Saturday 12th December

Well, I got back on Thursday.  It was spitting in Stansted and a bit windy, definitely chilly.  In London it was a fine drizzle, little more than a mist.  By the time I got to Walton it was definitely raining; poorly dressed my faithful brown hat was soaking, my jacket damp and my jeans wet from the thighs down.  Welcome to England.

Today (Friday) it has been raining all day.  A dark brooding sky overhead and an oppressive gloom over everything.  Huge puddles everywhere, cars splashing us poor pedestrians with glee.  Maybe it will stop tomorrow…..hahaha.

In France it tends to be very cold, clear and crisp at daybreak.  A fine frost sparkling everything with a white dusting.  And by nine the sun is out and a clear blue sky slowly warms us all up.  At least you know day from night.  And because the clock is (sensibly) an hour later it is still light at five in the evening.  I am writing this on Friday evening at 5 and it is pitch black outside.  Brrrrrhhh.

And maybe this wretched climate is the reason the English are so ruthless, so cruel, so heartless, so selfish.  The weather is awful, so we might as well make your life miserable too.   Hahaha.  Who knows.  Now I know why I couldn’t wait to get away.  Enjoy the day, it looks like rain again.

Friday 11th December

Sometimes everything seems to happen at once.  I have the new book coming out and am eagerly awaiting catching my first sight if it, hopefully when I get to Walton tonight (Thursday) where they should have been sent, though this may entail collecting them from a Post Office  – we will see.  And to add complications, we have just bought our new house in Eymet.  We signed the final papers on Wednesday at 6.30 in the evening.  But earlier in the day I had been to the house to meet the son of the old lady who had died (a year ago) to check the Central Heating, hot water etc:   It all seemed okay.  Then at four my wife and I had delivered a few odd bits of furniture and essentials such as a kettle, j. cloths and bleach.  The house is actually very dirty, as well as needing a complete paint-job – every room has old seventies wallpaper, though the floors are nicely tiled throughout.  We negotiated with the family and are now the proud owners of a few beds, three of which are old carved wooden ones and a few armoires, a dining table and chairs and a few other bits and pieces.

Anyway…..so we had our first night in the new house on Wednesday and it was okay.  Much quieter than we had feared, as it is near to the main Boulevard, and it is certainly nice to have Central Heating again.  We are having the whole place re-wired in January, and when we sell our other house we will have some money for a new kitchen and a couple of en-suite showers for the guest bedrooms.  Today was Market Day, so up at six and opening the café by seven, then pretty busy until one.  Quickly, we took another load of stuff to the new house and then to the Airport.  I had scheduled this flight long before I had the date for signing for the new house, and it has all been a mad rush.   Landed at Stansted, then to Liverpool Street and a quick visit to the Restaurant (madly busy because of Christmas) to collect papers to work on tomorrow, and then on another train to Walton.

I have hardly given a thought to Christmas, which has a nasty habit of coming round every year.  I am going to spend Sunday shopping, mostly for the Grandchildren, but there is also Mum and Dad and my Sister and of course my own children.  Then next week I will be rushing round trying to see everyone before Christmas.  And who said retirement would be boring?

Thursday 10th December

And I did.  He led me through large and spacious rooms and up a flight of stairs and into a bathroom.  I hadn’t used a bath in years; supershowers were all I was used to.  He turned on both large taps and soon the bath was full of hot steamy water.  He tossed several large white towels on the floor and said he was just off to find some clothes for me.

I stripped off and was just getting into the water, far too hot – I had to add some cold, when I caught sight of myself in the mirror.  I was certainly thinner than I used to be, but I was covered in bruises and grazes, angry purple and yellow welts especially around my lower back and the top of my legs.  I started to cry again.  I was crying out of relief, and some sort of shock.  I had expected to be reported, I had expected Polis and arrest, I had expected brutality of one sort or another.  The last thing I had expected was human kindness, and yet that was what I had found almost everywhere.  Jonathon and the Aldwych cell were kind to me, Emily and Dan on their farm also, and Charlene too – she had shown me kindness.  I just didn’t know how to accept it, that was the problem.  And now this strange little man who must have been all of eighty was kindness itself.   Even when I had said I was a runaway, he hadn’t seemed fazed at all.

I sank into the hot water and winced as the warmth hit my tired and bruised body.  I let myself slide into and under the water, submerging my whole body in it, even letting my head slide under the water.  There was soap and shampoo, so old-fashioned, everyone used micro sprays of cleanser fitted into the shower unit itself nowadays, I didn’t realise they still sold bars of soap and bottles of shampoo.  I cleaned the layers of dirt off myself and washed my hair at least three times, and rinsed it by sliding time and again under the water.  I hauled myself out of the bath and folded my tired but at last clean, if bruised and tender body into the towels.

Downstairs my host had warmed up some soup and nothing had ever tasted better.  It was tomato soup, I think.  It reminded me of that simple pleasure as a child, coming home on a cold rainy day and my mother heating up a tin of tomato soup.  My mother, I hadn’t thought of her in years.  She had divorced my father decades ago, and lived in America now.  I never saw her these days, just a vidcard at Chrissie; she never looked any older.

“Now young man, I think you had better tell me all about it, and then we will have to decide what to do with you.”

“First I must thank you sir.  Most sincerely, i might have died of the cold and exhaustion if you hadn’t let me in.”  I looked at him, but he was still smiling that strange slightly benign smile.  “I suppose you could call me a reb, but actually I am simply discontented. I was in strata level AC3, and looking back I had nothing to really complain about at all.  On a materialistic level in any case.  I just couldn’t stand my life anymore; I kept thinking there had to be something else, and so I left that life, and have been on the run ever since I suppose.”

“Yes, I guessed as much.”  He said, stroking his chin and reaching for the glass by his side.  “And what may I ask have you discovered, in your new-found freedom.  Have you found your salvation?  Is there a better world out there, outside of the strata system? Well, is there?”

“I honestly don’t know.  I was looking for a sort of freedom, but it seems everyone I met was running from something but had found nothing, except alcohol.  I met a few drunks, or ‘alcohol dependents’ anyway, I suppose you might call them.”

“Yes.” And he held the half-empty glass of amber liquid up to the light. “The old alcohol conundrum; it has been a bugbear for decades.  Was it so harmful that we had to actually ban it?   Oh, it was costing the nhs, and private meds of course when they took over, a fortune, and so something had to be done.  But I am not sure banning it was the answer.  Tobacco – there was never any real merit in the filth, but alcohol is harder to assess.  Try some?” and he held the glass out to me.

“You’re not telling me that is actually booze, are you?  I haven’t tasted that stuff for over twenty years.  How come you are drinking it?  It’s illegal.”  And I instinctively shied away from both it and him.  He was still smiling, or was it mocking me?

“Oh, lots of things are illegal my boy.  But that has never stopped people, has it.  You see I am in a slightly unique position.  I am one of those who make the rules, and of course am allowed to break them too.” And he held up the glass and said “Cheers.  Not that anyone outside of this room knows that.  And now I have the added dilemma of what to do with you, my friend.  I cannot just let you go, walk out of the door and tell everyone what you know.   That there is this old man who is one of the elite, who decides how everyone else should behave, who is knocking back antique malt scotch and taking in God knows who from the street.  No, that would never do, I am afraid.”

I was suddenly a bit frightened.  All of this had been too easy, too simple to believe.  And in my desperate and hungry state I hadn’t been thinking straight at all.  There was no way anyone would have been this kind to me.  This was just the prelude to the inevitable.  I was one click away from being arrested.  For a moment I toyed with the idea of making a break for it, of rushing the old man and escaping this, admittedly comfortable, place and trying my luck outside again.  But I was tired, and weak, and besides he could have had the place surrounded by now; for all I knew this was being recorded as it was happening, and would be even more damning evidence against me if I hurt the old guy.

“So what are you going to do?  Are you going to have me arrested, clagged even?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  For the moment you are free to stay here, but I must warn you the house is quite secure.  Unless I request it the doors and windows are secure both for entrance and exit.  Let’s just wait and see.  It may be that you could be of some help to me and some close friends of mine.  For the moment I can only extend the hand of limited friendship.  As I have invited you into my home you are by definition my guest.  You must be tired.  You will need to sleep soon.  But I would like you to be completely honest with me.  If I am to help you I must have that understanding.”

And of course I had no choice but to comply.  And I was dog-tired.  A passing thought ‘had he drugged the tomato soup’ skittered passed my tired brain but it was gone in a moment.

We talked for ages, and I felt I had no choice but to tell him everything.  Just as the sun was coming up above the houses opposite he led me like a child up stairs and into a small guest bedroom, and the welcome warmth of a real bed with sheets and blankets, and like the child I had become I crawled into bed, pulled the blankets up and over my head and was asleep in minutes.”

Wednesday 9th December

I cannot remember that much about the Assassination of Kennedy, but as a young teenager interested in Politics and with far less TV News coverage I know it was still a terrible shock.  A beacon of hope had been extinguished.  And though in retrospect we have learnt a lot about how awful Kennedy was, what with affairs with Marilyn and the escalating war in Vietnam, it is still the enduring image of the young man with a young family leading his nation that remains in my memory.

But thirty five years ago today (Tuesday) John Lennon was shot and died outside the Dakota building in New York.  And I can remember feeling so desolated, so lost, so bereft of hope in the few days after that.  And again the more we learned (and maybe always suspected) about John; his possible contribution to the death of Stu Sutcliffe, his nasty selfishness, his ousting of Cynthia in favour of Yoko, his virtual abandonment of Julian, his continuing drug and alcohol abuse.  And yet it is the film of him singing ‘Imagine’ in a white room while Yoko goes round opening the shutters and letting in sunlight that remains in the memory.  I worshipped the Beatles as a teenager, and as they got weirder, so did I; falling into the hippy dream and barely surfacing since.

And why is it that these violent deaths of quite flawed and yet truly inspirational people affect us so deeply. Is it that they are frozen in time, never allowed to grow old (like other Politicians and Singers)?  Is it that our selective memories choose to recall the words of hope “Ich Bien ein Berliner” or “All we are saying – is give Peace a Chance” over anything else?  Or is it some sort of collective guilt?  Why didn’t we protect these precious ones?  Why have we allowed the World to develop in such a violent and vicious way?  Many people felt the same way about Diana, but not me – she never wrote “All you need is love”; she never offered a new World order.

And we cannot change the World, or not much.  Maybe we have to hold two apparently contrary ideas in our minds at the same time.  One, that nothing we do will make any real difference, in either the History of the Earth or indeed of the Universe – and two, that everything we do makes a difference, that being kinder, helpful, thoughtful, talking to people, writing blogs (hahaha) – it all makes a difference.

And now after 35 years I don’t feel so sad about John Lennon.  We still have his beautiful songs and can see and hear him as we wish to remember him.  Happy Christmas – War is Over.

Tuesday 8th December

I discovered Carole King, along with almost everyone else I knew, in 1971 when her superb album ‘Tapestry’ was number one for months and actually stayed in the top 40 for almost six years.  But her debut ‘Writer’ which flopped a year earlier is just as good and remains my favourite of all her records.  But she actually started as a songwriter; along with husband Gerry Goffin she worked in the Brill Building with Neil Sedaka and Neil Diamond, and wrote hits all through the sixties including ‘Will you Still love Me Tomorrow’ for the Shirelles, ‘The Locomotion’ for Little Eva, ‘Take Good Care of my Baby’ for the Drifters, ‘I’m Into Something Good’ later recorded by Herman’s Hermits and ‘Natural Woman’ for Aretha, along with many others.  The Beatles even recorded ‘Chains’, which she co-wrote, on their own debut.

Divorced from Goffin, Carole moved to Laurel Canyon where she met Joni and James Taylor amongst others, who encouraged her to sing her own songs, which along with her beautiful piano playing became a huge hit.  It was everywhere, the record of choice at all those fabulous parties we went to in the Seventies; as the lights grew dim and the crowds thinned out, we would settle back with a drink and a joint (well, I might have puffed one or two) and listen to Carole King sing her beautiful songs.  She has continued making albums but rarely appears live which has resulted in diminishing record sales over the years.  Her reputation remains largely as having the most successful female album for over twenty years, until Madonna came along.  No contest; who remembers Madonna?  But I believe that Carole King songs will still be played and ‘Tapestry’ will remain a favourite in many record collections for years to come.  Mine included.

Monday 7th December

The News has always fascinated me, and not only what are the headlines – but far more importantly, who decides what the headlines are; indeed who decides what is news.  Nowadays there will be an editorial team who decide not only what to lead with, but just how to fill up the thirty minute slot (or whatever it is – quite worrying lately are the 60 second news update, a complete nonsense).  This is known as the news agenda and will often be dominated by what is in the papers, and as these are now 24 hour entities on-line, we don’t even have the spectacle of the Papers missing by-election results or late votes in the commons.  But why I ask should the BBC, which has thousands of reporters all over the world who must be sending in stories constantly, have to rely on a Tory dominated, right wing news Media where half the stories are Politically decided, if not actual Propaganda.

And so, we spent over a whole week in Paris – and everything else was sidelined.  Meanwhile, while no-one is watching, the most important multi-country conference is now taking place in that very city, where a deal of some sorts is being hammered out to try to save the Planet.  But apparently this is not newsworthy – we should have live feeds from all the delegates on 24 hour TV, but hardly a mention.  A man is stabbed at Leytonstone station by someone reportedly shouting “This is for Syria” and is headline news, while the execution by Israel of suspected Palestinians involved in stabbings of Jews goes unreported.  And this is how the news is.  We are absorbed in “A” and the inference is that this is the most important thing happening in the World, meanwhile while no-one is watching “B” is really happening.  And strangely I have noticed that I am automatically switching to channel 501 “Sky News” and only going up 2 to 503 (BBC news) when the wretched ads come on.  Because in a strange way Sky news seems a bit more varied in its news coverage; they seem less frightened to offend the Government, a bit more interested in obscure stories which might just have more long-term significance, though it was Sky which started reviewing the Papers every evening, which the BBC has also adopted.  I don’t really care what the Mail or the Telegraph are lying about; I am quite capable of looking on-line at the Guardian or Indy.  But even here there is a tendency to follow the news agenda slavishly, and meanwhile how are things progressing in Myanmar, where a fledgling Democracy is struggling for Power (a few weeks ago it was a headline – now no coverage).  Or the Junior Doctor’s dispute ( days ago this, or the imminent strike, was headline news, and meanwhile while no-one is watching, well, exactly what is happening?  No-one is reporting).

And we see the RAF planes taking off while excited reporters and armchair Generals speculate on the possible targets, meanwhile while no-one is watching dead babies line the streets, the few remaining houses are reduced to rubble and more innocents die.

Sunday 6th December

For me it was always about far more then the music, though undeniably the music was great.  It was about a new way of interacting with the World; in fashion, design, TV, Cinema and even Literature, a new feeling was in the air.  It was a liberation from the dead weight of the past.  Our parents had lived through the War, our Politicians had lived through the War, and we had grown up in the Fifties, with rationing and bomb-sites and yet, even here there was an air of optimism.  Council houses were being built everywhere, television was the new thing, and like a flag waving to us loud and clear there was America and Rock and Roll. And we were going to do things differently; there was a new Labour Government in ’64 after 13 years of the complacent grouse-shooting Tories.  The Beatles, Mary Quant, Biba, Carnaby Street – it was all happening.  Then came the summer of Love, 1967 and Woodstock and ‘All You Need Is Love’.  Yes, things would never be the same after the Sixties.

Then ‘at-a-stroke’ Grocer Heath won in 1970 and the Tories were back in town.  And even though they only lasted just over three years, the Seventies were halting and uncertain; three-day weeks, war in the Middle East, sterling crises and the whole dream started to collapse again.  The Tories swept back in ’79 and Norman Tebbit blamed our demise on “The Sixties”.  But these Politicians were still War-kids, and they looked to the free-market and not Socialism to rebuild our World.  And that was it.  The same mentality has ruled supreme ever since.  But I don’t think that Sixties Optimism ever entirely went away, many of us are still hippies at heart and there is still a desire for a better, fairer world.

For many years our young people knew that the World was a dung-heap, and their only ambition was to sit astride it and look down on everyone else.  But now things are changing again.  Slowly, there is an optimism growing, an idea that it doesn’t have to be like this; that the free-market doesn’t work for the benefit of all of us.  Maybe all those Sixties kids who became teachers were slowly indoctrinating the kids all along.  Outlandish ideas such as Female Equality, Racial Tolerance and Acceptance of all types of Sexuality have become mainstream – our Politicians are lagging far behind Public Opinion.  So, don’t be depressed by the bombing in Syria or continuing Austerity, things are changing and there will be a better World.  We just have to trust our kids.  It won’t be another Sixties; that was fifty years ago – but I feel there will be a new Optimistic decade, maybe in the Twenties (co-incidentally a hundred years after another time of new ideas) and the World will get better.

Saturday 5th December

Unless you kill every one of your opponents you will have to end up talking to them.  And as far as I can see nobody is (yet) advocating mass Genocide of either the Syrian population, or of Isis fighters, or indeed of anyone who believes in a different philosophy than we in the West adhere to.  So, at some point or other we; the West, Nato, the UN, Russia (delete inapplicable) will have to talk to anyone still left standing in Syria.  But of course, although the declared enemy is ISIS/ISIL/Daesh we must not forget that only two years ago the enemy was Assad (the legal Government of Syria) and only a few weeks ago America was still insisting that Assad must go.  So who, I ask, is really the enemy?  Or is there perhaps no real enemy; is there not just a suspicion that this war, like that in Iraq (twelve years ago and still not a success) is really about Oil and Global Supremacy?  The military, industrial complex are rubbing their hands with glee – each ‘smart’ weapon costs hundreds of thousands of pounds, each downed plane costs millions.  And all at a time when we are bombarded with the message of Austerity; we are still billions in deficit every year, hospitals in crisis, cuts left right and centre and food banks and payday loans on the increase.  And yet we can always afford ‘a few millions’ (as Osborne described it) for War.

Anyway, as we expected Parliament has voted for War.  But a strange sort of a War; there is no end-game in sight.  Absolutely no-one has any idea what Syria will look like in five or ten or even twenty years time.  How long are we expected to continue bombing Daesh (the latest name for them) for?  Will there ever be another vote in parliament, either to continue the bombing, to stop it or to commit ground troops?  Nobody has any idea.  And we are not even fighting another state (even if Daesh has proclaimed itself as such), we are fighting an idea – which may be far harder to defeat.  I suspect that every ISIS fighter killed will become a Martyr for the next generation to emulate.  Unless we stop killing Muslims and start helping them to rebuild their societies in maybe a completely different way than we run ours then this idea will not die.  At the end of the day we will have to talk to these people, or face a future of War without end, terrorist atrocities without end.  Oh !!!  Durgh !!! How stupid of me – maybe that is what this is all about anyway.

Friday 4th December

Diary Entry – 20660606

“I was in a bad way when I emerged from the storm drain, soaked to the skin, bruised and bleeding again, cold as hell and hungry too.  My poorly trimmed hair and beard were a dead giveaway that I must be some sort of reb.  I probably smelled pretty rank too, and my clothes were almost in rags.  I was being hunted by the Polis, it was almost certain that I would be re-captured and clagged even.  They would never give me another chance now, I was sure of that.   So what kept me going?  What inner stubbornness was driving me, or was it just fear, the fear of a cornered and outnumbered animal that despite being surrounded fights to the last breath.

I looked around me for surv-cams but could see none.  The nearest house was about fifty metres away and had a long sweeping driveway with topiary bushes at the end of the gravel drive.  A welcoming porch-light lit up a small yellow/green patch of grass.  I walked briskly, head down and in some pain up to the front door, and hesitantly rang the bell.   This was it, either I would be immediately reported and arrested, detained, questioned and clagged, or….actually I had no thoughts as to any alternative.  Maybe some kind old lady would take pity on me, maybe I would meet a fellow reb, maybe the house was empty and I could find a way in.

The door swung open on its automatic hinges and I was almost blinded by the light pouring out into the darkness of the drive.  A short balding man in his eighties or so was standing with a glass of amber liquid in his hand and staring in amazement at me.

“Can I help you?” he said in a quiet voice, “Are you lost, or something?  Come to think of it how on earth did you get here, I thought these enclaves were a hundred percent secure.  Well?”

“I am looking for some shelter, a place to recuperate.  I am cold and hungry.” I said, “But I promise you I mean you no harm, I have run away from my home and family, I just had enough.  I am not sure what I am going to do, I just need a place to rest up for a few days.”

“Well, this is most unorthodox.” And he blinked at me, and took a sip from his glass. “I suppose you’d better come in, you’ll catch your death out there.  It’s four in the morning, you know.”

“I wasn’t aware of the time; I hope I didn’t wake you?”  I stupidly said.  He was fully dressed; of course I hadn’t woken him.   How bizarre this was, I was having a polite and civilised conversation with a complete stranger, me in rags, wet and bleeding and he in a woolly jumper and old-fashioned tartan bedroom slippers.  He made a gesture with his hand for me to come in, and I almost fell stumbling into his welcoming and warm house.

“I hope nobody saw you out there, I really don’t want any trouble.”  He looked both ways down the street before pressing the button to close the heavy wooden door.

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t.  Are there any surv-cams outside your house?”

“No, but there is one at the end of the road, oh a couple of hundred metres away or so.”

“Good.  Then I haven’t been seen.  I came up through the storm drain.” I explained.

“What on earth were you doing down there?  Come in here and get warm, you’re soaking wet man.”

And he took me into his home, just like that.  I am not sure if he fully understood the danger he was putting himself into, but I was so grateful.  Just to be somewhere warm again – a sofa, carpets, a chance to wash, food, a cup of tea.  He made me a cup of tea.  Can you believe that, the most civilised and normal thing in the world.  I took the delicate (china?) cup from him with trembling hands and brought it to my shivering lips.  The smell, the warmth of the sweet liquid.  Oh sweet tea.  I hadn’t had this simplest of everyday drinks in months.  I was suddenly overwhelmed and started to cry.

“Now young man, perhaps you would like to tell me exactly what you were doing on my doorstep at this ungodly hour?  But maybe we should get you bathed and into some warm clothes first.  I am afraid I am quite a bit shorter than you so they may not fit, but they will be far better than the rags you are in now.  Put that tea down and follow me.”

Thursday 3rd December

I am writing this before the vote on the United Kingdom joining in the bombing campaign against ISIS, so I do not know the result; however I am fully expecting the vote to be passed, regrettable as I think that decision would be.  But this piece is not specifically about whether we join in and bomb Isis or not; others will decide that question.

So, what happens when you bomb people?   Two things happen immediately.  One is that innocent people are killed, and the other is that the people you are bombing become more determined to resist their attackers than ever before.  On every occasion (bar one, which I will discuss later) aerial bombardment has not won a war, or more importantly weakend the enemy’s resolve to fight.  The first wholesale bombing campaign was the German bombing of London and other cities in the first years of the Second World War.  Thousands of ordinary people were killed, children were sent wholesale to ‘safe houses’ in the countryside, curfews were imposed, thousands of buildings were bombed and burnt to the ground.  But it weakened our resolve not one jot, in fact it stiffened it; Churchill used the very fact that we were being attacked in our own homes as justification for our bombing of Germany.  And boy, did we bomb them in return.  Many cities like Dresden, of no military significance at all, were razed to the ground.  Possibly millions of innocent Germans perished, but the leaders were unmoved, the war continued to the bitter end.

It can be argued that dropping the Atom bomb on Nagasaki and Hiroshima was successful, but the Japanese were in full retreat by then anyway, and they had lost their German ally.  Maybe it was a way out for them, and we must never forget the awful nature of these weapons, the horrific destructive power which had never been seen before.

In Vietnam almost ten times the bombs dropped by all sides in WW2 were dropped on that tiny country.  Guess what?  They won anyway.

In Gaza, the Israelis have repeatedly bombed the Palestinians.  It hasn’t changed anything, except to make Israel almost a pariah state.

And so far there have been hundreds, maybe thousands of bombing raids already on ISIS.  And so far, to no avail.  In fact there are reports that they welcome it.  It simply confirms their belief that the West is embarked on a crusade against Islam.  They also believe that they will win.  Maybe not this time, but eventually.  And as we discovered after Iraq, the actions of the West, no matter how “well-intentioned” (durghhh!!!!) have resulted in chaos and civil war and a massive increase in terrorist actions elsewhere.

So bomb away Mr. Cameron, bask in the reflected glory of being one of the big-boys, but I hope you realise what actually happens when you bomb people.