DEDICATION
In loving memory of my mother
Anka Kesic
1 October 1924 – 11 November 2021
She had a kind heart and a warrior spirit.
She taught me to never give up.
“Keep going, son. Don’t give up.
If it were easy, everybody would be doing it.”
5PROLOGUE
One day, little Boo Boo, you will do great things.”
Boo Boo was Mum’s pet name for me when I was little.
She got it from the old Yogi Bear cartoon.
Of course, you could never air that show these days — it would
probably be branded racist, homophobic, misogynistic, or non-
inclusive. Take your pick.
I was lucky to grow up in a home where I was always encouraged to
do my best and follow my dreams.
Whenever I struggled, or felt despondent, Mum would say:
“Keep going, son. Don’t give up.
If it were easy, everyone would be doing it.”
Those words stayed with me.
They still do.
Persistence. Determination. Resilience.
I got them from Mum.
And I would need all of them for what came next.
6Chapter One. The Spark
Life was good — then in 2020, the world changed, and not for the
better.
“Do you have a good reason to be in the city?”
The deckhand asked as the ferry rolled toward Circular Quay.
“Why?” I said.
“There’s a police boat shadowing us. When we dock, they’ll be
checking passengers. If you don’t have a valid reason, you’ll be
fined.”
I had a reason. It just wasn’t the kind that counted anymore.
This was the first protest rally I had ever attended in my life. Not
something I’d ever imagined doing. Yet, over the next six years, I
would do many things I never dreamed possible before 2020.
I didn’t tell my wife I was going. We weren’t aligned on any of this
by then, and I didn’t want the argument. Marches were banned.
Protesting was illegal. Labels were flying everywhere: extremists,
crazies — anything to shame or scare people away.
So there I stood, maskless among a sea of masked faces, on my way
into the CBD.
7I almost got off at Balmain — fear does that — but I stopped myself.
I’d promised I’d do something. One day on my deathbed, I wanted to
answer the question, “What did you do?” with something more than
silence.
I wanted to stand up — for myself, for those I loved, for those who
couldn’t be there, and for the children who would inherit whatever
we allowed.
A good friend had given me a script for dealing with police — what
to say, what not to say — because suddenly there were rules that had
appeared from nowhere. Ten-kilometre limits. Curfews. Papers,
please.
He called as I walked toward George Street and began role-playing
an officer trying to catch me out. I held my line. Confidence rose.
Hyde Park was empty. Then I saw the helicopters circling and
followed them. A river of people suddenly appeared. Families, prams,
grandparents — ordinary Australians, not the caricatures we were
told to fear. The energy was electric.
The banners were simple — “Hands off our kids.” “No mandates.”
“No vaccine passports.” All the “conspiracies” that would shortly
become policy.
I walked, I observed, I learned how I behaved when pressure rose. I
stayed calm. When I got home, I watched the news.
8“Three and a half thousand people marched today,” the reporter
announced.
I had seen at least 30–50,000.
If they’d lie about something so obvious, what wouldn’t they lie
about?
A switch flipped.
And I was very glad I went.
Learning to Stand
To survive the new era, I studied — first the law. How to speak, what
to ask, what not to consent to. My friend fought eight fines in court
and won every case.
Then I studied immunology and virology. Public “science” sounded
like PR theatre. Daily podiums. Daily numbers. Daily fear. Common
sense went on holiday.
I followed real experts — McCullough, Kory, Malone, Cole — and
started to understand the machinery of persuasion happening in real
time.
At the same time, I said no — to masks I believed were unhealthy,
and to the coercion demanding obedience instead of reason.
And then came Mum.
9My Mum
In 2019, I flew to the UK to see Mum — Anka — then 95,
recovering from pneumonia. Tough as nails, sharp as ever. I checked
her breathing while she slept, scared she’d slip away right there. She
rallied, as she always did.
In 2020 she caught COVID, went into hospital, and came home after
four days. “I’m fine,” she said. “Stop calling every day.” That was
Mum — practical, stubborn, and strong.
In 2021 she told me, matter-of-factly, “I’ve had the injection.”
“Mum, you don’t need it,” I said.
We nearly argued. Months later she had the second one.
Then the pattern began:
Ambulance in on Monday, two days in hospital, home on Wednesday.
Every week.
“They can’t find anything,” she’d say.
“I just don’t feel right.”
I’ve heard that line so many times since.
After six weeks of this cycle, she went in — and didn’t come home.
10She deteriorated over eight weeks in the hospital. I managed one
video call. She brightened for a moment — she rallied — then
slipped away on 11/11/2021 at age 96.
And she didn’t die masked or gloved. It was everyone around her —
the visitors, staff, the world — hidden behind cloth and plastic.
Dying without seeing faces…
that is a cruelty too many endured.
It lit a fire in me that still burns.
Finding My People
I needed community — and I found it.
Ryde Freedom Group.
Freedom in the Park at Tunks Park.
People who could see through the fog.
And then Forest of the Fallen — the memorial to those injured or
gone after the injections. Christmas Eve 2023. New Year’s Day 2024.
Bamboo stakes in the sand, laminated A4 sheets telling people’s
stories.
Names. Ages. Lives changed.
11When the wind caught them, they rippled like prayer flags.
We never approached anyone. We simply stood witness.
Some stopped to talk.
Some cried.
Some finally told their story — the one no one believed.
I joined the Northern Beaches team, run by Rosie — The Angry
Granny. A warrior who never quits.
Week after week.
Beach after beach.
Conversation after conversation.
It mattered. Still does.
Into the Pharmacies
Rosie had already begun walking into pharmacies.
Simple questions:
“Are you still doing COVID shots?
12If yes — she explained liability and lack of informed consent.
No one can give informed consent without being told the risks,
benefits, and alternatives. It wasn’t happening.
Then Sarah called. She was building the Cease and Desist Project —
a national effort to deliver formal notices informing pharmacists of
liability if they continued administering the injections.
Same notice served on Tedros, the Director-General of the WHO
(World Health Organisation).
She asked if I’d help.
I said yes.
And that yes became hundreds of conversations, dozens of videos,
and eventually — the 30 encounters in this book.
They weren’t all hostile. Some were thoughtful. Some afraid. Some
grateful. Some furious.
And every one of them mattered.
I didn’t set out to become The Chemist Whisperer.
I set out to be able to look in the mirror and say:
“I did something.”
And this is the story of how that something grew.
