A man who couldn’t take “no” for an answer, Barnes-Ross clung to his expulsion, built it into a persona and plays the victim to distract from what he actually did. Despite his claims of religious dissent, Barnes-Ross is not an apostate in any sense of the word: He was not someone who left his faith over doctrine—he was dismissed because he couldn’t meet the basic ethical standards expected of Church staff.
What’s more, Barnes-Ross has repeatedly confessed he was desperate to stay, describing his expulsion as “earth-shattering” and “heartbreaking.” The truth is, his so-called “activism” isn’t motivated by belief at all. It’s propelled by his ejection from the religion, his resentment—and most of all, his quest for cash.
The Church let him go. The woman had never let him in. And Alex Barnes-Ross never recovered.
Alex Barnes-Ross’ story begins not with ecclesiastical rebellion but with morbid obsession. In 2011, he pleaded to serve on staff at the Church of Scientology of London. Within months, he began pathologically pursuing a female colleague—cornering her at her desk, violating her personal space and ignoring her repeated attempts to be left alone. “Alex continued to engage in behaviour that made me extremely uncomfortable,” the woman later said. “He would linger far longer than necessary, often with this glazed, Cheshire cat-like grin. I felt like a sitting duck and like I couldn’t escape him.”
Even after the woman changed her phone background to a photo of a male friend in a bid to discourage him, Barnes-Ross refused to stop. “The whole time I’ve known you don’t like me, but I’ve just always clinged [sic] on to the hope, however small, that you’d just at least give me a chance,” he texted. “I just don’t know what to do or how to carry on because I have literally no [control over] my feelings.… It’s something that’s really ruining my life right now.”
His stalking didn’t stop with her. One day, the woman’s brother noticed a red-haired man “staring and smiling” at him with “a weird grin” on a London train. The brother changed carriages. The stranger followed him. When shown a photo of Barnes-Ross, he confirmed “it was definitely Alex on the train.”
The Church took action and removed Barnes-Ross in 2013. And that’s when his path to “apostasy” began—not with a theological revelation, but with a personal rejection. The Church let him go. The woman had never let him in. And Alex Barnes-Ross never recovered.
Even after his dismissal, Barnes-Ross begged to return. In a formal 2014 request, he wrote: “I am a Scientologist, my goal in life is to help other people.” For years, he spoke fondly of the Church. “Scientology is the best way to help people,” he declared in 2023. “The last time I felt truly inspired to do something … was in Scientology.” And of the London Church he once worked in, he had this to say: “It was cool, it was hip. It was a fun, vibrant place to be.”
But when his pleas for reinstatement were denied, Barnes-Ross pivoted from dejection to retaliation. The people he once called friends and mentors immediately became targets of emotional revenge in an ongoing campaign of online harassment, deceit and bigotry.
As documented in a trove of online evidence and firsthand accounts, Barnes-Ross’ behaviour has drastically deteriorated since his dismissal. He didn’t reform. He compulsively escalated. In January 2025—a dozen years after his original misconduct—he sought out another female Church member, sat “too close for comfort” from her, snapped a photo, drew a hot-pink heart around the two of them, and posted it online with the caption: “XOXO.” He later took to YouTube to announce that harassing the woman was the “highlight of my evening, highlight of my year.”
The following day, Barnes-Ross tweeted to the same woman: “I consider it truly an honour to have had the chance to sit next to you for a whole hour.… We love you.” YouTube removed the video shortly thereafter for violating her privacy.
Barnes-Ross doesn’t hide his disturbing behaviour—he broadcasts it. “It’s definitely become a full-time job,” he announced of his anti-Scientology harassment. “I am working pretty much full-time on this.” That “work” has included stalking, doxxing, spreading hate and begging for money.
It was the natural culmination of a decade of erratic behaviour: “bundled away” in broad daylight, with no one left to defend him.
Indeed, Barnes-Ross is a self-admitted grifter. With no career, no community and no principles, he leans on social media to plead for cash. “This is NOT a grift,” he wrote—before asking for donations to cover his rent. His own online followers mock him: “con man,” “fake victim,” “bro, you are a grifter of the highest order.”
Google, too, has weighed in. A search for Alex Barnes-Ross yields the damning verdict that he “is a grifter with a history of mental instability.” One Freedom Magazine article quipped that Google will likely preserve his legacy “for a thousand generations or more.”
And who does Alex Barnes-Ross surround himself with? A rogues’ gallery of predators and degenerates just like him: Tony Ortega, the disgraced writer who defended the notorious sex trafficking site Backpage; Mark Fisher, a sex tourist who boasts online about exploiting underage girls in Thailand; Jon Breen, convicted of harassment and arrested repeatedly for stalking; John McGhee, a convicted hate agitator who once assaulted a female Scientologist and brandished a swastika at a Pride event; and Brad Delaine, a vulgar misogynist who posts explicit sexual threats under the handle “@teabitch” and who was praised by Barnes-Ross for his “persistence.”
Birds of a feather never fail to flock together. And in Barnes-Ross’ case, they’re all circling the drain.
Even his own family agrees. After news broke of his stalking allegations, Barnes-Ross’ mother—who had once credited him on her website—scrubbed all mention of him and deleted her professional social media account. The nonprofit she founded, Women in Jazz Media, went silent.
Then came the moment of public reckoning: On May 15, 2025, Barnes-Ross was detained and handcuffed by Metropolitan Police in London. Caught on video, he babbled incoherently about “sweetened nuts” while livestreaming his own disgrace. Police cited concerns of a “conspiracy to commit criminal damage.” It was the natural culmination of a decade of erratic behaviour: “bundled away” in broad daylight, with no one left to defend him.
And still, he hasn’t stopped. Still, he stalks. Still, he begs for money. Still, he calls himself “Apostate Alex,” clinging to the fantasy that he’s some kind of rebel. But the facts—and his own admissions—tell another story. “I got kicked out [of the Church], which sucked,” he once said. “If I hadn’t been kicked out, I fully believe I would have very much still been in today.”
Which brings us full circle.
Alex Barnes-Ross is not an apostate. He is not a whistleblower, a critic or a reformer. He is a man who was cast out for cause—because of disturbing, predatory behaviour—and who has refused to take responsibility for his despicable acts. What he sells as resistance is really resentment. What he calls activism is really a fetish for retaliation. And what drives him has never been moral conviction—rather, it’s a compulsive inability to let go of the institution that let go of him.
The story of Alex Barnes-Ross is not a cautionary tale about religion. It is a cautionary tale about self-destruction. About what happens when a man confuses infamy with a perverse sense of purpose, and when hate becomes the last thing holding his life together.
As Mosaic Georgia, an organization devoted to supporting victims of sexualised violence, puts it: Stalkers are often “motivated by obsession, desire for control or revenge for being rejected.” They “enjoy the adrenaline rush of pursuing someone and causing their discomfort, and eluding authorities.”
In that definition lies the real Alex Barnes-Ross—better known, perhaps, as Alex Stalker-Ross or Alex Barnes-Stalker. He’s no apostate—just a predator, a case study in delusion and decline.
And like all stalkers, Barnes-Ross believes he’s still in control.
