I grew up in a typical 1950s babyboomer household; I would find out when I was fifty that not only am I autistic, but all my siblings, my parents and my only niece and nephew are also all autistic. Three generations on the spectrum!  I am now in my seventies and can see clearly the reason why I was not able to establish any career was because of my autism. As an adult I drifted from one thing to another and lacked in close relationships. I at least avoided illegal drugs and it was fortuitous that I landed in the dilapidated and rickity house of Jonathan David Batchelor, who became my mentor, my friend and my anchor. He gave me a roof over my head and I became a better undistinguished oil painter, relieved to have a place to live. The compulsion to write Jonathan's biography stems from the fact that the world of fine art has totally ignored him for decades. Indeed, he is a very interesting painter and certainly deserves more attention than he has gotten, which is none. I hope this biography does that.