COBBLERS r RUS: THIS POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE CRYSTAL TOFF, THE COBLINKA : MOSCOW

Having been selected by a specially convened meeting of the Executive Committee of the Cobblers Exchange to represent them at the grand opening of the Coblinka, our equivalent organisation in Moscow, it was with great pleasure and pride that I boarded a plane at Heathrow and arrived at Domodedovo Airport not far from the Russian capital.

News of my journey along with the international standing and prestige of our Exchange in London had preceded me. Leaving the aircraft I was met at the foot of the steps by a welcoming committee that included a charming young lady who curtseyed and presented me with a bouquet of flowers with a great smile. I acknowledged and must have shaken at least a dozen hands before being whisked through customs and taken straight to the VIP Lounge reserved only for foreign dignitaries. A brief speech of welcome followed by the customary plates of caviar accompanied by vodka, then a dozen or more toasts to financial collaboration between Great (the word heavily stressed) Britain and the new Russia, after which I found myself boarding a helicopter which took me directly into the heart of Moscow, landing on the roof of the Hotel Intercontinental.

The Czar Nicholas Penthouse Suite was sumptuous with panoramic views across the entire city. It naturally had its own Jacuzzi, gymnasium, internet connections and cinema. Everything programed in English if needed. If I didn’t want fifty channels ranging from Moscow Babes to Virgins from Vladivostok, real life alternatives were available courtesy of the brisk young waiter from St Petersburg who told me he could get me anything - absolutely anything - no discrimination on sex, age or colour, even Eskimo girls from north east Siberia if I was into that kind of thing. Best though were the convent girls from St Vladimir’s, only too happy to start life off for the price of a Volvo.

I considered the options over supper, naturally served in my suite. An ice cold rose champagne to accompany my boeuf stroganoff but where the hell was the sour cream? This was the classic Russian dish and eaten the Russian way had to be accompanied by yards of the stuff. The waiter didn’t know what I was talking about so I sent for the Manager.

But sir, this was the modern Russia. Boeuf Stroganoff was accompanied these days by chunks of pineapple and a Smoothie. I wasn’t having it. “Go to the local fucking version of Tesco and get me sour cream,” I commanded. “Then take my dinner away, heat it up in a micro-wave and bring it all back with another bottle of chilled Laurent Perrier.”

To cut it short the reputation and power of the Cobblers Exchange got me exactly what I wanted and no, I didn’t go for the flesh selection but munched my way through a delicious fruit salad. Just then I caught sight of my face in the mirror. Jesus, who did they think I was, some Frenchman who couldn’t keep his zip buttoned?

That night I slept like a log, showered down then went for the full English breakfast. Plenty of caviar but no black pudding and sadly short on the bacon. I had to order six more rashers. Today would be big. Honoured guest at the official opening of the Coblinka by the top men in Russia. Leave it out! I’m not talking Abramovich here! This was the Moscow Cobblers Exchange not Stamford Bridge. It would be nothing less than the Kremlin itself and soon I’d be saying hello.

The British Embassy had laid on a Rolls but quite frankly I was in two minds. If there was anything you wanted to know then best take a taxi. The drivers had it all down to a tee. Made of the same stuff as market traders with just as much mouth when required. One drew up, the doorman sir’d me in and I sat back in the vinyl. So, I was going to the Coblinka was I? He’d picked up I was English immediately. The Coblinka eh? Nice kind of people. Russia’s new class. Young and hot to make money. That was the way things were these days he went on, sussing me out in the mirror and manoeuvring the conversation for the maximum tip. I lay back listening, the guy mid-fifties or so.

Strange how easy it is to get things wrong if you want to. The man clearly had something stuck in his craw. Parasites. Filthy parasites, the whole lot of them, he kept going on in English like it was all for my benefit. Sold the country to a few thousand rich with fifty million or more eating cabbage soup all over again, same as it was before Lenin…

My ears pricked up. This was old style communist stuff!

The bastards! They took away our subsidized housing, free health care, cheap food and travel. Stole just about everything from the working people and poor. Socialism was the best thing we had. We were different then. We had our Soviet pride and they took it away. We’re a clean and simple people we Russians but that wasn’t good enough. They gave the kids football, drugs and vodka. We used to get drunk under Stalin but now it’s all over the place.

I listened in silence, wondering how much further it was.

The financial district, he growled, swinging a corner. Plenty of money round here if you know how to get it. My son’s a Professor of Music at the Moscow Conservatoire. Gets two hundred dollars a month if he’s lucky. Has to give private lessons teaching violin to kids who’ve already got their own cars. You should see how they live. Parents stuffed with dollars. Homes in London, New York and Paris, and all out of the factories and mines they’ve taken over. And we get the soup and potatoes…

Who owns your taxi? I asked, thinking he was private like most were in London.

I got a sick grin as he ran his finger over his throat. All taxis are mafia, he replied pulling up sharp. The Coblinka, he muttered pointing at a very grand old style building

I gave him his fare in roubles and threw in a twenty dollar bill. He smiled and loudly called me a comrade. It made me wince. Christ, I didn’t want anyone hearing that kind of shit. Least not in my direction!

It was soon out of my thoughts as I walked up the red carpet. The whole place was buzzing with smart young men and women in tailored silk suits, average age mid to late twenties. Girls all had their hair done, the boys smelt of cologne. A scattering of a few grizzled old hands. Speculators out of the seventies. This was a place for the young and go-getting. Ambitious kids who knew how to talk. I recognised so many topical phrases… futures trading, hedging, closing deals, taking up a lead, putting the quarks on, strutting your core round the money… Smooth, easy, unmitigated cobblers and wonderful to hear. Pure Russian Cobblers as Margaret Thatcher must have once dreamed when she’d told Gorbachev he was someone she could do business with. And so it turned out when he helped break the Miner’s Strike!

As I listened I saw more and more people looking my way… You have to be?

My answer rippled round the room. There was a hush at first then a wave of excited talk.

It was him. The honoured guest from the Cobblers Exchange in London!

Everyone looked at me now. People coming over… Soon I was surrounded, everyone wanting to shake my hand and so many good natured smiles.

COBBLERS EXCHANGE! CITY OF LONDON! The words echoed everywhere…

We just had to meet you… We’ve heard so much about your great Cobblers Exchange… How many of you are there? What did we do? Did the really big people listen to us?

With the usual reticence that characterises members of the Cobblers Exchange I modestly held up my hands. Ladies! Gentlemen! We were so alike, you Russians and ourselves, and I could say without doubt that we both spoke the same language. Cobblers was exactly the same in Moscow as it was in London.

There was a buzz of pleasure round the room. Yes, I said emphatically, Cobblers was a universal language which is why the Cobblers Exchange in the City of London had been set up, and indeed we had many members. The Cobblers Exchange was a powerful institution and I was happy to say that all the really big people listened to us. We were one of the most respected organisations in the City and had the attention of Government and Opposition alike along with the ear of all the major financial institutions and industrial conglomerates. And of course we had a good working relationship with the best of our media.

But what we do best, I added, looking around at all the eager young faces, is acting as a forum, an academy for discussing financial ideas and potential wealth creating methods.

There was much nodding approval, but just then an excited stir filled the room. I immediately sensed a powerful atmosphere, always associated with the arrival of supremely important people. The word President came to my ears followed by Medvedev, the name of the Russian Prime Minister. This was it then, I was finally in the presence of the great and the good!

“Our distinguished visitor from the Cobblers Exchange in London, Mr President,” I heard a voice say. Suddenly we were face to face, Putin and myself! There was a firm formal handshake between us. He had a strong grip but mine was equally so. I read the acknowledgement in his eyes… So you also go to the gym!

“A very great honour to meet you Mr President,” I said affably. “Your opening of the Coblinka here in Moscow today will mark another great stage in your country’s remarkable history.”

My remarks were precise and very much to the point for a man more given to action than words. He acknowledged with the courtesy he was known for… Russians were honoured to have this guest from the City of London be among them at the inaugural ceremony to mark the opening of the Coblinka.

This was followed by his address, the translation whispered into my ear by one of my new friends.

The Coblinka was to be an engine for the new Russian society. A place where those who made money could come and talk, share their ideas and generate intellectual capital for the new modern Russia! Enrich yourselves and you will enrich all of Russia!”

With its high note of patriotism his speech drew great applause. He was clearly a man who led from the front. Who spoke our own language. And now beside him his great partner in the New Russia venture, Prime Minister Medvedev. First a snapshot for the media, their photo together, each wearing a crystal symbolising energy and progress, is how I will always remember them best. Both smiling confidently, knowing that together they were taking their country ahead into a magical future. And together it was that they cut the symbolic tape between two specially placed magnums of champagne.

Much flash photography. Tomorrow their faces would make the world’s media.

But now I was to meet the Prime Minister himself. A dapper figure with a smooth round face, dark curly hair, at the centre of his team of advisors. For a moment I was taken aback. It was Medvedev, but at first impression he was a dead ringer for George Osborne! The likeness was remarkable!

“It’s a great honour Mr Prime Minister,” I said graciously, holding out my hand. Someone must have told him who I was. Distinguished guest from the Cobblers Exchange, City of London and all that… His eyes took me in. “I hope we may learn from each other,” he said. “Here in Russia we have always so much admired your British way of doing things.”

I was really impressed, hearing such excellent Cobblers spoken this way by the new Russian political class. I had to hand it to them. They were almost as good as the Liberal Democrats! I nodded my head. Having already listened to some of his young countrymen here at the Coblinka, it gave me real pleasure to say that they talked the international language of Cobblers as readily as our own people did in the City and now further afield in Europe such as other young traders on the Coblieres Francais in Paris and the Cobliano Nazionale in Milan. Ours was indeed an international language. One of finance and commerce the world over. Together we formed a growing movement. A new force for enterprise, peace and prosperity.

It was only later that I remembered what the taxi driver said about the fifty million Russians eating cabbage soup. Too bad I thought to myself. If you wanted to be rich you had to work to get rich. That was the essence of it all really… young people wanting to be rich. The more young people there were who wanted to be rich the richer we’d all be. And while they were making it happen they could all get together and talk Cobblers. Letting everyone know how they were getting along. In our modern society of money and finance the only way to get on was to do the right kind of work and talk Cobblers to the right kind of people. Those who knew the language only too well themselves.

The buzz around the Coblinka continued until mid-afternoon when having been surrounded by one group after another and asked for my opinions on a vast range of financial issues I found myself taken aside by the Chairman of the Exchange and presented with two tickets for the ballet that evening. Evening dress was essential, he smiled, even for me! Plenty of places in the better parts of Moscow that would help.

Leaving my many new friends and back at the hotel I immediately contacted management and let them know my requirements. I was soon measured up for the occasion and by five the outfitters arrived with the finished goods. Trousers, starched shirt, dinner jacket, waistcoat and shoes, and of course a top hat. My Cobblers Exchange Credit Card stood against all costs, its validation more powerful than anything from banks. Cobblers Exchange Credit Card? City of London? When they saw it they immediately knew what kind of person I was. To have one of these came close to buying the Kremlin. No matter, by seven I was all dressed up and ready to go. This time the Rolls Royce from the British Embassy was acceptable.

A great evening lay ahead. My chauffeur parked and I walked up the steps, handing my tickets to a smart young receptionist who hurried to greet me. You have two tickets sir but you are alone. Would you like to be accompanied? I immediately considered the possibilities but demurred. It was either my dear wife or no-one. The sweet faced Muscovite offered me a program and accompanied me to my box in the theatre high on the right facing the stage. Champagne ordered, I began studying the program resume which was in English. The Gala Performance that evening was of a ballet specially created by Vaichovsky, one of Russia’s leading young composers to mark the official opening of the Coblinka.

Below me there was a great bustle as the theatre began filling up, sounds of music and the sense of great expectation. The story of Coblina as the ballet was called centered on Irena, a financial heroine among Russia’s young nouveau riche who discovers a new way of futures trading and aided by her partner Alexei, a youthful hedge fund manager, they set out together on a magical quest to harmonize the trading market with their romantic inspiration. All goes well and they become the toast of the new Russia but then tragedy strikes. As I watched, totally enchanted, they are betrayed by Pseldonimov a jealous bureaucrat who plants false information in their name on the Currency Market causing panic and collapse. The two lovers are trapped in a downward spiral of selling and in a dramatic finale, stricken by grief she dies in his arms on the floor of the Futures Exchange, where the music now at its climax is joined by the cries of their distraught friends as their faces appear for the last time on the trading screens before fading.

By the end I was quite overcome, sharing the emotions of the entire audience as the final curtain came down. For a moment there was a stunned silence which quickly gave way to rapturous applause and waves of the well-known Russian oorah! The entire gathering was now on its feet cheering its appreciation at something so moving. Soon the curtain rose again with the prima ballerina and her partner taking center stage. Again endless waves of rapturous applause! The ballet fully evoking the traditional passion and romance of Russia now welded to its new aspiration of financial hope and prosperity. Only in Russia I kept telling myself. Only in Russia!

I spent my last hour there in the Dressing Room of the stars and Moscow’s assembled glitterati. This was a very cultural affair so no politicians. The main players were introduced to me and I couldn’t help but note their respectful demeanor. I was, after all, the representative of the City of London Cobblers Exchange at the heart of the new British financial culture and the ballet could also be said to represent our own aspirations, without the tragedy of course! That’s a very Russian thing and best left to those who know how to do it. Something to which we more reserved British might justifiably respond, leave it out! 

We don’t like too many tragedies here in Britain, and neither I hope, will the ambitious young folk on Moscow’s Coblinka. Let’s be clear. Cobblers is the language of talking it up. We’re into profits not loss. Even so, while raising my glass for yet another toast I couldn’t help wondering about the cultural diversity of our international language and in the end it was left to me to give the final accolade to which all the assembled company raised their glasses.

TO COBBLERS, TO THE COBLINKA AND TO RUSSIA!

The following day I had private business to attend to. That completed I boarded a flight to London and gave my report to the Executive Committee of the Exchange late Friday evening. It gives me much satisfaction to say, on behalf of myself and my associates, that my visit to Moscow had been a most memorable occasion and an excellent opportunity for fostering good relations between the two countries across the financial spectrum. Safe to say, it will be the language and aspiration of Cobblers that will take us forward together into a bright future.

Finally an important announcement. At the close of our meeting it was unanimously decided by the Committee that in view of the Prime Minister’s relationship with someone charged by the police with attempting to pervert the course of justice we cannot at this time bestow on him the illustrious honour of the Cobblers Gold Star. The banquet that we proposed to hold for him in this respect has therefore been cancelled.

We have noted in our Minutes that the charge is extremely serious and until justice has run its course we cannot allow the reputation of the Exchange to be associated with a politician careless enough to sign his emails to such people, L.O.L. (LOTS OF LOVE) and have the sheer lack of sense to send them imprudent messages of the keep your head up variety.

THE WONDER OF SUGILITE: HEALING ENERGY TO THE TWELFTH POWER

As a market trader with an interest in minerals, crystals and healing energies I well know the excitement, the almost magical effect that the word Sugilite has on the most orthodox adepts of the faith let alone believers whose numbers are counted in millions all over the planet. The very name is a matter of reverence. Spoken in hushed tones and with all due respect. It is such a wonderfully innervating thing that if only to write of it here I deem a humble privilege.

I hope then that I may be forgiven if I begin this blog for those not already initiated and pray that others to whom much of the following is already well known will give me their understanding.

The first specimen of this extraordinary mineral was discovered only as late as l944 by the illustrious Japanese geologist Kenichi Sugi, its location still partly shrouded in secrecy. It was soon identified as a rare potassium, sodium, lithium, iron-manganese aluminium silicate and is nearly always massive, lumpy in form, though its crystals when found are prized by healers beyond avarice.

For healers its Chakras gift to the 3^rd Eye, 6^th; Crown 7^th; Transpersonal and Etheric, 8^th all the way through to the 14^th. Its power is immediately effective with an extraordinarily high degree of vibration. Key to its elemental force is its capacity for intervention in, and the interpretation of dreams where its guidance is profound, its Spiritual Protection and purification becoming what is essentially a glowing beacon of light. Its element, as is well known, is Wind and its colour range, from pale lilac to deep purple, is enchanting. Those who have seen it will never forget. Those who possess it…

There are many who come to the stall seeking to discuss it or simply to talk. Sugilite! They know the name. Maybe their lives have been affected just by knowing it, let alone possessing a precious pendant. It is indeed a talking point and occasionally people congregate, joining together just to share their experience. They ask questions. Have I seen any? Have I myself felt its vibration and power? Their desire to know is immense. Their curiosity insatiable.

The words come fast and I, as ever, respond with patience and forthrightness. A respect for those whose secret longing, whose cherished goal, is to reach out and touch infinity. Yes, I have seen it. A mineral of wondrous resonance and beauty. Have I ever sold it. Only rarely and yes, I know of its power!

Those then are the facts. Indeed, so much is known, and yet, hidden at the heart of its story is the inner secret of the prize. Where it comes from… How much of it is there left in the world and of course, the ultimate question… The secret of its power.

I am often asked for its origin and where I get my supply. These questions raise complex moral issues. Those of security, of confidentiality, and perhaps a desire above all, for the protection of those who risk everything to bring it before a wider public through channels such as myself. There is only one place I know of anywhere in the world where the gem grade quality of the stone may be found. It lies in a seam hidden within a narrow band of rock close to a lake. The discovery of the mineral outcrop was purely a matter of chance and explains why mineral collectors, using scientific analysis, have despite their best efforts, failed to locate it. In short it shouldn’t have been where it was.

And yet there is something else to relate. Its discovery was indeed the product of an entirely different form of reasoning. A thought process as valid as any other and its discoverer an adept and explorer in those uncharted, intuitive seas. Here is part of what he told me. All I am willing to tell. The seam is located at a precise intersection of two ley lines on a point somewhere off a mountain range in Central Africa whose valleys are as yet unexplored. The situation is complicated by local volcanism in the proximity of a dangerous geological fault in the region. Obtaining Sugilite is therefore currently hazardous in the extreme.

There is an additional matter that I should remark on. Those at the centre of the healing fraternity, people I cannot name, have now fixed the energy of Sugilite precisely at the Twelfth Power. If correct, and I have no reason to doubt, this is truly extraordinary. As far as I know, speaking with the authoritative voice of science, it is possessed only within the hottest stars found in our Galaxy, the Blue Super-giants such as Rigel and Sirius.     

This said, it takes no great leap of the imagination to consider that at a time not so far distant, when the technology has been created for harnessing such power, its crystals will be incorporated in specially built generators bringing heat and light to great cities. And thinking further afield, it may yet be demonstrated that they will power the engines of vast ships, create the dream of warp drive and take mankind towards its destiny out into the universe.

But for now, returning to the present, enthusiasts who come to the stall press me ever again for the source of my supplies. I tell them it’s a personal matter. That I have a visitor from Africa. They acknowledge in a spirit of love and of peace. Far more important is the immense healing power of the stone. Clearly it derives from its earth siting… at the intersection of the two ley lines where the elemental force of the middle earth is concentrated and liberated… Kenichi Sugi’s original deposit confirms this from its position at the same kind of junction in the Far East. Power taken from the spiritual centre radiates across the planet. Now that people understand why, they will accept.

As for myself, I feel that whenever Sugilite is spoken of there is always that inevitable communion between those who delight in the mutual understanding of its wonders. I rarely have any to sell but when I do it’s over a hundred times the price I pay for it. Especially after I’ve finished talking!

BATH, HITLER, AND THE HOLY GRAIL: SOME COMMENTS ON HITLER’S VISIT TO BATH IN 1920

PART ONE: AND DID THOSE FEET?

It has often been said by those who, in the view of the local council may be considered uncharitable, that the emblem of the City of Bath might best be portrayed by a seagull of which there are only too many and who spend much of their time, like the politicians, shopkeepers and officials of one kind or another, shitting all over the townspeople. An uncharitable view? Well if one were to put it to any of the above worthies, especially the landlords and shopkeepers who make Bath a rip off merchant’s paradise and one of the most expensive places to buy food and live anywhere in the known Universe, they’d tell you to fuck off and live elsewhere.

Well naturally, but then these people, whose only real interest has been screwing whatever they can get from the tourist trade and what may best be described as ‘property development’ for which read a whole long litany of hanky-panky, are only defending interests which have characterised the City for hundreds of years. Georgian Bath was built as a speculator’s paradise among whom dwelt Beau Nash, hero of the Council and city establishment who put the town on the map for all the well-heeled and famous to visit and was himself Master of Ceremonies at the Pump Room where he presided over swank when actually he was really a master of fraudulent activity and confidence trickery second to none. No problem!

And what a treat it has been to see the writer Jane Austen promoted to iconic status heroine by these people as the City’s well beloved darling daughter! Oh she lived in the place all right, sure she did, but she hated its pretentious swank all ends up partly because a wretched local shopkeeper falsely accused an aunt who lived there of shoplifting, a hanging or transportation offence at the time. The writer expressed her opinion of the place two years after she left it for good in a letter to her sister Cassandra dated 1808,

“It will be two years tomorrow since we left Bath for Clifton, with what happy feelings of escape.”

Even more damning is a passage from her novel, Northanger Abbey, where she has Isabella Thorpe confiding to Catherine Morland,

“I get so immoderately sick of Bath; your brother and I were agreeing this morning that though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions.”

Yeah, right. So much for Bath’s heroine! Today however, given the City’s lust for the tourist trade, the Jane Austen industry is seriously big with countless Americans and other wealthy ignorant tourists paying big money to doll themselves up in Georgian dress and parade around the City like arseholes. And that’s to say nothing of the wretched cream teas and pissy little souvenirs they get taken for a ride on.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly! The great poet Shelley who stayed in Bath was always the Bad. Of all the metal plaques the Council’s put up to anyone famous who lived here there’s nothing for Shelley, sent down from Oxford for being a radical and atheist. That says it all. Bath, a tight little, right little place always up its own arse and full of prejudices had a long term mayor in the 1860’s aptly named Tite, a name that featured as a family in one of Dickens novels, the Tite-Barnacles. No wonder the Liberal Democrats have got the place by the balls but better them than their Tory opponents, constantly fearful of the travelling community and threats of an unclean and troublesome, indeed alien encroachment into the City as they see it, which neatly brings me to the subject of the first part of this post, Adolf Hitler’s visit to Bath in 1920, possibly on his way to Glastonbury, Tintagel and Stonehenge with a strange idea in his head.

Of course, there’d be many people who’d say I was having a laugh. After all, didn’t the Luftwaffe bomb   the shit out of the place in the Baedeker anti-British culture raids? So much then for Hitler having any affinity with it. Well actually, apart from dropping a bomb in the Circus they only really hit the Rail Station and surrounding areas. The Abbey, which stood out like a sore thumb, along with the Pump Room, Roman Baths, all the great Georgian Crescents along with the Guildhall, the famous Palladian Bridge, Pulteney Street and most of the rest of Georgian Bath were left untouched when they could so easily have been flattened. In short if Hitler did visit Bath he may well have had a special affection for the place.

And yet was that all it was? Could it have possibly been something more? I’ve already mentioned Glastonbury, meaning the Tor, Stonehenge and Tintagel, all of which, like Bath with its legendary King Bladud and his daughters, are places of real ancient mystery and folklore. The Tor and Glastonbury Abbey along with Stonehenge are associated with the druidic cult and rosicrucianism, and Tintagel with its Round Table Arthurian legend and Sir Percival are at the centre of much Holy Grail talk. Well, weren’t all these places with their iconic symbols, ancient heroic knights, cults and legends absolute grist to the mill for Nazi ideologists, especially such proponents as Heinrich Himmler who became guardian steward of the SS and was involved in so much Nazi mythology-seeking. Hitler, already by 1920 a virulent and vocal anti-Semite now on the extreme right wing of German politics was already looking for ways to mythologise Germany’s past, harking back to a spurious greatness after its ignominious defeat in the First World War, so any inspiration gained from West Country English legend might certainly have proved useful in helping him develop his Wagnerian ‘lost in the mists of time’ views. Indeed, rather than dismiss it all as a joke one could, with little effort, regard his time in Bath and elsewhere as positively inspirational, and certainly a subject worthy of speculation and enquiry.

For the thirty-one year old Hitler, whose ideas for a new Germany rising out of the ashes were already fast coming together, in order for a nation to create its future it had to look to its past. In this sense, his visit to Bath and other places deeply rooted in a powerfully spiritual and mystical national past can be seen as highly formative in the development of his views.

So what of the evidence? The impetus for my thesis originates from an incident of which I thought little at the time, occurring during the sixties when Bath was still semi-rustic. It’s a story worth telling. I was sitting in the Ring of Bells pub in Widcombe, now a posh wine bar, listening to some locals talking with broad Somerset accents. I’d only recently arrived in the City and was keen to learn more of the place from those who’d lived there for so many years as I thought. The talk was mainly about the old days and how things were back in the twenties and thirties when many of the townspeople had worked as cooks, coachmen, waiters, charwomen and servants of the well to do along with others who were self-employed tradesmen and innkeepers. Conversation turned on drinking and old hostelries and the folk who used to stay at these places.

“You remember the old Castle Hotel in Northgate Street don’t you George?” someone said to a friend. “Fanny Bateman was still there running it when they closed it down. Lively lady she were and no nonsense about her. Full of stories she were.”

I listened avidly. Keen to lap up any reminiscences of old times.

“Once you got ‘er talking she’d start going on about some of the coves who’d took lodging there. Many of them jobbing travellers they was. The town didn’t have much tourists in them days though some of them travellers were mighty queer fellers at that. One of them came after the War, nineteen-twenty she said it was. A mighty peculiar young fellow. German, I remember her saying but spoke funny like he wasn’t German at all. There for a couple of days seeing the town he told her. What you might call a touristing man. Having a look round.”      

My curiosity was aroused. A young German visiting the town two years after the War. Well I suppose it was unusual but then maybe he was a student or something, interested in architecture or history.

“He was visiting around he’d told her. Would have been water off a duck’s back for someone like Fanny Bateman, even him being German and all, only he was a strange kind of chap she let on. Paid his money all right, but the look of him, that’s what give her the creeps! Not only his look but him looking at her! Black hair swept over his forehead and eyes black as the devil himself she told me. Seemed to look all the way through her, she said, and all in a face white as a sheet…

“She took pity on him I remember her saying. Thought he looked skinny, needed feeding and all. She was always generous filling his plate. That was another strange thing. I mean his habit of eating and drinking. Vegetables only it were and really down on his ale. Drank water most with his meals. Still, she was used to all kind of folk, only it was his eyes she remembered most so she said. Made her feel creepy.”

That was the end of it, for the strange young German at least, before he began going on about other things. The other tale I remembered was about a Second World War bomb killing an off duty fireman in the Circus who happened to be on his way home. Both stories stayed in my mind for a while but gradually faded, disappearing into the much broader canvas of everyday life, marriage and family. It was only many years later when something occurred to bring it all back. I’d been watching a program about the rise of the Nazis on television when a series of pictures appeared, one of the striking me forcibly. The year was around 1920 and a pale faced man, hair swept across his forehead, with piercing black eyes instantly caught my attention. It was the young Adolf Hitler!

My thoughts raced and the memory of what I’d heard all those years earlier in the pub came flooding back. I couldn’t believe it but once made the connection was irrepressible. It couldn’t be put back in the bottle. The story I’d heard in the pub, the description, and now the face on the screen! The resemblance was simply too strong, too shocking to be dismissed. The young German who’d stayed at the Castle Hotel and the man who was to become Fuehrer of the Third Reich were one and the same. Hitler had been here in Bath!    

I related the whole thing to my wife, no-one else. Who else would believe me? I was faced with the same problems that Dan Brown had to face when developing his theories about Mary Magdalene and the blood line of Jesus. Scepticism, disbelief and doubt. Maybe if I began searching for evidence? My thoughts went back to the old man in the pub. That was forty years in the past. He’d be dead and gone long time ago but maybe he’d passed on his tale? Maybe his family knew something? Such a line of enquiry had nowhere to go. I didn’t know the man’s name and maybe he hadn’t even lived in the City. I thought of making other enquiries. Would anyone else know the story? It was hardly likely. But then what of Fanny Bateman herself?

It was over ninety years back and the Castle Hotel long gone. Part of Bath’s heritage demolished in 1924 to make way for a ghastly neo-Georgian style post office. It was only a precursor to the 1960’s tearing down of nearby old Walcott Street and its taverns to make way for a huge and seriously ugly car park besides an architectural joke of a post-modern style hotel. But that was in the late ‘60’s when planning controls could best be described as fifty quid and a handshake. As for myself I was looking much further back and despite various phone calls and enquiries at the Public Records Office my efforts to track down her family got nowhere.

It made me think long and hard. No, I wouldn’t give up. Maybe if I turned the story the other way round. What if the young Hitler just couldn’t have been here? For example, like it could be proved without doubt that he’d been somewhere else at the time. I needed to find out what he’d been doing throughout 1920. He’d joined the German Workers Party in September 1919 though had stayed in the Army until end of March 1920, drawing army pay and speaker’s fees for being an extreme rightist political agitator. This was a time before he actually took over the Party and began organising it. If I could create a daily record of his life and account for what he’d been doing I was in with a chance.

It was true that in later Nazi mythology, in their polished up ‘manufactured’ record of his life, there was no mention of him ever travelling abroad after he’d left Austria for good and taken up residence in Germany. Sure, we all know about those later trips to Paris and Prague with both countries under his boot but that was much later on. Nineteen-twenty was something else. His time in the War and immediate years after were never fully detailed or made clear. Well if I could account for all his time during that year being spent in Germany then he surely couldn’t have visited Bath!

Alternatively what about British immigration controls at the time? Aliens’ registration requirements and passport controls. He was still an Austrian citizen and it was less than two years after the War had ended. Even for tourists? Would the British authorities have needed to keep an eye on a young traveller from Germany? All these issues required considerable research. I needed to establish a timeline.

More important than anything else however a question kept coming back. If Hitler had come to England, travelling to Bath, Glastonbury and Stonehenge, perhaps even Tintagel, why had he come? It was a question that led to much deeper thought. Could he have been looking for something? Something so special, so powerful that the idea could no longer be ignored.

What on Earth could Bath have had to offer him? There’d been Iron Age settlements built nearby, the place had then become Roman and with the later Romans had come Christianity. The first formal place of prayer had been built by Bertana, a French Abbess who came to the area with twelve nuns from the South of France and constructed what is known as the first Abbey very close to the site of the Roman Baths whose waters are fed by an ancient spring. The waters indeed, are another matter for they were well known to Romans and then on through Saxon, Medieval, Georgian and modern times for their strange healing powers. That is indeed why the Georgians established a Mineral Water Hospital there, now the Royal Mineral Water Hospital and the only one of its kind in the country. A special centre for the treatment of many diseases.

So the water had healing power. I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind. The water had the power of healing. Why should that be. Was it only coincidence? Could the young Hitler have had some illness from the War and come to Bath for treatment? I checked the records extensively. No, the name wasn’t recorded. Whatever his interest was it could only have been something else.

No, I was getting ahead of myself. I already had evidence that he’d been in Bath. What I needed to do was firm it up. Naturally the best thing would be finding a photo. A shot of the little guy and his moustache outside the Guildhall or Roman Baths. I scanned everything available from the time to no avail. However the more I thought about it the idea came into my mind that there might be another way. If I could prove beyond doubt that he couldn’t possibly have been here at that time because there were records proving beyond doubt that he was in Germany, let’s say making a speech somewhere, or at that time so soon after the War he wouldn’t have been allowed into Britain, well that would be that.

I felt a buzz of excitement. I had to switch to the methods of Sherlock Holmes! Build up a meticulous record of his time during the year and check out the records of controls on foreign nationals visiting Britain. If I could eliminate the impossible what was left had to be true. Some serious detective work lay ahead and I relished the prospect. Only then, only when I felt sure, could I let my thoughts run. The real reason for Hitler being in Bath… His search for something so precious, so fundamental, that its possession might dominate the history of mankind for a thousand years…

I could barely contain these thought as I relayed idea after idea to my wife who I knew would accompany me in this enterprise. However, as you will know from your reading of other material, there are grave dangers associated with the exploration of this subject. The power of the Vatican, of Opus Dei in particular, with its limitless financial resources and fanatical disciples, to reach out its hand to eliminate enquiry is very real.

I AM INDEED, YOU WILL UNDERSTAND, SPEAKING FROM THE PRESENT TIME ABOUT ENQUIRIES CONDUCTED IN THE PAST. MY RESEARCH IS NOW ALL BUT COMPLETE AND ITS FINDINGS ASTONISHING.        

TO ENSURE ITS SAFETY IT HAS BEEN PLACED IN THE HANDS OF GUARDIANS FROM WHOM IT CANNOT BE RETREIVED BY OUTSIDE HANDS AND WILL ONLY BE RELEASED UNDER CIRCUMSTANCES THAT I MYSELF WILL DETERMINE. MY THOUGHTS ABOVE ALL ARE THAT THEIR SAFETY AND SECURITY CANNOT BE COMPROMISED.          

IT IS MY HOPE, HOWEVER, THAT ANOTHER CHAPTER OF THIS STORY WILL SOON BE RELEASED.

EURO-COBBLERS: MORE NEWS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE CRYSTAL TOFF: COBBLERS EXCHANGE: CITY OF LONDON

It is with the greatest pride and satisfaction that we here at the Cobblers Exchange bring to our British, indeed our world-wide audience, one of the greatest media scoops of all time. Neil Armstrong stepping onto the Moon… Proof that Hitler was a transvestite… Shakespeare exposed as an Alien? Forget it. Below, for the eyes of the whole world to see, we have the honour of presenting the sensational photo that will lift the spirits of all those hard pressed citizens of the European Community of Nations now experiencing such difficult times.

This is the photo, made public for the first time, that the British Government tried so hard to suppress and for a while succeeded until work by one the traders affiliated to the Exchange – who must for security reasons remain anonymous – supported by one of his contacts in the Conservative Party, helped bring it to light. Here it is that you see the unmistakable unity of purpose, determination and above all, guiding energy of the two main leaders of the Community coming together to demonstrate their intent, so wonderfully expressed here, to solve the problems of Europe.

At the Cobblers Exchange in the City of London both I and my fellow traders agree that the crisis in Europe is a matter of the gravest international importance and overrides purely national considerations of local politics. In the United Kingdom it puts into perspective all the oily vote grubbing and lying promises around election time of the main party leaders from Cheesy Nick and the Millipede to Eton’s version of Mr Pasty. Let us be clear. Europe is our main export market and recognising the significance of this, the traders, dealers and brokers who meet at the Exchange have contacted our friends across the Continent, encouraging them to set up cobblers organisations such as our own. 

Knowing they will have the support of their national leaders, I can tell you that they have now established Les Cobblėres Francais in Paris, a Kobblershaftsdienste in Frankfurt and an already very active Cobblesi Nazionale in Milan. Only just a few days ago we received an email from Madrid. The Coblěros at the heart of the city’s financial district is now up and running! It’s all splendid news. With the help of our multi-lingual translators we can now talk cobblers to each other across Europe. Hedge Fund Managers and Futures Traders will now not only be able to talk the same kind of cobblers to each other across geographical borders, there’s also a huge potential market for cross-cobblers considerations. For example, pasta traders across Italy with affiliation to the Cobblesi Nazionale in Milan can now exchange views with the wine makers of France on the Cobblėres Francais.

Speaking for myself, this internationalising of commercial exchange brings huge benefits for the crystal healing fraternity. I can exchange cobblers with my crystals street trading counterparts across Europe and such exchanges, you will understand, go right to the heart of co-operation and friendship between the political leaders of Europe. What you see in the photo is the expression of the national determination of the two main players to act together energetically in a spirit of peace, harmony and love. Alas, as you can see, and may recall from our Prime Minister’s recent meeting in Europe, David Cameron seems determined to keep our country on the outside. He does not presently believe in the benefits of crystal healing on the European stage, possibly only on the national one, though this is still a matter to be decided. (See previous Crystal Cobblers posting).          

All this is very unfortunate for us here in the City of London. The vast majority of my associates engaged in talking cobblers fully believe that the Government should take a more pro-active role and with this in mind it has been suggested that a banquet be held in the Cobblers Hall at which the Prime Minister would be our Guest Speaker after which he would be presented with the highly prestigious award of the Cobblers Gold Star, a pendant with gold outlining a carved star shaped piece of Madagascan Rose Quartz. Needless to say, only six of these Stars have ever been awarded and bestowing such an honour on the boy from Eton would first need to be sounded out. An award of the Cobblers Gold Star, or as I myself prefer to think of it, the Rose Quartz Star, would mark a significant milestone in his career and bring him within the compass of the healing fraternity, so setting a fine example for all national politicians and perhaps leading him to a closer relationship with his European counterparts. Much will depend on how he sees himself in historical terms on the world stage of politics.

Laying these thoughts aside I return to the main considerations of this post, Euro-Cobblers and its importance for creating a common dialogue between traders. It is recognised now as an absolute prerequisite of modern trading and finance that we all speak a common language. This is not to say that we all have to think the same, but it would certainly be of enormous value if we shared our common concerns i.e. talked about the same things. Talked in the same language so to speak. This does not mean we have to abandon our national language, but instead create as a basis for dialogue a language we can all understand, and I for one, supported by my colleagues here in the City, firmly believe that the basis for any such universal language is cobblers. There might be French cobblers, Italian, German, British, Chinese and Mexican cobblers, and of course American cobblers. Whatever the case, the essential character uniting it all is cobblers. Cobblers as the new international language the world over. Think of it! Every nationality of traders having its own cobblers. In China, the street traders or the men on the money markets having their own cobblers as do those in America, Germany or Russia, and all these national cobblers being not so very different from each other. The aim then of internationalising the language is simply the internationalising of cobblers!

Now please! I’m no theoretician or philosopher. These are only some of my thoughts. Thrown out at random as it were. I have no intention whatsoever of writing a book on the subject as some have suggested, such as The Theory and Practice of Cobblers, or Cobblers for Beginners. Nor even an academic paper for one of our learned journals. Neither would I accept any academic appointment such as the Emeritus Professorship of Cobblers which I gather is being set up at the University of Berkshire. Accepting a Chair in Cobblers is not my intention. I’m simply a humble street trader with a few ideas of his own, even though I’m well aware  that there are those who see me having a future on the world stage of commerce. For myself I have no such immediate ambitions and wish merely to set my sights on the expansion and prosperity of the Cobblers Exchange which I helped establish here at the financial heart of the City of London, and promoting the growth of such exchanges, first in Europe then perhaps throughout the world.

London has been a great success and as the Crystal Toff I feel myself at the heart of things. Our aim now, with the help of our more enlightened political leaders is to firmly establish ourselves in Europe. An excellent start has been made and there has been no dark energy opposition. Euro-Cobblers! At last an international language for Europe for those who trade. For those who engage in commerce and finance. For those who bring so much wealth to our country! Linked with the healing power of crystals, a forum for therapy, for settling differences that have plagued the continent for a thousand years! People talking cobblers to each other across national borders in a language known to each other!

Sprechenzee Kobblerz?... Oui, je parle cobbleres aussi! … Et moi? Je suis Le Toff Crystale!

You see, all you sceptics out there… Euro-Cobblers is only the start. Naturally each nation will bring to the language aspects of its own national character. Cobbleres francais will be droll, gay, debonair. Cobblo Italiano more expressive, excitable. Deutche-kobblerz, formal perhaps. More precise. As for our very own Brit-Cobblers, who can say? A touch reserved maybe but with a strong sense of humour. Rude at times. Even anarchic. Now imagine all those droll, gay, formal, precise, excitable, humorous, rude, anarchic characteristics all mixed into one language and what have you got? I’ll tell you if you haven’t guessed. What we’ve got is a new language. Euro-Cobblers!

So here’s to Euro-Cobblers and I ask you not to scoff,

it’s the language of the future for the trader and the boff.

The wheels already rolling but no problem to get off

Or stay awhile and read my posts, cos I’m the Crystal Toff!