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David Johnson, London (2026)

31/05/2026

„The fungus has nearly reached the edge of the bone, so we would have to deeply gouge the tissue out, Mr David. However, a general anaesthetic with your current heart history is a game of Russian roulette—the risk of your heart failing during the procedure and never waking up is simply too high.”

After waiting anxiously for three months on a specialist waiting list to see the chief dermatologist in Birmingham, that diagnosis was the ultimate, crushing blow. No medical help, no way out, just the raw terror of dying on an operating table. I grabbed my shoes, ran blindly out of the clinic, got into my truck, and wept absolute buckets. I slammed my hands against the steering wheel and cried out of pure helplessness because I realized my own body was failing me and slowly rotting from the inside out.

My big toe had been a progressive catastrophe for six years. The nail was a centimetre thick, deep yellowish-brown, completely warped, and deeply cracked. It looked like decaying wood. The second my boots came off, a heavy, unmistakable odour of a damp, moldy cellar would fill the entire room. It was my absolute deepest shame, and I did everything to hide it.

The massive disaster occurred during a mandatory corporate team-building and wellness retreat at a premium hotel spa near Birmingham. As a senior engineering project manager, I lead large teams of men, so authority and respect are everything. The external wellness coach, however, was completely uncompromising: for the relaxation and movement exercises, every single delegate had to step completely barefoot onto the pristine white tiled floors around the pool. No shoes, no socks. My heart shot straight into my throat, and a cold sweat broke out across my body. I tried to excuse myself, but my managing director just laughed and said, „Come on, David, no exceptions, let’s get stuck in!” With trembling hands, I had to take my socks off.

The moment I walked forward, the disaster occurred: my big toenail was so hollowed out by the rot that it caught heavily against a metal floor drain cover. The sudden pressure caused a massive, brittle, mufgeel chunk to snap completely off. It landed with a sharp click right on the clean white tiles in front of my managing director. Simultaneously, a pungent cellar odour radiated into the enclosed space.

The coach immediately stopped the session, pulled on thick latex gloves, grabbed a heavy disinfectant spray, and began scrubbing the tiles right in front of the entire team. My colleagues—men I manage and direct every day—stared at my feet in pure, instinctual revulsion and took a large step back. My face burned like liquid iron. I was professionally and socially completely executed. I packed my bags, left the retreat immediately, and had to take stress leave. My authority was completely pulverized.

I had spent over £1,400 on high-street lacquers, kits, and pens from the chemist. The chemistry just coated the top, trapped the moisture underneath, and let the rot thrive. The fungus only grew thicker and more resistant because standard treatments make a vital mistake.

My cousin, David, who works as a clinical immunologist, explained the science behind my failure. He told me that the fungus protects itself by building a calcified chitin-protein armor vault deep within the nail bed. Every time you apply aggressive chemical lacquers, you signal the fungus to harden this fortress and become resistant. You must alter the local cellular environment at the root, forcing the body to dissolve the armor vault naturally from the inside out and fast-track healthy keratinocyte production.

He sent me the details of an innovative biological method that operates on this exact principle. I started that very night. What happened over the following 5 to 7 weeks leaves me speechless to this day:

Weeks 1-2 (Calming the Inflammation): Within just two weeks, that deep, throbbing heat inside my toes completely stopped, and the musty smell vanished. The surrounding skin became visibly healthy and calm.

Weeks 3-4 (Painless Shedding of the Crust): The dense, woody horn scales completely changed. During my evening showers, the infected mass softened so much that it simply washed away entirely painlessly. The dead fungal fortress was completely cleared out.

Weeks 5-7 (Turbo-Regeneration of the Nail Plate): Because the matrix was finally liberated, healthy keratin production was triggered at three times its normal speed. A smooth, rock-hard, perfectly healthy pink nail plate glided forward from the root. After exactly 7 weeks, the toe was completely restored.

I am back on the project sites with my head held high and zero anxiety. The full story of how I broke this vicious cycle without any dangerous surgery can be found right here:

READ MORE 👇

31/05/2026

„I can only remove the infected horn tissue by slicing deep into the toe bed, Mr David. But putting you under a general anaesthetic with your current weak liver markers is total Russian roulette—you risk falling asleep on that operating table and never waking up again.”

When the dermatologist in Manchester said that to me with such clinical coldness, I felt the room completely spin. Three months of waiting for this specialist referral... three long months of holding myself together, believing that an expert could finally cure this nightmare. And then you are suddenly met with a brick wall. No surgery, no cure, just the terrifying risk of dying on the table if they even try. I collapsed onto a bench right there in the hospital corridor and wept bitter tears of pure helplessness. I just sat there trembling and sobbing, unable to stop. The shame and the fear were eating me alive from the inside out.

My left foot had been an absolute horror show for eight years. Three of my toenails were deeply discoloured a dark brownish-yellow, massively thick, ridged, and looked like the rotting bark of an old, dying tree. Wearing normal footwear without discomfort was impossible, and my socks were constantly shredded by the rough, stone-hard crust.

The absolute rock bottom happened a week before that appointment during a family Sunday BBQ in Manchester. I was playing football in the garden with my 6-year-old grandson. I was wearing thin canvas shoes to let my feet breathe. In the excitement, my grandson accidentally stepped heavily right onto my infected big toe with his thick trainers. The sudden pressure was agonizing. The brittle, fungus-hollowed nail literally shattered inside my shoe, tearing my sock wide open.

My grandson looked down, saw the damage, and screamed across the entire garden: „Granddad, your toe looks like a rotten monster claw and smells like a dead animal!”

It was deeply, agonizingly horrific. All my relatives—my daughter, my son-in-law, and our neighbours—immediately turned and stared in utter revulsion at my exposed foot. A heavy, pungent cellar odour instantly radiated from my shoe into the warm air. My son-in-law literally stepped back, holding his hand over his nose. With a burning face and tears streaming down my cheeks, I stumbled into the house, locked myself in the bathroom, and refused to come out for hours. I felt completely subhuman, dirty, and exposed as a failure of a man in front of my own family.

For eight years, this fungus was my psychological prison. I spent over £1,500 at chemists on the most famous lacquers, sets, and even painful laser sessions at a private podiatry clinic. But those aggressive chemicals do the exact opposite of what you want: they destroy the skin’s natural pH barrier and make the nail plate incredibly porous, allowing the fungus to dig even deeper into the matrix. My GP refused to prescribe heavy oral tablets because of the liver risks, telling me I just had to live with it.

My rescue came through my sister, Sarah, who works as a senior research fellow in medical immunology. When she heard that I was completely depressed and refusing to attend family events after the BBQ disaster, she opened my eyes. She explained that the fungus secretes a sticky shield of sugar-proteins—a polysaccharide slime matrix. This acts like an organic dome that keeps high-street chemicals from ever reaching the infection. To cure it, you must use a method that liquefies this matrix from within and triggers a massive boost in healthy keratin production.

Because the desperation was eating me alive, I started that very night. What happened over the next 5 to 7 weeks completely transformed my life:

Weeks 1-2 (Immediate Inflammation Halt): Within days, the deep, throbbing heat and the crawling itch that used to ruin my sleep vanished completely. The skin around the nail became calm, and that musty cellar smell inside my shoes disappeared like magic.

Weeks 3-4 (Dissolving the Hard Crust): The thick, yellow mass completely broke down. During my regular evening showers, the infected tissue softened so much that it washed away completely painlessly, layer by layer. The sterile nail bed was finally bare.

Weeks 5-7 (Turbo-Regeneration): The liberated nail matrix started producing healthy keratin at an unbelievable rate—three times faster than normal through accelerated cell division. From the root, a gorgeous, smooth, pink nail plate glided forward. By week 7, my toe was perfectly normal and healthy.

I can finally laugh again, walk comfortably, and play with my grandson without a single ounce of fear or anxiety. If you want to know how I finally put an end to this years-of-hell nightmare:

READ MORE 👇

31/05/2026

„Mr David, we would need to surgically cut deep into the toe bed to scrape the rotting horn completely away from the bone. But with your current blood pressure and heart markers, the risk of general anaesthesia is simply too extreme—there is a very high chance you will fall asleep on that operating table and never wake up again.”

I sat on that cold treatment chair in a specialist London clinic, and my world completely shattered. For three agonizing months, I had been on the waiting list for this consultant appointment, counting down the weeks, praying that a medical expert could finally end this physical and mental hell. And then the doctor just drops that sentence on you with absolute, clinical detachment.

To be completely honest, I don’t even remember how I managed to walk out of that building. I stumbled to my car like a robot, gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and sat in that hospital car park for an hour and a half crying hysterically. A grown man, a grandfather, just sobbing like a child out of sheer desperation and helplessness. The shame and the fear were eating me alive because that diagnosis was the definitive death sentence for my pride.

For six long years, I had been carrying this horrific, rotting secret around with me. My right big toe was an absolute graveyard. The nail was a centimetre thick, warped upwards, deeply blackened and yellowed, and it released a pungent, musty cellar odour the second my sock was removed. It was so humiliating: it destroyed every pair of socks I owned, ripping through the fabric within days because of that razor-sharp, woody horn structure. Out of pure panic that someone would find out, I wore thick cotton socks and heavy leather boots even in the peak of summer.

Our marriage was under immense strain. My wife was convinced that I was becoming distant or that I didn't find her attractive anymore because I hadn’t let her come near my side of the bed for three years. I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth; the shame was just too deep. I felt like a mutated monster. We only ever slept with a massive wall of pillows dividing the bed.

The absolute rock bottom happened a week before that appointment at my local golf club in London. After a match, the changing room showers had a minor blockage, causing the floor tiles to flood. The club captain insisted everyone take off their shoes and socks at the benches to keep the carpeted area dry. I tried to make an excuse, but the lads kept pressuring me. With trembling hands, I pulled my sock off.

The intense friction caused my brittle, fungus-hollowed big toenail to catch heavily against the bench. The rotten horn couldn't take the pressure and literally snapped off, landing with a distinct click right on the floor in front of the captain. Simultaneously, a sharp, stale cellar odour radiated into the room. He took a step back, his face twisting in deep disgust, and immediately called an assistant to disinfect the area. The other blokes stared at my foot in pure revulsion. I shoved my foot back into my boot without a sock and fled the club. I was socially completely executed.

For years, I was the ultimate cash cow for high-street chemists. I spent over £1,900 on expensive, heavily advertised anti-fungal lacquers, pens, and aggressive chemical kits. What most people don't realize is that 99% of these commercial products contain harsh chemicals that simply coat the nail from above, cutting off all air. Beneath that lacquer layer, a perfect greenhouse effect is created, causing the fungal spores to multiply three times faster! You are literally paying money to make the rot grow quicker. Nothing worked.

The rescue came through my son, Michael. He works as a lead molecular biochemist at a medical research institute. When he found me completely broken and weeping in the kitchen after that devastating clinic appointment, I confessed everything. He explained that the fungus builds a microscopic concrete bunker deep within the tissue, known as a keratin-glucan biofilm barrier. Chemical paints can never pe*****te this shield. He gave me details on a new, purely biological approach that completely alters this local micro-environment. It reactivates the tissue's natural immunity and accelerates the cell division of keratinocytes by 300%, cutting the healing time down drastically.

I had given up all hope, but I was so desperate that I started using it that very evening. What happened over the following 5 to 7 weeks was an absolute miracle, moving through 3 distinct, undeniable phases:

Weeks 1-2 (The Odour & Itch Lockdown): Within just 8 days, that deep, throbbing heat and intense itching that used to keep me awake all night stopped completely. Better yet, that foul, sour cellar smell in my shoes completely vanished. The spores were being choked out at the root.

Weeks 3-4 (Painless Evacuation of the Rot): The thick, yellowed horn completely changed its structure. It became incredibly soft and simply crumbled away layer by layer during my evening foot baths. Without a shred of pain or bleeding, the old fungal armor fell off, exposing a clean, sterile nail bed.

Weeks 5-7 (Turbo-Growth of the Clean Nail): Because the nail matrix was finally free from the suffocating fungus, healthy keratin production went into overdrive. From the base of the cuticle, a smooth, rock-hard, beautifully pink nail plate rushed forward. After exactly 7 weeks, my toe was fully sealed and flawlessly healthy.

I have my feet, my marriage, and my self-respect back. My wife and I are closer than ever, and I don't have to hide anymore. The whole unedited story of how I fixed this and what exactly helped me can be found right here:

READ MORE 👇

22/05/2026

„Come on, mate, get those wet wellies off by the fire before your feet turn to ice.“ The friendly advice from my oldest pal that left me frozen with sheer panic.
Ich bin David, 62 years old, a retired Northumbria police officer from Newcastle. It was a freezing, miserable Sunday November afternoon. A group of us had been out for a long walk with the dogs along the coast, and my left Wellington boot had developed a split, letting in a load of freezing coastal mud.

We ended up in the snug of our local pub, crowded around a roaring log fire to dry off. My foot was soaking wet, numb, and freezing. My mate pushed a stool toward the hearth and told me to yank the boot off to dry it out.

I refused. I sat there shivering, making up some rubbish excuse about my laces being jammed. He laughed, grabbed my boot playfully, and said, „Don't be a daft bu**er, you’ll get trench foot.“ Before I could kick him away, he pulled the wet boot and the sodden sock straight off my foot.

The room went dead silent. The stale, putrid smell of a damp crypt instantly filled the small pub snug. Three of my toenails were thick, completely blackish-yellow, and split right down the middle, exposing a crumbly, grey, rotten mass underneath. The skin around my heel was thick, yellow, and cracked like old leather. My mates, blokes I’ve known for thirty years, stared in absolute shock. The easy-going pub banter just vanished. One of them quietly picked up his pint and moved to the opposite side of the table. I felt a wave of humiliation so intense it made my stomach churn.

I’d had that foul rot for ten years. Ten years of absolute denial. I told myself it was just a bruise from playing football, or just "old man’s feet." I was spending fifty quid a month on TV-advertised lacquers that did nothing but stain my bedsheets. My GP flatly refused to help, saying NHS resources were stretched and that I should just wear wide shoes.

My turning point came through my nephew, Alan. He’s a senior clinical hospital pharmacist down in London. When he came up for Christmas and heard about the pub disaster, he didn't judge me. He sat me down with his laptop.

„Uncle David,“ Alan said. „The commercial sector loves patients like you. You’re a customer for life. Those paints are designed to fail because the fungus protects itself with a lipid-encapsulated bio-bunker. It’s an organic vault that seals the spores inside the live tissue matrix. Traditional antifungals can't pe*****te it well enough without ruining your liver. You have to re-activate the tissue's own cellular immunity at the root of the nail bed to force the vault to dismantle itself.“

He forwarded me a clinical dossier detailing a targeted, non-chemical approach to breaking down that lipid barrier at home.

The results after ten years of rot:

Week 2: The intense, deep-seated itch that used to drive me mad every evening stopped completely. The foul, stale smell vanished from my footwear.

Week 5: The thick, monstrous layers literally crumbled away quite painlessly when I used a washcloth. No pain, no blood. Just the rot leaving my body.

Week 8: For the first time in a decade, I have five normal, healthy, pink toes on my left foot.

I’m 62, I’m retired, and I’ve got my self-respect back. I went to the pub last week, took my boots off by the fire, and nobody blinked an eye. The link to the clinical dossier Alan gave me is down in the comments. Don't let a wet boot destroy your dignity.

22/05/2026

„I’m going to need you to peel that boot off, chief.“ The words from the young female site medic that turned my stomach over in pure terror.
Ich bin David, 49 years old, a construction site manager from Manchester. I run large commercial builds, manage eighty men, and I’m used to handling stressful situations. But three months ago, a freak accident on-site nearly cost me my dignity. A laborer dropped a heavy piece of timber right onto my steel-toe boot.

My toe wasn't broken, but the impact had crushed the leather down onto my foot. The site first-aider—a young, professional woman in her late twenties—told me I had to take the boot and sock off immediately to check for crush injuries.

I tried to refuse. I told her I was fine and would check it at home. She insisted, saying it was a strict corporate health and safety violation if she didn’t document the injury.

The moment I pulled that sock off, the smell hit the room first. It was a foul, cheesy reek of wet timber and rot. My three middle nails were completely ruined—blackish-yellow, distorted, jagged, and curling over the tips of my toes like old tree bark. The skin between them was raw, white, and peeling away. The medic didn't scream, but she instantly reached for a second pair of latex gloves and a bottle of heavy antiseptic. The look of quiet revulsion on her face made me feel about an inch tall. I was the boss on that site, and I was sitting there looking like a bloke who had never washed in his life.

I’d been trapped in that nightmare for six years, ever since a damp winter working on a waterlogged site in Leeds. Six years of absolute misery. I wore thick woollen socks even in the summer heat, sweating buckets. My wife and I hadn't shared a proper bed in two years because I was terrified she’d feel the rough, scaly texture of my feet under the sheets.

I spent over £1,900 on private podiatrists and expensive laser sessions that promised a quick fix. The laser blasted my toes with heat, costing me £120 a pop, but three months later, the yellow crusts just grew back thicker and harder. The GP gave me zzz-strength terbinafine pills, but after a month, my routine blood tests showed my liver values were spiking, so I had to stop.

My saving grace was my daughter, Chloe. She’s a pharmaceutical research chemist for a major lab in Macclesfield. When she came for Sunday roast and saw how quiet and depressed I was, she cornered me in the kitchen. I finally broke down and told her about the site medic.

„Dad, you’ve been scammed by the high-street clinics,“ Chloe said, looking at my medical notes. „The fungus creates a glycoprotein slime-shield that locks itself onto the live tissue cells. Lasers and external lacquers only scrape the top off. To actually cure it, you have to use a compound that targets the cellular adhesion of the matrix, breaking the shield apart so the body can flush the rot out naturally.“

She accessed a specialized mycological study through her laboratory network and sent me a link to an at-home protocol based on this exact science.

What happened next was unbelievable:
After just a fortnight, the raw, peeling skin between my toes had fully closed up and healed. By week five, the thick, horn-like yellow crusts began to soften and naturally crumble away when I dried my feet with a towel. By week eight, a gorgeous, glass-clear, rose-pink nail had completely taken over the nail bed.

I am bloody fuming that the medical industry makes blokes feel like they’re just unhygienic when a straightforward biological solution exists. The link to the research Chloe uncovered is down below in the comments. Don't wait for an accident to expose your secret.

22/05/2026

„Bloody hell, David, did you dig that foot out of a trench?“ The roaring laugh from the club captain that turned my face bright red in a room full of thirty blokes.
Ich bin David, 55 years old, a retired structural engineer from Solihull. I’ve always been a proud man. I played rugby in my youth, I manage a decent handicap on the golf course, and I’m not easily rattled. But that one Saturday afternoon in the locker room after 18 holes completely broke my spirit.

We’d just finished a round, and everyone was changing out of their spikes. I sat on the wooden bench, waiting for the room to clear out a bit before taking my socks off. I’d been hiding my right foot for eight long years. But the club captain walked past, slapped me on the back, and made a joke about me being too slow. In the rush, I pulled my sock off.

A tiny, dry chunk of my big toenail—brownish-yellow, brittle, and thick as a horse’s hoof—literally crumbled off and fell onto the pristine white towel on the bench. The captain stopped dead. The roaring banter in the locker room died instantly. Several blokes looked down, winced, and shifted their bags away from me. I felt like a filthy, unwashed pig. I threw my boots on without tying the laces, walked straight to my car, and resigned from the committee that evening.

I’d been dealing with this rot since 2018. It started after catching a nasty stub on my toe at a squash court. Eight years of total isolation. The nail was so thick it would blunt normal clippers—it looked like veritably rotten horn. And the smell... a stale, musty scent of a damp cellar that lingered in my work boots no matter how much disinfectant I sprayed into them. I felt completely revolted by my own body.

I spent over £1,600 on High Street chemists, buying every lacquer, paint, and medicated pen available at Boots. The fungus just thrived on it. It burrowed deeper into the nail bed until my toe throbbed when I drove my car. My GP was a total waste of time. He didn't even make me take my shoe off.

„Look, David,“ he said, barely looking up from his screen. „The NHS doesn't fund fungal nail treatments anymore unless there's a severe secondary infection. At your age, circulation slows down. It's just a cosmetic issue. Buy some over-the-counter paints and live with it.“

My salvation came from my son, Tom. He’s a former Royal Army Medical Corps medic who did tours in Afghanistan and now works in clinical microbiology. When my wife told him why I had suddenly stopped playing golf and was sitting in the garden shed all day, he came over to the house and forced me to show him the foot.

„Dad, those commercial paints are a massive marketing scam,“ Tom told me flatly. „They cannot physically cure a deep-seated infection. The fungus builds a calcified chitin shield directly over the live matrix. It's a microscopic concrete bunker. The lacquers clear up the surface, but the root of the rot sits untouched underneath, feeding on your tissue. You have to use an approach that alters the biological environment so the tissue naturally forces the bunker to detach.“

He dug out a clinical report from his military research network detailing a targeted, non-chemical method that dissolves this chitin shield safely at home. I had zero faith left, but the humiliation from the golf club was burning a hole in my chest. I started the routine that night.

My 8-week recovery timeline:

Day 10: The constant, deep-seated throbbing heat under the nail plate stopped completely. The musty, stale odour in my socks disappeared.

Week 4: The thick, monstrous yellow layers began to soften and literally flaked away quite painlessly in the shower. No bleeding, just the dead rot leaving my body.

Week 8: A total miracle. From the base of the cuticle, a crystal-clear, rock-hard, perfectly healthy pink nail had completely grown out.

I’m 55, I’m back on the golf course, and I’m wearing sandals in my own garden without a care in the world. The link to the independent report Tom gave me is down in the comments below. If you're a bloke hiding this under thick socks, stop wasting your money at the chemist and read it tonight.

21/05/2026

I’ve just closed my practice doors for the final time after 35 years as a senior medical partner. Now that I’m officially retired, I can finally speak freely without worrying about pharmaceutical bureaucracy or the threat of losing my licence.

Let's talk about the massive trap surrounding fungal nail infections in this country.

Every single week, patients would come into my clinic begging for a solution to their yellow, thick, painful nails. When the standard high-street paints failed—which they almost always do—the only option left in the medical playbook was prescribing oral antifungal tablets.

But here is what the system hides: those pills are so toxic that I was legally required to run regular blood tests to ensure I wasn't accidentally causing acute liver failure in my patients. Think about that for a moment. Risking a major internal organ just to clear up a stubborn toe infection. It's absolute madness.

I used to think there was no other way. I was wrong.

The real breakthrough came from a research paper out of a non-corporate laboratory that completely blew the lid off traditional dermatology. It proved that you don't need to swallow toxic chemicals to kill a systemic fungal infection. If you target the specific lipid layer that protects the fungus, its cellular walls collapse naturally within days.

I started recommending this exact method to patients who refused to take the liver-damaging pills.

The results completely stunned me. A grandfather who hadn't walked barefoot on a carpet without pain for thirty years called my office ecstatic because his infection was completely eradicated in just under a month. No pills, no endless filing, no doctor's appointments.

I am proud of my career, but I regret the decades I spent relying on flawed medical dogmas.

I’ve dropped the link to the research paper in the comments. If you or anyone you know is struggling with this stubborn condition, please read it before wasting another penny at the pharmacy.

21/05/2026

My last shift at the surgery in Surrey finished at 6 PM yesterday. 41 years as a family doctor, officially over. But there is one thing that has been weighing heavily on my conscience...

Last week, a lovely lady in her mid-50s came into my office. With summer approaching, she was in tears because she felt forced to wear thick socks and closed-toe shoes in 25-degree heat. Her toenails were completely ravaged by a fungal infection, and she was utterly humiliated by the smell and appearance.

I looked at her medical notes. For seven years, she had done everything right. She spent hundreds of pounds at the local chemist on oils, pens, and lacquers. She tried every home remedy on the internet. Nothing worked.

And for years, the medical community has quietly let patients believe it’s their fault. That they aren't hygienic enough, or they aren't applying the treatment correctly.

It’s a lie. It’s not your fault.

The uncomfortable truth that nobody wants to say out loud is that the NHS classifies fungal nail infections as a "cosmetic issue" to save budget, leaving millions of people trapped in a cycle of buying useless, watered-down retail products that only treat the surface. Fungal spores are incredibly resilient; they lock themselves inside the deep cellular matrix beneath the nail where external creams literally cannot reach.

I only discovered the solution because a colleague of mine from an independent research lab sent me a breakdown of a new bio-cellular approach that bypasses the nail barrier entirely to starve the fungus of its food source.

I passed the information to three of my most desperate patients. Without promising anything, I just told them to look at the science.

Six weeks later, all three reported that the constant itch and foul odour had completely vanished, and the fresh nail growth was entirely pristine.

I’ve spent my entire career holding a prescription pad, but I wish I had known about this on day one.

I’ve left the link to the full explanation in the comments. Do yourself a favour and read it with an open mind.

David Johnson

31/05/2026

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