Working as an Eskimo—a term we jokingly used for our team in the frigid workplace atmosphere—was always an exercise in endurance. Yet, amidst the daily grind, there were moments of unexpected brilliance, like when Andrey, the Holodex developer, dropped a bombshell.

Andrey was no ordinary coder. His brain was a labyrinth of algorithms and innovative ideas, and his work was nothing short of magic. For six painstaking months, he had poured his soul into creating Koworkit, a software platform that felt like the perfect marriage of functionality and simplicity. It was exactly what we needed to revolutionise how we operated.

One day, out of the blue, he turned to me and said, “Here. I want you to have 50%.”

I was stunned. People don’t just hand you half of something they’ve bled over—especially not something as promising as Koworkit. I felt a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “Are you sure?” I asked, holding back the urge to pinch myself.

Things took an even darker turn in 2016 when an unexpected email landed in my inbox. It was from a Holodex fan, asking about our “new VR technology.”

New VR technology? This was news to me. Intrigued and slightly alarmed, I dug deeper, only to be presented with an article in Vice magazine. There it was: Holodex VR. The name, the concept—it was everything I had dreamed of, the kind of groundbreaking innovation that had lived rent-free in my head for years. And the Vice article? The kind of glowing publicity I’d spent sleepless nights chasing.

But this wasn’t my doing. I had no part in it. Somehow, my vision had materialised without me.

Then the penny dropped: Derek. It was glaringly obvious who was behind this. He had taken the Holodex name and leveraged it for his own initiative, using his roster of performers to populate the platform. It wasn’t just a betrayal of trust—it was a knife to the gut, a bitter reminder of how easily ideas can be stolen, twisted, and executed by those with more resources and fewer scruples.

Around Christmas one year, something incredible happened—something that still feels surreal when I think about it. It started innocently enough: Lee, my boss, sent out an email asking everyone to share their personal highlight of the year. For most people, this was probably a routine task, but not for me. Without hesitation, I wrote, "Seeing spaceships for real." It was a bold move, sure, but it felt like the right thing to say. I hit send, feeling strangely liberated.

I was in the office when I sent the email, sitting quietly at my desk as others wrapped up their work. Soon, it was time to go home, and nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. As I stepped outside, I glanced up—and there they were.

The sky was overcast, thick with clouds, but through that haze, an arrangement of UFOs appeared, moving together in a perfect, deliberate formation. My heart raced, not with fear but with awe. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen them, but this felt different. It felt... personal.

In 2015, the fate of Holodex took a dramatic turn. The site went down, and I can only assume Derek thought I was rolling in cash, refusing to share the wealth. If that were the case, surely the shutdown would have sent a clear message: there was no fortune to be had, just a dream struggling to stay afloat.

But why did it all come crashing down? The truth is, I was grappling with a whirlwind of personal upheaval. My mind was still reeling from an unforgettable UFO sighting—an experience that shattered my perception of reality and left me questioning everything. On top of that, I’d recently undergone a QHHT (Quantum Healing Hypnosis Technique) session that blew my mind even further. And I walked away with something else too—an unsettling sense of purpose and paranoia.

I started to wonder: was working on porn-related projects like Holodex a mistake? Did I have some greater role, a mission even, to share the message of ZetaTalk with a wider audience? It felt like the universe was pointing me in a new direction, challenging me to rethink my path.

Sharing my confessional story felt like exposing my soul to the world—a risky but necessary endeavour. I handed copies to colleagues, some of whom I trusted, others I simply wanted to see the person behind the pages. Most responded warmly, offering kind words or thoughtful critiques. But there was one who stood out, not for what he said, but for what he didn’t.

I’ll call him Greg. Greg was younger and louder, always acting like he ran the place despite a decade less experience. If I suggested blue, he’d shout red from the rooftops. If I worked late, he’d show up early, making sure everyone noticed.

When I handed him a copy of my book, his reaction was immediate and dismissive. He gave the cover a cursory glance and said, “You didn’t mention me in here, did you?”

I was caught off guard. “No, Greg, it’s not about you. It’s about my life and the things I’ve been through.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll give it a read when you decide to write something more… inclusive,” he said with a smirk, tossing the book onto his desk like it was a piece of junk mail.

The encounter in the park reignited a part of me that had been dormant for years—a desire to connect with the mysteries of the universe and share them with the world. In many ways, it felt like life was guiding me back to the passions of my childhood, but this time with the tools, experiences, and wisdom I’d accumulated over the years.

One of the most profound ways this manifested was through my collaboration with Nancy Lieder, the mind behind ZetaTalk. Nancy had always been a source of inspiration to me, her work aligning perfectly with my own fascination with extraterrestrial life. Her teachings about the universe, humanity’s place within it, and the role of extraterrestrial beings deeply resonated with me. So, when the opportunity arose to work with her, it felt like destiny.

Together, we created The Moon, a newspaper dedicated to ZetaTalk and its insights. It wasn’t just a project—it was a labor of love, a way to channel my lifelong interest in aliens and the unknown into something tangible.

After returning to London, life felt like a blur of responsibilities, projects, and rebuilding. But on June 7th, 2014, everything changed. That day, in a quiet park, I had a life-changing experience that forever altered how I viewed the world and my place in it.

It started as an ordinary day, nothing particularly remarkable about the weather or my mood. I’d gone to the park to clear my head, as I often did when life felt overwhelming. The open sky, the distant hum of city life, the laughter of strangers—it was grounding. Little did I know, this serene setting would soon become the backdrop for something extraordinary.

It began subtly, almost imperceptibly at first—a strange glimmer in the sky. I thought it might have been sunlight catching on a plane or a bird. But as I focused, I realised it wasn’t just one object; there were many.

Over 50 UFOs.

I'm not sure I can put into words how magical it was. At the start of the session, I remember lying there with a quiet skepticism, wondering if this was all in my head. It felt awkward at first, like trying to force a conversation with someone you’ve just met. I questioned everything—Was this real? Was I just imagining things? But about ten minutes in, something shifted.

I felt myself drift further and further, like falling into the softest, most reassuring dream. Suddenly, it wasn’t just me lying there anymore. It was as though I’d tapped into a source so vast and so profound, I could barely comprehend it. It felt like God—or something infinitely wise—was speaking directly through me, using my voice but not my mind. It was as if ChatGPT-level intelligence had come to life inside me, giving me answers to questions.

By 2014, life had felt like a whirlwind—moments of triumph mixed with setbacks that seemed almost impossible to navigate. And yet, on my birthday that year, I stumbled upon something that would profoundly impact my life: a woman named Dolores Cannon.

I’ll admit it—I’ve always had a knack for finding wisdom in unexpected places, especially from extraordinary older women. Dolores wasn’t just a curiosity—she was a revelation. Her work in Quantum Healing Hypnosis Technique (QHHT) opened a door to a world I hadn’t considered before, but that felt strangely familiar.

Dolores’s sessions weren’t about typical therapy or even conventional healing. They delved into the subconscious mind and explored the mysteries of past lives and the soul’s journey. The more I read about her methods, the more I knew I had to try it. It felt like she was speaking directly to a part of me that had always been searching for something deeper—a connection to the universe, a purpose, a plan.

The morning of December 29th in Volgograd began like any other: the hum of early commuters, the rhythmic clatter of trains, and the crisp chill of winter in the air. My wife and I had planned to head to the railway station to buy our return tickets. It was supposed to be a simple errand. But true to form, I couldn’t peel myself off the mattress.

She had nudged me awake several times, frustration mounting with each attempt. "We need to go," she insisted, her tone a mix of urgency and exasperation.

"Five more minutes," I mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around me. Morning had never been my forte, and this was no exception.

Her glare was palpable, but she eventually gave up and sat by the window, arms crossed, waiting for me to stir. By the time I finally dragged myself out of bed, laziness had turned into procrastination. We decided we’d go later—what was the rush, anyway?

And that decision, as inconsequential as it seemed at the time, saved our lives.

She wasn’t just a friend—she was the first person who ever believed in Holodex. It started with a modest investment and a few early ideas, but even then, it felt like I had something real in my hands—something I was pushing toward with every bit of my energy. But as the project grew, so did the distance between me and the people I had once considered close.

Vic and I had been practically inseparable at one point. We shared countless nights, laughter, and ideas. We’d dreamed about the future together, imagining what could be. So when she made the decision to invest, no matter how small, it felt like validation. It felt like she believed in me. But then, everything started to change.

Life doesn’t always unfold in the way we plan. After returning to the UK, broke and defeated, I found myself in an unexpected and challenging role that would ultimately play a pivotal part in rebuilding my career. I became an Eskimo. It was a digital agency with a quirky name that aged badly.

Not the traditional kind, of course—this was a job title that spoke to the responsibilities I took on. As an Eskimo, I managed not just one, but multiple major projects simultaneously. In a way, I had to juggle the complexity of running two distinct ticketing platforms, a role I’d secured against all odds.

To say it wasn’t easy would be an understatement. Managing two ticketing platforms was no small feat. These platforms weren’t just your average ticketing systems—they were large-scale, bustling hubs that required constant attention. They were complex, filled with thousands of transactions, customer inquiries, and constant updates. If anything went wrong, the entire system could implode in a second. The pressure was immense.