God forbid
that the Evening Standard ever find out
that we were living in a
brothel. |
September
22, 2005 (Thursday) London
(England) UP at 6:50 a.m., and take
Jessica to school in Hammersmith. Chatty as ever. A
gentleman from Tonga, a former Empire colony, is
among those applying today to go on my mailing
list. He has a name resonant with the drumbeat of the
South Pacific. I reply: "Who can forget Queen
Salote [of Tonga] at the 1953 Coronation!"
-- a majestic Black dowager, she rode through the
appreciative crowds in an open carriage, despite
the London rain. "It is good to know that I have friends around
the world supporting me like this," I add,
"particularly as I am faced this week with the
added cost of moving to a new address" -- we have
been living at Hertford Street, at the foot of the
Hilton Tower, but our landlord, the fragrantly
named Normandie Estates, has now filled the
building with Eastern European hookers; the
landlord pretends not to know; and the ladies
affect to speak no English. When I address them in
Russian they don't answer that either. Three months ago, when I was in Key West, our
Hertford Street building was raided by a Scotland
Yard SWAT team tipped off
about Russian white slavers. The armed police were
about to crash in through our basement windows, as
they could not get through the door of the
apartment they were investigating -- B. frostily
advised them of their mistake. The apartment in question, No.1, is rented to a
Mr Valentin Malkov: I wonder what else there
is to know about him. Welcome to Mr Sanctimonious Blair's brave
new England! He is deeply, yes, deeply concerned
about the rights of women in Iraq; meanwhile our
own birth country, England, is becoming more
different each month from the country that I grew
up in, that's for sure. God forbid that the Evening Standard ever
find out that we are now living in a brothel. The
Londoner's Diary would make hay, so we have no
choice but to move elsewhere. B. seems markedly better this afternoon and
evening. September
23, 2005 (Friday) London
(England) I WRITE to Alan H.: "We have now signed up and
paid for the new address and look forward to seeing
you tomorrow morning. I have started shifting stuff
out into the entrance hall here to facilitate
things and I will try to hire another pair of
hands. . . The Führer HQ photo album
has arrived here -- it is very good. You'll be
thrilled." September
24, 2005 (Saturday) London
(England) THE big move begins. At Queen Anne's Gate,
[...] is parking her car in front of our
truck. "Are you a White Van Man," she asks
imperiously; well, I am dressed in shorts, grimy,
and covered in perspiration. I identify myself.
"Oh, yes, I thought I recognized you." She is very
friendly and chatty. I say I have featured her
former husband and his brother in my writings as
"Schmutz and Schund." "How very naughty," she says.
[...] Dead tired by nine pm, having lifted, swept,
polished, packed and more all day long. I flop into
bed; our new apartment is immaculately clean and
furnished, and I have chosen the one rear room
overlooking only the central atrium, which should
be very quiet. The agency have assured me is that
the only noise to be expected is once a week at
midday as Her Majesty's Guard parade past our
windows to the Palace half a mile away. But then the nightmare begins, as an unexpected
heavy-metal disco begins at around ten pm. The
selfish, hideous blare (no reflection on our prime
minister intended) lasts all night. B. tells me
that the organizer had rung our doorbell during the
evening and said through the loudspeaker he would
be having a DJ and he hoped we would not mind,
"come down for a drink beforehand," if we wished,
etc. I am woken with a jolt at ten by the thunderous
cacophony; it is spewing forth into the atrium
below at maximum volume, hundreds of decibels,
coming from the open windows of the ground floor,
filling the space with vibrating thumps and sounds,
non stop, without a pause between the different
sequences. I am like Dudley Moore in the
movie "Ten", wakened from his narcomaniac sleep at
that beachhouse at Acapulco. Dead tired, and
sleep-deprived. It is Abu Ghraib, but worse. I lie
awake wide-eyed and staring until three a.m., then
can take no more. September
25, 2005 (Sunday) London
(England) THREE a.m. I decide to transfer to the old flat
to escape the noise, driving back across London to
Hertford Street for one last night in the Mayfair
where I have lived for the last forty years. As I
leave, the disco party is spilling out into the
street, probably what they call "chilling out" in
druggy talk. The old flat is now almost bare of
furniture, but anything is better than the noise I
have left behind. Up at seven, I complete the cleaning here, and
drive back to Queen Anne's Gate at ten. There are
some heavy items I have not been able to load up
single handed. Unloading outside our new flat, I
see the disco party's jovial host, dealing with
sanitation engineers summoned to deal with a
massive blockage in the sewers caused by the
detritus of his merrymakers. He seems genuinely
shocked that there were people in the building who
disliked the noise (B. tells me that it went on
non-stop until seven a.m.) [...] He looks
bemused. September
26, 2005 (Monday) London
- Wiltshire - London (England) JESSICA goes to school by Tube for the first
time; I explore around Queen Anne's Gate a bit. New
Scotland Yard is just a few seconds away: heavily
walled in now by concrete slabs. Funny, we don't
see those new battlements on our television
screens. On Horse Guard's Parade, the Guards are
parading in polished cuirasses and helmets and
scarlet, while tourists gape and click. More disturbing are the immense fortifications
now being built behind No. 10 Downing Street,
erections which were never deemed necessary even by
Winston Churchill in the darkest hours of
the Hitler war. Barbed wire, concrete slabs,
chicanes, dead spaces, bomb defenses, and police
cars stationed at every corner, while two-man
police patrols toting Heckler & Koch machine
guns stroll around. A far cry from Pc Davies
on his bicycle patrolling the village where I was
born. The first thing I would do if I came into No. 10
would be to say To heck with it!, and tear down the
iron gates now barring the street at both ends, and
send the police sentries packing. I would invite
the public back in: They could come in that street
throughout WW2, so why not now? That is what
democracy is about -- conducting policies which do
not make you mortally afraid of your own
electorate. What cowards Blair and his claqueur
bands of freaks and lickspittles are. September
27, 2005 (Tuesday) London
(England) I hear word of Tony, 20, who is with the
British Army fighting Blair's dirty war in Iraq. He
is now completing his second tour out there as a
Fusilier, and a lot of his original idealism has
gone as he has seen his friends and comrades killed
and witnessed sights that no young man should be
called upon to see. The Basra theater has started
to go wrong, and his messages home are tinged with
worry. He is a dedicated and keen soldier;
Josephine would have been so proud of her
son, were she still around today. I go online at a Starbucks (as we have no cable
connection yet). T-Mobile charges me £30 for
seven days. Having paid this monstrous sum, I find
to my fury that T-Mobile will not allow me to
access my own daily
newsletter. It is blocked, or filtered out,
without any warning to that effect (a feature which
I find particularly insidious) -- it just produces
T-Mobile's own bland homepage; but if I address an
item within the newsletter-file direct, it
gets there without difficulty. Clearly some scummy
filter has been installed by T-Mobile, and my web
address is just one victim, perhaps because of its
anti-Iraq war character. Collateral damage. I now recall the odd quirk of
our regular Internet service NTL; this invariably
produced an out of date newsletter index-page to my
browser, no matter how often I hit "Refresh," two
or even three days older than the current one, like
a built-in time delay. Like China, the British
Authorities, in whose very midst I now reside, are
trying to control the Internet juggernaut by
tampering with the wheelnuts on the hubs; it is up
to us to ensure that at least here they do not
succeed. [Previous
Radical's Diary] |