own Petard

Dr Josef Mengele, 1913-1979 [we are told], and Rolf (now Jenckel) the surviving lawyer (now retired) son, who has been running the 8 to 10 bed Villa Almarin as a business since at least 2008. I find it exciting that Mougins, 7 km from all the celebrities and film producers of Cannes…targeted by Monarch Programming, has a German named villa belonging to the son of Dr Mengele which   is called “Almarin” roughly translated as “master-work”. All I need to do is canvass the village for any memories, say in the last two decades, of a short natty, heavily accented German speaker with massive black lines in his cheeks as I describe in http://www.bhmversusmengele.tumblr.com

For any Pavlovian psychologists fascinated that Mind Control can work, go to beachhutman@twitter or however I should write this new as I think write it down service. I need only tell my story as so much is now on the web, considering how much of it is or should be classified. Last night I spoke to a hero of mine on the phone from Liverpool where I went to university (OK poly) and it was a beautiful thing after talking for a couple of minutes to hear the accent of my youth go “bloody hell!” as he grasped not the Mengele bit, but the Monarch Programming bit




By an extraordinary twist of fate I have fallen upon a scurrilous webpage that ordinarily would not mean anything much to the modern reader. A website concerned about Mengele from a religious point of view has suggested Dr Mengele’s son is not in fact his son. In my researches I have come across many views. Some historically interested web readers have commented how handsome Mengele was, even how tall (he was 5’8″ at most), how like son Rolf was inheriting the genes of a man considered by some to be a master. And now we have a interested party claiming Rolf was illigitimate. Normally this would be a private matter, but it has huge consequences if true. In 1985 the exhumation had to prove the 1979 burial was Mengele. People who know my story, my researches. will know I believe Mengele was alive and working for the Western intelligence agencies perfecting trauma training , a variety of which UK Special forces admit to using today, as seen on television. I base this on my 2002 research activity and a sighting, feeling and hearing of a man I( 9 years later, based on unseen before photos)  concluded must have been Mengele.



Experienced researcher Gerald Posner was unconvinced in 1985 the exhumation was Mengele. In fact reward money for the man doubled to $4million  even though there was a body on the slab. In 1987 DNA could be compared, the exhumed remains against the familial DNA of Rolf Mengele, the son. I am told the proof is a 12 digit number, and this, notarised, authorised, validated, with top names certain of  being taken seriously, all swore the samples were a perfect match.


Two years ago I saw the photos of Mengele from just before the “burial” and my firm view, with contrary evidence falling away the longer I looked into it, was Mengele was alive, working for the West as I describe, in 2002…at the sprightly age of 93, aided by a minder who attempted to film the encounter as I fully describe at http://www.bhmversusmengele.tumblr.com  So when I see a much feted 3 second video of someone thought to be possibly Mengele and I look into that face I can attest my man was the real one, a close fit to the photos, and Mengele has again disappeared from history thanks to a shill burial and a shill bit of video. I just hope they did not kill the man.



And with the DNA solidly applied to the burial with the son, Rolf, everybody stopped looking for Mengele. The video threw facial similarities to the very adequate1977 photos awry, the DNA made the rotted remains a fit, and no one was now looking for the man as he had become, shorter by up to 6 inches from osteomyelitis and spongiform something. Mengele could’t lose. I was doing intense research into Monarch Programming when he intruded into my sandwich break and just then I only had a vague memory of the pages I was printing out to read later. My neighbouring researcher was spooked, but a quick written check told me the worst of the scientists doing Monarch Programming was dead already, and not very very short like my guy! I have always enthused about DNA in freeing wrongly convicted felons. In 1979 and again  a couple of years ago I was an elimination witness in the murder of local girl Teresa de Simone, and in that case seven ill people claimed to have done the murder. (There were 700 suspects..she was a barmaid and visited a nightclub) DNA proved that the first ill man to be believed could not have done it when there was a review 27 years later. Another ill man did the murder, comitted suicide later and the exhumation sorted out the mess. So for me DNA is a life or death door to go through. I even went to Brighton to follow up a lost newspaper lead from 30 years before…I was on Radio Bristol even, for the police were struggling again and I might have been , er, “lucky” to absolve someone else about to be wrongly convicted  even with DNA evidence…if people lie.




Now, for decades anyone having suspicions about a short but gap toothed German heavily accented man of obvious means and taste would not get past the DNA evidence. To say it is “just” an intelligence shill is a bit uncharitable. Please allow for the fact I looked my candidate in the eye in a context of researching the very subject he was regarded as a master. I could deal with the height difference….in fact now looking at pictures of Mengele that have surfaced he seems to have even used lifts in his shoes! The weight of evidence is slowly moving across some delicious  fulcrum. Strangely I did not clock the moustache, the gap teeth got my attention as he moked his ungloved finger towards my throat. The son, biological or naturalistic, is of course not responsible for the father, I was the first to let him know I had ID’d his father and told him I would say so to his face if he wished. I said his father was well, agile, in company of someone obviously a minder, and seeming to enjoy himself. I did not challenge Rolf for anything at all. It is best to try not to find fault with the living, and, even, as you will see elsewhere, the dead. By the way, the name of the villa, Villa Almarin, a German name in a French village. That is maybe a clue Mengele senior spent a lot of time there. For “master-work” is a recurring theme of the hidden side of Mind Control and nationalistic or racial supremacy. I do not want to make this bit too easy. Google “Great Work of the Secret Doctrine” and then the name Mengele. You should find the source for putting Rolf perhaps in a place he would rater be. Not the villa that costs $4,000 dollars plus a week to rent. Not the unprepossessing offices he used to ply his trade a s a lawyer, but a world away from the life and works of Josef M. It is not for me to tread on the dreams and toes of a lawyer. But we all owe history something…a child, a family, parental care, supporting the wrongly convicted


But to be told the son, actually, was not related to the father is as huge a gift as any historian, activist or blogger as I am could wish for. Claims had been made Mengele was dead, he was claimed officially or otherwise dead about six times according to Posner between after the war until the 1979 burial which in its time worked well to squash sightings or suspicions…never mind the power and the secrecy flowing from his particular expertise. Of which I shy, because the proud nail is the first to be hit.

But see http://www.bhmversusmengele.tumblr.com until I sort the remainder of this story out.




Fanzine, or folly?

Beach huts at least at Mudeford Sandbank have gone up in value from £20,000 in 1990  to £260,000 in 2012 largely due to mainstream media coverage.

Buy Buy Buy, if you value your sanity. They are the thin line between you and a world saturated with let me call it brainwashing and without freedom from other’s security, worse.

http://bhmversusmengele.tumblr.com/ tells us why, but after I have crossed the bar,  beach huts will have become even greater money pits and escapes from the brainwashing of our ordinary lives. Well, that is one way this might go. Personally I know no one who has regretted buying a beach hut at any price, and no one who has not regretted selling one, upon sad reflection. I told Lionel Blue, the former ex Chief Rabbi that what was the most important thing about owning a beach hut was having the time to think about what was the most important thing to think about. And that, obviously, in a beach hut. He suggested, politely, that that might be a tad selfish. He was right. I am reminded it is all about the next generation. Now, is that elitism? Is that nepotism. Maybe there just are not enough beach huts…or similar small spaces to “think” in.

Between the World Wars leisure and transport bought incomers to the nooks and crannies of the English coastline. Where only fishermen had abraded their way with rope and sinew to the local inn, now Cafe’s sprung up to cater for the increased numbers. Before long tents and shelters amongst the dunes began a trend now well known to the colour supplement reader. Today chic women of a certain age check out the facilities while their husbands or partners grumble ever so slightly at what they had to pay to buy in to this view and tranquility , uninterrupted, and they soon realise, exquisitely rare.

354 huts here, on a Sandbank between the harbour on the left and the sea.

In World War 2 the huts were removed to allow the Army to patrol the place, for a mile away at Hengistbury Head the area contained an experimental radar installation ably researched by historians. It is said a massive copper cable runs a half mile within the site. It can be detected by dowsers and would be worth many tens of thousands of pounds today. Some think this was the heyday for people here, others only remember the lack of water or toilets. Many memories are at my archive site http://www.msbnews.co.uk Essentially it was a place where the shall we say lower middle class played and enjoyed freedom, fresh air and exercise, and the privations of city kids were forgotten as idle hour was followed by playful endeavour.

aerial view from the 1940′s

Below is an example of a 1980′s beach urchin, by now huts have transistor radios, maybe one or two have a portable television, but that is rather frowned upon. Kids generally played with their neighbours, each hut could accommodate the usual 2 adults and two or more children. Parents could keep an eye on their own and their friends children, and incidents were and still are extremely rare. The harbour is shallow, slightly deeper channels are marked, and they regulate the wanderings of ferry boat operators bringing town visitors to the beach and it’s cafe. The connections have always been a couple of miles to the west to Christchurch Quay…and a short hop to Mudeford Quay across a short gap which is the harbour’s mouth…at the “Run”. Children could play, test themselves and become confident in ideal surroundings. Lizzie, here, whose mother was a nurse, cut her foot on glass in the harbour, and found learning chess
the only way to sit still till the wound healed itself. The hut interior was my own choice of design.

Lizzie learns chess whilst her foot injury heals. No play-stations then. It is all about the next generation.

So, in a way, this was before the internet bought the whole world with all its imperfections to your door, and you could not close even a stable door half against the takeover of your holding a gate open or closed as you saw fit.
This was and still is a magical square mile…old battles have left the sand to settle with the wind, and your neighbours want exactly what you want. The Council, once a presence on the beach, found there was no one and nothing to police. Sure, with modern inventions like windsurfers there can be mistakes made, but all in all the area polices itself. I even started Panopticon Security as a more formal answer to the odd careless few occasions that can arise
but got bored when nothing happened. Part of the attraction is that the harbour and headland…(Hengistbury Head), isolate the beach huts. A couple of miles to a locked gate puts off the weary or bleary and most activity declines with the sun.

A 1960 map drawn by a local man, showing public landing places , then.

So, folks, I have painted a picture of an idyll. Who but someone enthralled with it as it was, is , and likely will be, would pay the price of a house for a hut. Here you sleep better, breathe better, feel the toxins drain away as you no longer have access to the wrong sort of lifestyle choices. Some will go to the fish stall on the quay and claim Chef’s rights, yet few now fish for their food as my father and his friends did..in fact as we all did.

The Run where the Rivers Avon and Stour meet the Sea

Today, it is likely the fish sold on the stall on the quay, (opposite an EEC funded unused fishing dock), actually
comes from Devon, or more miles away than are in this paragraph anyway. For the past ten years the fishermen who are left have been able to claim an EEC fee for not being able to fish for their living for any reason….and any Salmon
caught by the registered fishermen who bothered to register, has been put back or taken by car in a tank to spawning grounds. In fact the one or two left with the relevant licence have been given a wheelbarrow of EEC money to waive their rights in perpetuity to catch the Salmon…at least.

Fish ahoy

And here is the catch. My years of innocence at this place were something others would die for. If you fish, if you watch a spider, you become aware of the struggle and the joy, and are able to settle for the joy. That year. the next year, when you get a vehicle out of season even. It becomes an annual fest, a perennial paradise. But, that lesson, the lesson of the fish hunting for prey, and you baiting a lethal line with a trapped sand-eel that was caught as bait as it was a bit slow….starts to haunt the seaside strand. As huts get written about, as car parks get bigger, as bus routes increase, as outboard motors make a harbour effortless, anyone with a hut now experiences the loss of that democracy and a new struggle for survival. It works in a hundred ways. The Council fees seek market parity by legislation intended to economise the whole wide world, and your little bit of it gets bigger chunks taken out of it, one way or another. Our little hut was 11 foot by 12, and when we sold it for £120,000 it was costing £2,000 a year in site fees. So I cannot complain but I reserve the right to observe, mindful that huts are or ?should really  be tiny democratic spaces!

But that wasn’t the catch that really got to me. For the strangest of reasons between 1986 when I was living full time in that little hut (the only person to stick that out for 6 years for the novelty of it) I found a person can become prey to mysterious forces precisely because he is different. You may not know but if you fit a profile marketeers will seek you out. Even if you are off the grid, self sufficient, economically insignificant…if you get noticed for being different even Governments will seek to explore what has “gone wrong”. And whilst the idea the subject does not know they are “prey” as it were, they set the boundaries for what they seek, not what I express.  For if someone reports a hut user for out of season hutting the authorities will be intrigued to investigate.
You may have guessed that I am not talking about the post war project  “Mass Observation” scheme, where a Government wanted to know private stuff. But where I looked I found pain and sacrifice and an end to killing. I found an end to History.

I crossed a line into a world dragged up from the depths of Nature’s capabilities.

I am talking about projects that are so secret despite researching the American’s Monarch Programming in 2002 for 5 weeks, (which is a sort of umbrella term), I do not know the project names in this country. That is a whole can of worms and if you look for long enough it will find you! So what I am saying is that Governments are perennially vigilant for any sort of deviations from the normal. And have programs that seek to surround anyone out of kilter with the rest of the world. PLease check out any mentions you can find combining my name, “Tim Baber”, with “Monarch Programming”, and my triumph….the word Mengele. Against the odds, against the official accounts of Mengele’s life,
I have proved to myself at least, a simple slightly sad person blogging about his local area, can stumble into a big pond where he is a very small fish, and only just escape with his life. I am the one that got away. It is a fisherman’s tale, but one, I promise, where only now talking about it am I making a rod for my own back.

And believe me, I have spent a year trying to corroborate this view, on the web…(easy, just google the words I mentioned) and in the history books….( I can prove the record was faked) and in the real world writing to Oversight Committee’s and so on, and in frustration, becoming an accredited and fully security vetted journalist for the now industry of Counter terrorism. Perhaps that was my mistake, no sane person wants to swim in these waters, it is a gang thing. You sacrifice your autonomy, and you get to swim in a shoal. You try to find out why or how a beach hut kid can become a victim of something in the past, heh, you have just opened a door to a new deep end where there is no “bigger boat”. Some see the only hope is to have a bigger faster boat  or beach hut than everybody else. But that is so against the British thin red line mentality of equal rights.


You really need to be relaxed while you look into this particular bolt-hole for the very very rich or amongst them, the very very few. If you think you have understood this, you have not. From hut to holocaust in as few links as my 2002 research needed to sow the seeds in my mind something was wrong with our lives, it stays away from beach huts for a child for summers long. But there is a dark dark place waiting outside a little hut, and I have lived there. Tim Baber

In 1995 beach huts at Mudeford Sandbank, Dorset, England, could fetch £120,00. I know, then I sold the one my family had owned since the 1930′s. Yesterday I went down there to upgrade the clock in the “land train” station with a new radio controlled model, and was greeted like the old friend I am by people with whom I have grown up in the fits and starts of an engine destined to do good. I have followed with a disinterested interest what has happened to Mudeford Sandbank beach hut prices ever since. Last year a good looking hut was on offer for £140,000 in a quiet sellers market and there were far more seriously interested buyers. So when 6 months later another nice hut came on the market it sold competitively at £170,000. A lot of gallic shrugging went on, and the demand.serious demand that made direct cash approaches, realised just recently in 2012 £260,000 for an old but well loved hut.

This included from the buyer the fee to the council..a transfer fee of £30,000, engineered to benefit the Council because the value is clearly in the land, and they want their “cut”, after a public spirited argument decades ago by the then local Christchurch Borough Council Chief Executive who today, a former much respected Rotarian, worries about local initiatives and global warming. I would learn from him but he has a fearsome reputation for hard work and commitment. And me, well, anyone attracted to beach hut life is looking at doing time gently.

I noticed a few months ago the old Fishermen’s huts on the beach had been purged and made conform to to better Health and Safety standards. One was demolished and I asked if I could rebuild it…a new simple fisherman’s store-style construction, 50 yards from the £170,000 hut and only £100 a year instead of the usual £2,000 a year that defeated me in 1995. A cheeky way to get back on the beach, without spending a fortune and trust me, I can achieve Grand Design style effects for a cheap, quick and dirty trawl of the regions waste merchants. Black bitumen-tar paint can make anything look like a retro-colour supplement shabby chic beachside palace just right as a Fisherman’s store. And a store in which my newspaper files and library would reveal to passers by the pleasures on f this spot captured in ink, film and digital resources that I have collected for decades. But in a climate which sees huts fetch over a quarter of a million pounds to “buy in” my suggestion was too much of a conceit. Never mind. I tried.

And for the record I was in negotiations to buy the cabin on the Sail Training ketch the “Kenya Jacaranda” which for reasons of purity of design the owning trust had decided to jettison. Now this ship now at Gravesend last I heard waiting for volunteers to make her good was the Red Sailed vessel that was the inspiration for the song “Red Sails in the Sunset”, something which, just as a song, saved a life recently according to a report.

Torbay Lass/ Kenya Jacaranda

I know it was the Torbay Lass then, but a Brixham Trawler that has seen out several masters (and Mistresses in WW2)
can change its name it seems whilst still possessing the energy and inspiration springing from the waves. Oh, and my father was instructing some cadets on how to goose-swing with the foresail and that same energy lifted him up and over the side, as a Man Overboard exercise that happily ended well.

Inside a cabin like The Kenya Jacaranda

So I now reside on my Island home…a British Empire Colonial style bungalow with after today, plantation shutters in the bedrooms..thinking how I might get back in the saddle of a beach hut. That would be without spoiling my retired status by having to pay for it. I now have connections on the Pacific Rim where a beach hut can be found for real, for very little, but I have learnt one thing in my little huts over the years….to be risk averse. People who know my battles with Monarch Programming will laugh at that, but we are what we are. Resistance is probably futile. Life in its liminal peek a boo sense keeps reminding us we never know if we are at the leading edge, the centre, or the trailing edge of what we encounter.

One thing is for sure, if you sell a beach hut you nearly always regret it, and if you buy a beach hut, you nearly always never regret it. I saw beach hut prices climb in league with each issue of my newspapers, the Mudeford Sandbank News, the Hengistbury Head Times, and the Christchurch Harbour Chronicle. The latest jump in prices whilst I was outa town doing research into Weltanschauungskreig, can have had nothing to do with me, as my http://web.mac.com/beachhutman/Beachhutman website….. which enlarged upon http”//www.msbnews.co.uk ………has been off line since May 2012. ( And this blog is an in-fill) .

I do OK, but I would do better if I had a beach hut, and I know there are thousands of you out there who know in a hostile world. This world is a world where our inputs of TV, film, cinema, reading material and radio are all contaminated sooner or later by Monarch Programming, and in a beach hut, you can don the cloak of invisibility and disregard for yourselves and your loved ones. Just as if you were sailing off with red sails, into the sunset.


It is still a free country, and a blogger posting from the beach can live, love, and leave a message for others without becoming a fatality just because it grazes a hidden world known only to a few.

If you think a beach hut costing £120,00 to £260,000 is a place reserved for the few, then think on this, whilst there I stumbled onto an open secret with link after link on the web. And yet so few people have joined the dots. In the poll tax riots that so worried a Government that a Chief Constable reminded everybody they only could see what they could see and so they couldn’t really  comment. That is a Government in retreat. But I discovered in this subject the authorities are so confident in their capabilities dissent can be allowed because  they have the antidote to dissent.


I have been able to join the dots because of a relaxed beach hut life. My relaxed discovery was protected because then I did not believe any of it. And someone hit on me hard so that I just relaxed some more and forgot about this time-b-mb for, well, a decade. Please read this story.

Plump Pillows, Pandora

There was nothing to celebrate the beach hut life at Mudeford sandbank for decades, except for the warm memories of several generations seduced my marram grass and maritime marsh methane competing with lemonade and love. Look on ebay and all you can find from those decades are postcards from the 30′s to the 80′s.  It all went digital and before you knew it estate agents put notes under your door to buy your families beach huts not for rich clients, but themselves. This was when about 1995 the colour supplements started their inky trail  around the coast, from the South East for the easier links with London to the South West.  Writers sold their hideaway  perfumed with old wood and brine ramshackle love pods hidden in clefts in the cliffs and not too far from the coves. The older ones, harder to find,  were not as easily colonised as the honey-pot cedarwood sharp suited couple-caves becoming familiar to the savvy aspirants.

circa 2005

354 huts here, and only a couple change hands each year, usually to the children

Mudeford fell into the middle of that search, far enough from London to be a get away, but near enough to allow rapid returns when the markets needed new attentions to pay for it all. We sold out in 1995 to a senior BBC manager, and that made sense as for a decade I had been interviewed by local, regional, national and overseas Television all bouyed on the new craze for beach hut living. Then, after everything that could be said about price, profit or position had been said, life went back to normal, except now the hutters were seeking WiFi access, and old timbered sheds once too expensive to demolish started to get the Grand Designs treatment. Or nearly, I showed a picture of a favourite hut to Kevin McCloud of Grand Designs and said would they do a rebuild about a beach hut and the answer was yes. Jocasta Innes did her thing with artistic wooden cabinet ageing washes, but within a year the improvements were themselves a wash out. Done for the camera, not meant to last, whatever good the programme did was probably just another £10,000 on each remaining hut for sale, then and until now. So, as the editor of msbnews…Mudeford Sandbank news, I felt it had now all been said, except for a curious story that emerged when I researched the local kiddie theme park….a modest maze containing Alice in Wonderland theme park. Beach huts had become a well trodden consumer fetish but the local theme park seemed connected in some way with military grade mind control experiments in America. This was something I had to get into an article to at least annoy the owner, whom I knew.I knew I could find something cheeky with a maverick mathematician Lewis Carrol involved in the generic Alice story. I never expected it to conceal and reveal as I dipped here and there with google, life changing consequences without even setting foot in the place. The key that unlocked the lock of this so called Monarch Programming was simply the curiosity of a blogger. And it took 5 weeks of fast and thorough googling to absorb the “story”. That is the real story of my riding carefree on the back of a beach hut theme. Had I not strayed into the theme park just 5 miles away I would have remained in the dark, and not come to meet Mengele, or be made to forget clues to the story for up to 9 years. That is the lie of this land and the legacy of my parents and my endowment, a pandora’s box for an unknown number of the following generation. It has taken me from the studied ancient practices of art, theatre and pantomime (to change our outlook for the better) to the efforts of nations to master the games we play to create slaves of we, the people, to protect us from worse. Now dead, the answer to the question when did this happen,  is Dr Josef Mengele, and as you can find out in minutes, he has been working for us….in secret of course.

This man perfected the creation of trauma in any media to break victims
without their later recollection

Mengele, becomes palpable to those who can re-arrange the building blocks of his history. He has been, to me at least, re-activated sufficiently to have left a trace in the literature without me, and believe it or not, with me…on my life. It is quite possible for a simple blogger to innocently approach a dense and diluting subject from an obtuse or acute angle, as I did. With the inter-web-net-thingy the lego-like structure of words forming a “history”  may surround the interloper, as if they were books explaining the lives of others. A blogger may re-construct the edifice and its purpose from the lego that is left around. And see what has been left for history to consume is a shill, a jigsaw that does not fit in the official version, but does if you read widely from anecdotal evidence..like my meeting Mengele when the man was surely dead already? The problem comes when you realise none of it is likely to ever be proved. The world is shaped not by the blogger, but by the bully, the bullies of history, because that is how it is with stuff that has yo running to your beach hut for a safe haven and peaceful rest. See:    http://bhmversusmengele.tumblr.com/