THE LONDON PARALYMPICS GAMES OF 2012: THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY

So you all saw the disabled athletes, sportsmen and women from many countries, parade on foot or in wheelchairs into the Olympic Stadium, and you all saw their proud, happy, sometimes quiet, sometimes serious faces. We can never really know where these people have been, can barely understand where they have come from to arrive where they were. Places of pain, places of despair. Places of untold effort, of superhuman courage and determination, of failure, of rededication. Of step by step progress, of ultimate triumph to become the people they are and conquer so many odds.

I saw their bright happy faces and I saw their look. That same look from all those countries. A special look. Many helping each other and the special spirit it conveyed. Clear, clean and honest. And I was reminded of a verse that George Orwell once wrote many years ago during the Spanish Civil War describing the expression on the face of a fellow compatriot moments before he died.

“But the thing that I saw in your face,

No power can disinherit.

No bomb that ever burst,
Shatters the crystal spirit.”

 A crystal spirit that was particularly memorable when set against the background music and Channel 4 chat because when the British contingent of paralympians came into view something special had happened. Something was missing! How many of you saw it? The wretched Channel 4 commentators missed it or else preferred not to notice. A big protest was being made by the whole British squad who’d tucked the Atos branded lanyards and badges hanging round their necks into their track uniforms. The protest against Atos however was seen by many and commented on the following day in the media.

What happened was major. A mass protest by the host team not just a few individuals. So who are Atos and why should the entire British team make such a great symbolic gesture, ignored of course by the British Paralympic Committee? Well, if you’re a disabled or severely handicapped person receiving a state benefit you might very well have heard of them by now. Atos is the French company chosen by the above committee to be one of the sponsors of these Paralympic Games, a really nice touch that when it’s also the company awarded a hugely profitable contract by the former Labour Government to carry out ‘fitness to work tests’ on disabled people and handicapped people with the aim of making comprehensive cuts to the benefits they receive.

Now that really is a nice touch!  The countless anguished complaints and protests from severely disabled people who have already had their benefits taken away are already well known. The ‘fitness to work’ tests are harsh. Medical records from hospitals and doctors have been ignored or brushed aside with no appeal allowed against the decisions of these private ‘arbiters’ now the darlings of the present Tory – Lib Dem Coalition. As stated, Atos makes a huge profit on its contract but then the former Labour Government had worked it all out. The benefits being cut for disabled people would help pay for the contract. In short, it’s the disabled, the most needy people of all who are now paying to have the benefits they received taken from them.

A really nice touch that, Gordon Brown. Get the people who really need the money help a private company make a profit by taking it away from them while at the same time relaxing all the controls on the bankers. That was what the magnificent and courageous protest by the magnificent and courageous sports heroes of the British Paralympic Team was all about. IT WAS FOR THEIR FELLOW DISABLED HUMAN BEINGS IN THIS COUNTRY WHO HAVE TO FIGHT ON A DAILY BASIS AGAINST POVERTY, AGAINST PAIN AND AGAINST REJECTION.

Now I want to digress for a minute. I want you to consider the poverty, the pain, the anguish, the rejection and the distress suffered by banking executives, financial advisors and investors, futures traders and money men everywhere in the City of London who may lose millions of pounds in bonuses or may not get the two  million in cash and shares they were promised for causing the share valuations of the companies they work in to crash. Who spares a thought for their loss, their distress at losing their benefits, bonuses and free holidays in first class hotels? Who spares a thought for the loss of their executive lunches and dinners?

Well I’m happy to say that there ARE people who care. When it was in power it was Gordon Brown’s Labour Government that cared. Now it’s the Conservatives and their Liberal Democrat Coalition partners who care. No company or organisation has been given a contract to cut out or means test bankers bonuses. And no need for them to worry about medical reports or getting a letter in the post telling them they’re only getting a million quid at the end of the year instead of two. They can all rest assured. The money they’ve lost for their banks or other financial rackets on the money market casino will be made up by the hundreds of thousands of disabled people among others who are having their benefits taken away. Benefits, by the way, they themselves contributed to during the course of their working lives.

No, you’d better understand it. It’s disabled people now who have to pay for banker’s bonuses and salaries. And the people doing the taking are sponsoring an Olympic Games for the Disabled! It’s a bit like the Nazis getting the Jews who they were sending to the Death Camps to pay for their rail fares.

But fear not. All it not lost. Nick Clegg has just opened his mouth and its being heavily put about in the news. Help is on the way! The great Liberal Democrat leader has spoken, peep-peep. The really rich should pay a bit more tax to help balance things out, peep-peep. The Oracle has offered up his wisdom! Isn’t it great? We can all sleep more easily in our beds now! He’s had the great thought, as partner to the Tories in the Coalition, that the rich should pay a bit more, peep-peep. So what was it he did just a few months ago? HE AND HIS PARTY VOTED WITH THE TORIES TO REDUCE THE TAX BURDEN FOR THE VERY RICH FROM 50% to 45%. That’s what he ACTUALLY did. He gave money to the rich after he and his wretched Party had already voted for Government cuts THAT TOOK MONEY FROM THE DISABLED.

Now that’s a really nice touch! Taking money from the disabled, reducing taxes for the very rich, then piping up not long before the Lib Dem Party Conference with radical noises for public consumption about the rich paying a bit more tax! Well his good friend and partner in the Coalition, George Osborne, soon slapped that down. They couldn’t do it! It was the rich who created all the wealth. They couldn’t keep adding to their tax burdens. They’d drive them all out!

A well-deserved put down and rebuke for opportunistic peep-peeping. Yes, and thank you for telling us George that it’s the rich finance men of the City of London who create all the wealth. Well George I think not. In view of all the tricks your friends have been getting up to in the last ten years, like losing thousands of billions of pounds for their own finance houses through risky investments and hiving these losses off onto the backs of the British people INCLUDING THOSE WHO ARE DISABLED in cuts to the welfare benefits they receive if they are unemployed, poor or disabled, it is only right to ask, is it the working people of this country who create its wealth, its engineers and scientists, its car builders, its teachers and workers throughout so many areas of industry, its nurses, hospital workers and fire-fighters, or is it your stupid friends?

And there was your boss David Cameron, now head of Team GB, continuing the attack on the disabled initiated by Gordon Brown’s Labour Government, watching the parade of disabled British athletes pass by. Was he wondering, perhaps, like the company Labour had appointed to take away the benefits of the disabled, whether any of them in the parade and about to participate in sports to win a gold medal for Britain were actually claiming disability benefits? If indeed any were, expect to receive a letter through your door sometime soon from one of the Games major sponsors telling you that you’ve lost your benefit and that you’ve got to hand back the gold medal you won because you really weren’t disabled in the first place!

So sad that but never mind. There’s always Nick Clegg to say a cheery word. Peep-peep…

Look at the faces of the politicians and their rich banker friends in the City, then look at the faces of the disabled, yes, and the poor who struggle daily to make ends meet. No greed or avarice here. Each itself a land of courage, and a home of the brave.

THAT WAS THE GOOD AND THE BAD. NOW FOR THE UGLY

Late night special from Owen Gibson of the Guardian 30^th August 22.23 BST

“Paralympics GB officials have denied suggestions that the team staged a deliberate protest against the controversial London 2012 sponsor Atos at Wednesday night’s opening ceremony.”

Note that this is the TEAM OFFICIALS making the denial, NOT THE ATHLETES.

“Officials said that the lanyards had simply been tucked inside the distinctive Next designed outfits because it had been noted that they were flapping around in the wind…”

Flapping around in the wind! Joke, joke. Lord Coe and the British Paralympic team officials really need to come up with something better than that on behalf of Games sponsors Atos.

Flapping around in the wind! DID ANYONE SEE ANY OTHER TEAMS LANYARDS AND BADGES TUCKED AWAY IN THEIR OUTFITS OR DID THE WIND ONLY BLOW IN THE BRITISH TEAM’S DIRECTION?

NO, THE PROTEST TOOK PLACE AND NOW IT’S LORD COE AND HIS OFFICIALS WHO ARE FLAPPING AROUND.

The big question is… are there any serious threats against the athletes flapping around?

CHARIOTS OF BULLSHIT

Right, you’ve all heard the catchy music and seen the film. All those nice men running along the beach looking like film stars, getting their feet wet in the sea. All those splendid fellows in the British team training for the Paris Olympics. Young lads inspired. On fire with the idea of a medal.

The film certainly inspired the organisers of the recent London Olympics because they used the catchy background music by Vangelis as the sound-off and accompaniment for the medals ceremonies but then of course there was the film itself. Billed by its creators as a true story of the trials and tribulations of a Jew and a Scotsman who both wanted to win Olympic Gold in athletics for their own very different reasons.

You remember the film. You remember handsome Harold Abrahams at Cambridge, a Jew dead keen to be an Englishman, and likewise the saintly Eric Liddell, Scots missionary, passionate believer in God and doing God’s work who wouldn’t run on a Sunday.

It was all very interesting but how much of it was actually true?

This indeed was a story about two young men and their backgrounds, and how their athletics careers came together for the Paris Olympics of 1924. Romantic wasn’t it? Full of good looking colourful characters, sporting aspirations, hopes and dreams, challenges and triumphs, but it wasn’t a documentary. The viewing public were undoubtedly charmed by the script, the music and the actors. It won many awards and made a packet of money, but how many of you simply took it all in at face value? Didn’t ask yourselves any questions about how real it all was. Simply, how truthful the whole thing was?

Defenders of the film can simply say, hey, it’s only a story! It wasn’t exactly meant to be true even though it was presented as such. Fine. Let’s see then what was truth and what was bullshit.

The film opens up with a Church Service commemorating the life of Harold Abrahams after his death in l978 and closes with the hymn Jerusalem sung by a church choir. Strange that, for a Jew, no Jewish burial service in a synagogue, but not so strange really seeing that he wasn’t a Jew when he died.

Harold Abrahams’ father, Isaac, emigrated from Russian occupied Poland to England then spent some time in South Africa before returning and finally settling in Bedford. Abrahams is not a Russian Jewish name. Isaac changed it from Klonimus and set up The Bedford Loan Company. Despite describing himself as a ‘financier’ he was more of a jeweller than anything and highly aspirational for his children. One of Harold’s elder brothers became a famous athlete and inspired his younger to do likewise. After time at Repton public school during which he achieved great athletic distinction he went to Gonville and Caius College Cambridge which is where the film portrayal of his athletic career begins.

So let’s look at the film then consider the reality.

CHARIOTS OF FIRE and Harold Abrahams (aka the actor Ben Cross) protestations about prejudice.

These are conveyed near the beginning of the film as he chats to his friend Aubrey Montague in his rooms at Cambridge and in his College Chapel. Here, the script writers allow Harold to make a big thing about prejudice, particularly when he talks about his father being alien, as foreign as a frankfurter, to which Montague replies, and a kosher one at that… In the Chapel, Abrahams goes on to say, my old man forgot one thing, this England of his is Christian and Anglo Saxon, and so are her corridors of power, and those who stalk them guard them with jealousy and venom… adding, well I’m going to take them on one by one and run them off their feet…

The impression you get here is of a man full of resentment. It couldn’t be any clearer. He feels himself to be a real victim of prejudice and comes over as someone determined to get his own back. Within the context of their conversation there is also the impression that Aubrey Montague is possibly a fellow Jew. Certainly at least a fellow student at Cambridge. The conversations in Harold’s room and in the Chapel are fictitious and never happened. Aubrey Montague was a student at Oxford not Cambridge, and was the grandson of an Irish catholic priest who left the priesthood to marry.

Secondly the script writers intimate that senior staff at Abrahams’ college had anti-Semitic attitudes i.e. queries about his father being a financier and Abrahams playing the tradesman by employing a professional running coach. This is hardly likely as they didn’t have to admit him to the College in the first place knowing his background. Furthermore, Harold Abrahams never said anything in his later life about experiencing racial prejudice at Cambridge.

More important than any of this is that in real life Harold Abrahams had never made a big deal about his Jewish heritage or religion. He never attended synagogue or participated in any Jewish festivals or activities. He was much more concerned to identify himself culturally with activities that were quintessentially British such as the Gilbert and Sullivan operatic society at Cambridge and in the film sings of the virtues of being an Englishman.

Nonetheless, his very real lack of interest in his heritage does not prepare us for his decision ten years after the Paris Olympics to abandon his faith, minimal as it was and convert to Catholicism. This is not a thing that Jews do. No matter how little they may be committed to it, the Jewish heritage of a Jew is something precious. Almost sacred, even in non-believing, non-observing secular Jews. Jews are proud of their heritage everywhere, despite their history of persecution, so for Abrahams to convert to a religion that has the greatest history of persecuting them is extraordinary. Indeed it throws into question everything intimated in the film about his Jewishness, his concerns about prejudice or anything else. It’s all a carefully contrived piece of fantasy. In real life Harold Abrahams didn’t give two shits about his Jewishness. Two years after he converted he attended Hitler’s Berlin l936 Olympics as a commentator for the BBC knowing full well about the wave of anti-Semitic persecution in Germany but by then of course he wasn’t a Jew.

The film’s portrayal then of his concerns about anti-Semitic prejudice during his time at Cambridge are just plain bullshit. Just as bad was the portrayal of his race with Lord Lindsay, sorry, Nigel Havers, a character actually based on the real life Lord Burghley. In the film they are shown racing against each other round the Great Court of Trinity College Cambridge in the time it takes to strike 12 at midday with Abrahams performing the feat for the first time in history and Lindsay crossing the line a fraction too late.

Another wretched lie. Firstly Harold Abrahams never attempted that run; secondly neither did Burghley or Nigel bloody Havers because he wasn’t even at Cambridge at the time! Not until 1927 anyway. In that year however Burghley successfully made the run for the first time ever and was very upset when somebody else got the credit for it in the film. Never mind, who cares about the truth. In any case the film sequence was never shot at Cambridge just in case you think it was! It was done at Eton, ultra-elite posh public school of the film’s director!

Now then, let’s get to the romance! In the film, while at Cambridge, Harold meets and falls headlong for Sybil, singer at the D’Oyly Carte opera. A real cosy, heated, classy romance. Portrayed as Sybil Gordon she’s seen with him in various poses of pine and languish on the athletics track, in a posh restaurant, and at the railway station after his return from Paris with his gold medal from where, the audience assumes, they’ll definitely be getting it on.

All of it bullshit. Firstly his gold medal was sent to him in the post but more important perhaps, he never met Sybil till ten years later and her name wasn’t Gordon as stated, but Evers, whom he married in l936! The little romance at Cambridge was a complete pack of lies which hid a far more interesting truth. Harold Abrahams’ real romance while he was there was with the serious scholar Christina Innes. They were formally engaged but their relationship ended when he began focussing exclusively on his athletics, and after he left Cambridge, on the coming Paris Olympics.

The script writers therefore invent a totally fictitious scenario for one of its two main characters’ love life. It may have looked good for all the snobby restaurants, expensive cars, aristocratic estates and aristocratic friends, may have pleased all the American lovers of English aristo tradition but it was all a load of bullshit. A piece of slush cinema fantasy that had nothing to do with reality or truth.

So, Harold Abrahams’ Jewishness dodgy in the extreme, his affair with the lovely singer and actress when he was at Cambridge a complete lie and his race round the Cambridge Quadrangle demonstrating his athletic super-star pedigree yet another invention. So what comes next? Please, don’t worry, it gets even better!

Key to the film and Harold’s gold medal triumph in the 100 metres race in Paris was his relationship with professional athletics coach Sam Mussabini. In the film Sam appears out of the blue after watching Harold lose badly to Eric Liddell in a race and suggests he can help him improve his performance. The film suggests that Abrahams enthusiastically takes him up on his offer. In fact it was Eric Liddell who first introduced him to Sam Mussabini after Harold had been watching Liddell race at Stoke-on-Trent in July 1923 and Mussabini’s coaching in reality makes all the difference.

In the film, Sam, portrayed as waiting silently and alone in a room at the Olympic Stadium in Paris while Harold ran and won his 100 metre race then congratulates him when the two men immediately get together afterwards. So much for the film only that never happened either. Sam Mussabini wasn’t even in Paris at the time and neither did Harold cloister himself away from everyone. In reality he ran in the final of the 200 metres race first, finishing last before getting his big chance in the 100. He didn’t meet up with Sam until much later and neither did he return to the lovely Sybil waiting for him all posh and agog at the rail station.

But hey, never mind! You all loved the handsome Ben Cross defying racial prejudice and coming home to his gorgeous blonde bird with gold safely in his pocket so who gives a shit for the truth anyway?

But wait. You haven’t heard it all yet. There’s the other side to the story. This time it’s about the great Scots athlete Eric Liddell who runs to glorify God, played in the film by Ian Charleson. He’s entered for the 100 metre race in the Olympics but it’s only when he’s boarding the boat for France that he hears the heats for the event will be run on a Sunday. In the film the devout Scots missionary refuses to participate despite being summoned to a meeting with the Prince of Wales and a British Olympic Committee ropping with aristos and put under heavy pressure. The day is saved by good old Nigel Havers playing the entirely fictitious Lord Lindsay who offers to yield his place in the 400 metres. Liddell gratefully accepts and his religious convictions in the face of national pride make media headlines around the world.

It all helps make a great story. The resentful Jew on one side, the Scots holy man on the other. One man runs to fight prejudice the other to glorify God. That’s the way the film tells it. Alas, even the Eric Liddell part of it is bullshit only with him it’s possibly worse. The race schedules were published months before he got on the ship. None of it came as any surprise as portrayed in the film. True, the pressure he faced from the aristos was real enough but there was no meeting with the Prince of Wales or the British Olympic Committee. He’d already made the decision to switch races long before going to Paris and spent several months training for the 400 metres race, a distance in which he’d previously excelled. 

That’s missed out in the film. The impression you get of Liddell is that he’s a completely honourable man without a scheming bone in his body and all the while he’d had it sussed out. He could keep his reputation as a man of God and run for him at the same time which is no doubt what he intended. The film makes no attempt to tell it as it is. Like Abrahams, Liddell represents a simple idea. A hero athlete fighting for a cause. In one case a fiction, in the other a twisted reality. None of it mattered. The public enjoyed what they got and believed what they saw. As for the producers, they rode their Chariots of Money Making Bullshit all the way to the bank.

Alas, in real life someone stole Harold Abrahams’ gold medal.

One of the real unsung heroes of the Paris Olympic Games story was Douglas Lowe, Britain’s third athletics gold medal winner. The fictional character of Lord Lindsay was created when Lowe refused to have any involvement in the film. Clearly, they had to get Nigel Havers in somewhere!

Two other pieces of nonsense. At the memorial service for Harold which opens the film, Lindsay says that he and Aubrey Montague are the only members of the British 1924 Olympic Team still alive. Bit of a problem there as Montague died in 1948, 30 years earlier.

And even more dodgy! In the film, before the Olympics 400 metre final, Jackson Scholz an American competitor is shown handing Eric Liddell an inspiring Bible quotation, “It says in the good Book, ‘He that honors me, I will honor.’ Good luck.” Completely untrue. The note came from members of the British team and was given to Liddell before the race in the British team’s Paris hotel. The change was made purely for dramatic purposes. When Welland the screenwriter asked the American who was still alive at the time if he was willing to be shown handing Liddell the note Scholtz was dead keen. “Yes, great, as long as it makes me look good.”

That was what the film was about really. Making a story look good by substituting fantasy for reality.

The only real truth in it was that Harold Abrahams and Eric Liddell won athletics gold medals at the Paris Olympics in 1924. The rest was a manufactured drama that was loved by the public, won awards and acclaim for its creators and participants and was simply a plain load of hogwash. A bit like making a film about the political career of Margaret Thatcher using Marilyn Monroe in the lead role.

A more important consideration than much of the above is this. Why did Harold Abrahams, born a Jew of Jewish parents, spend most of his life after Cambridge as an active Christian yet still receive the accolades of the British Jewish Establishment when he’d so clearly and contemptuously turned his back on his heritage?

If you’re interest is stirred by this post, forget the film and google up some reading. You can always get back to the bullshit anytime!

SOME COMMENTS ON THE CLOSING CEREMONY PAGEANT OF THE LONDON 2012 OLYMPICS

It is noteworthy that this Closing Ceremony Pageant, unlike Danny Boyle’s opener, did not receive universal acclaim from the media. Far from it. It got panned as cheesy in the right wing press and was generally misunderstood by the neutrals.

So what was it they didn’t like or failed to understand? For myself, despite its sometimes irritating and occasionally frightful moments, I rather enjoyed it. One thing for sure. It wasn’t traditional. Conventional stuff that everyone expected. There was so much that was madcap, romantic and plain fun, and so many moments that were meaningful. All in all a joyous celebration of some of the best and sometimes the worst of five decades of popular music and culture.

Opening with the chimes of Big Ben the audience was given a vision of working London with a zany Churchill-like figure quoting Caliban’s speech from Shakespeare’s Tempest. From here alas the BBC began sticking its establishment oar into the proceedings with remarks about Prince Harry of Wales representing the Queen and being called Team GB Ambassador. They clearly knew more than anyone else! It signalled time for the national anthem to be sung, union jacks waved across the Arena and for the Great Street Party  to begin. A singularly British invention this. Typically lots of plates but no food. Guards bands marched, chaotic music belted out and vintage cars paraded around cyclists wearing great spiked orange hats that looked like something out of a Dutch Ku Klux Klan get together while pretty boy singers twirled in and out of moving lorries!

This splendidly calculated chaos was a prelude to the portrayal of five decades of British pop music l960 to the present day. Shame that Tommy Steele, Gene Vincent and Marty Wilde who started it all off in the fifties were missing as was Britain’s greatest singing star, instrumentalist and best loved actor of the thirties and forties, George Formby, whose risqué lyrics and tuneful voice is still such a delight on the ears today. Never mind, the musical procession kicked off with songs about London and particularly magical was Ray Davis, ageing Kinks star, singing their poignant number Waterloo Sunset which had many of the spectators wistfully joining in.

Now came one of the greatest moments of the Pageant. Something truly inspirational. There should have now been the formal entry parade of all the athletes carrying their flags. Instead competitors from all the many countries began coming down into the Arena through the seated crowds in the Stadium along with thousands more arriving at ground level wearing their national colours and waving their national flags and union jacks. All of it happening with a mass choir singing. It was marvellously informal. All the athletes mingling together then being shepherded into segments of what became a colourful union jack. This was a splendid and highly imaginative coming together of the participants of this London Olympics, its Olympic Family, in an enchanting and wonderfully choreographed happening. A real demonstration of the Olympic spirit of universal camaraderie shining through all the intense competition of recent days.     

So what was it that the media might have objected to? Traditionally at this point came the final medals presentation ceremony of the Games, awarded to the winner and runners up of the Men’s Marathon after which all the British medallists were introduced to the crowd and flowers presented to the Volunteers whose work made the Games possible. A beautiful and moving touch this and well applauded. Surely nothing to condemn here. What followed was something else. A choir of children dressed in white track suits with their tops marked IMAGINE were accompanied by a big screen image of John Lennon singing the radical anti-religion, anti-establishment song of that name that he wrote and was so significant and potent a symbol of protest from the mid- l970s. Plenty for all the Thatcherite Tory Boys to hate and made worse when the children’s choir formed John Lennon’s face from above. Including this in the Pageant was inspirational and a typically London two fingers up to authority.

It couldn’t go on but it did. Only differently! How infuriated many must have been to see gay icon George Michael strut his stuff for gay Freedom. They needn’t have worried. The entire lyric belted out in deafening style came across meaningless, with only dedicated fans or enemies knowing what it was all about! Following this assault on the ears were symbols of the 60s and 70s ‘mod’ culture… a long parade of hundreds of geared up youths on motor scooters with ‘mod’ beat songs, mod icon David Bowie and huge floats of trucks displaying hoardings of famous fashion models in a British fashion parade replete with marching accomplices dressed in sinister nazi-style uniforms. In 60s and 70s London, pop music and fashion went hand in hand and was even seen on occasion in Liverpool, but how about the rest of the country? It was a bit of a joke really but a cool one because now, after fashion models paraded a catwalk, a ghoulish skeleton ship appeared commanded by Annie Lennox in a giant red silk dress at the prow rasping out a performance of Little Bird in best nightmare style.

Some real stuff you strutted there Annie, only what was it supposed to represent? Some kind of party style necrophilia with decay and age as the dark side of Olympian youth? Well I suppose it happens to all athletes Annie, maybe even Usain, but surely now wasn’t the time! Or was it the screaming, deafening nihilism of punk rock which heralded the death of lyricism, melody and artistic composition in pop music? Or could it have symbolised something altogether more sinister such as the coming of Margaret Thatcher!

Okay, the boat was pulled out of the Arena on ropes and replaced with Russell Brand wearing a top hat and striped trousers on an open bus top belting out the Beatles song I Am The Walrus with a good pulse surrounded by leggy girls playing violins, scantily clad police women dolled up in black lycra along with countless other dancers. As I said in my Opening Ceremony blog, that’s all British people are portrayed as doing these days when as everyone knows, they’re either boozing in pubs, eating obese-making rubbish fast foods, watching football, working for the council or in call centres, unless that is they’re otherwise busy in City of London finance houses figuring out new ways to swindle the public. Never mind! There was always Fatboy Slim riding an Octopus surrounded by hundreds of blue suited men wearing blue bowler hats with working electric light bulbs sticking out the top.

There will be many who might cynically say that this somehow represented the musical wilderness that accompanied 15 years of Thatcherite hegemony but I’m not so sure. After all, the period also marked the rise of Elton John and the on-going presence of forever young bachelor boy Cliff Richard in the hearts of the Queen’s mother and the blessed Margaret, so loved by everyone from Essex.

The lyrical-romantic demise of pop music during the eighties, continuing its path into the flat, grey, colourless years of John ‘pass the peas Norma’ Major’s half of the nineties, later typically marked by a song with only 4 words, You Should Be Dancing repeated over and over accompanied by countless gyrating youths. And how very true it all was! A decade and a half of Tory rule had depoliticised the once culturally radical youth of the sixties and early seventies and turned them into a-political dancing morons who soullessly rotated to lyrics of a few flat words and tunes flat as pancakes.

Right now though, as to exemplify it all, we were given another symbol of the demise of lyrical imagination with the appearance of a totally artificial, comprehensively manufactured pop culture perfectly represented by The Spice Girls phenomenon, a girly band put up to rival the Beatles whose major contribution came in the song they belted on top of London black cabs telling people what they really wanted.

Yes, we’re definitely telling you what you really want! And if you don’t like it we’ll tell you again…

It was so strange really. As I listened to them singing their song in the London 2012 Stadium Arena I could hear the ripe, arched, thoroughly manufactured Tory tones of Margaret Thatcher telling people what they really wanted and what she was going to give the striking coal miners. Mercifully, this entirely a-cultural purely money-making piece of sterility was replaced by something so very different. Something mad, zany, anarchic and comprehensively British! A real brainwave on the part of the producer. After falling out of a dud cannon, Pythons star Eric Idle got on his feet and in best Eric Idle style sang Always Look on the Bright Side of Life with completely crazy, uncontrolled and thoroughly anarchic happenings going on around him including nuns in full gear on roller skates, a group of Indians all dolled  up in traditional gold costume with him at the centre dancing and playing Indian music, dozens of men and women done up as Roman soldiers stomping about with a formation of Scots pipers in kilts in the background while Idle himself cavorted with Britannia.

It was beautifully done. Short, sharp, thoroughly anarchic and very funny. Little wonder it was ignored by the media in general along with the wretched BBC presenters who just didn’t know what to make of it.

Well I’ll tell you. Personally I never did like that song. It always struck me that a purely cheerful attitude to life was a rotten substitute for not doing anything to change rotten circumstances or challenge rotten people who had a habit of telling everyone else to ‘lighten up’… which meant not doing anything about anything, especially them! Now I know better! It’s a particularly cunning aspect of the British character, this always looking on the bright side of life. You pretend to be doing it of course, whistling away like an arsehole but while you’re whistling you’re actually scheming the total demise and downfall of the bastard who told you to ‘lighten up.’ Cool dudes, the British, and a superbly cool piece of Pageant.

It was followed by screen images of deceased Freddy Mercury singing and Brian May of the Queen looking plain old and making as much screechy noise as possible on his electric guitar. What was that all about? I just don’t know. Maybe some sign that the Pageant of Pop had run its course. That there was no need for Elton or Sir Paul. Throughout it all however, BBC cameras focused intensely on every athlete or group of athletes supposedly singing the songs. In fact they probably had to work hard to do so because most seemed to be just talking together, waving flags or in the case of many young female athletes from East Europe, blowing hand kisses into the lenses possibly hoping to be spotted by some rich old daddy who might finance their future careers!

And so the loud music died. In its place the national anthem of Greece was played and followed by the Olympic anthem sung by the London Welsh Choir. The fun was at an end. Time for the Handover Ceremony. The flag was passed by Boris to Jacques Rogge who gave it a wave and passed it to the mayor of Rio de Janeiro who did likewise. Brazil’s national anthem followed then a ‘presentation’ by that city to London as a gift. Some gift! It was Rio’s version of more bloody dancing only this time the samba. Men dressed in gold and tall coffee coloured ladies swinging their lithe torsos. So this is what we’re going to get in four years’ time. A kind of cha-cha-cha Sex Olympics! Europe’s bankers, royals, politicians, aristos and of course footballers will undoubtedly be there only you and I won’t!

The samba-ing over, it was time for the speeches. Coe again with the majesties and royal highnesses bit. The ones who matter coming first before the people, before the athletes and volunteers. Thanks Seb! And the same went for Rogge. Administrators always know which arse to kiss first. That’s why they’re chosen to administer… on behalf of their majesties and royal highnesses, Harry, Barry and Co. And all accompanied with enthusiastic flag waving and singing of the national anthem by everyone in the Stadium. The association of royalty, monarchy and nation won’t happen in the next Olympics. Samba or not, Brazil’s a Republic.

The most moving moment of the Closing Ceremony Pageant now came. The arms of the magnificent torch slowly lowered and Darcy Bussell the ballerina magically flew into the Arena like a bird as the flames began to extinguished themselves and die. And after this great, often quite momentous, quite wonderful celebration of youth, of sport and sportsmanship, of the altruism and kindness of the volunteers, of the pleasure and delight of people all round the world, what were we left with?

Well I was left feeling empty. It had all come and gone. All that emotion and excitement… And I was never even there! I think that maybe we were all left feeling empty in our own way. In our own way we all kind of watched and took part.

The London 2012 Olympics! Well that was quite something wasn’t it. And I don’t care what anyone says, the Closing Ceremony Pageant was also something. It wasn’t wholly bad or good. It was lively, tedious in places, madcap, vibrant and generous in spirit. It was very British. The whole thing will always remain in our hearts. Right, now it’s over, time to get up, get out and do something! Cut down on the cheap lousy food, dump our national obsession about football down the tubes and start getting a life for ourselves and our kids.

OLYMPICS FOR WHO?

BBC cameras, sometimes sweeping the venues of many of the great sporting events we’ve had at the London Olympics have been picking up row after row of empty seats at different times of the day and evening on a fairly regular basis. And trust me, had they been allowed to do their work more freely and thoroughly, the glaring examples of horrid absenteeism would have shocked countless more viewers.

It’s not just the television watchers I’m thinking of but the countless enthusiasts who’d have just loved to be present at some of these competitions and would have paid whatever it took just for the chance TO BE THERE. Just be present at the London Olympics but couldn’t because they just can’t get hold of the tickets. Why should this be? Lord Coe, one of the main organisers has said that millions of people want tickets and apply for the limited number that become available each day so it was little wonder that the web site booking system got jammed up and couldn’t cope.

So what does it all mean? Simple answer, that the countless numbers of people who paid good money to get into the Olympic site could only watch the events on giant television screens dotted around the venues. That was the closest they could get, just a wretched television screen. The London Olympics at second hand. Who was kidding who? They really weren’t there at all. It was the seriously privileged or the people with money who were where it mattered and second hand stuff for all the rest, the fun-filled flag wavers. People high with media generated patriotic enthusiasm who decided that now was the time to be British.

Sorry, I meant that now is the time they wanted to demonstrate how proud they were to be British. Identify with another gold medal winner or prospect for the price of a tenner.

So who are the privileged who got into all the venues? Who are the faces we see? Well Jeremy Hunt, Culture Secretary, had every right to be there I suppose, especially if he needed to accidentally bump into and have a chat with Rupert Murdoch on the way, but there were of course many other prominent Tories. David Cameron and his wife were just about everywhere regularly as was dear old Boris Johnson, Mayor of London. Well didn’t they have every right? Just imagine how hard it must have been for them to get all those tickets though. And the same for ex-Tory Prime Minister John Major!

Politicians? Those were only a few from the top. I saw many more faces. And the royals? First the two princes, appointed by the BBC to be cheerleaders every time they were seen, brought into focus and adoringly mentioned as providing a seal of accolade and approval for every Team GB success. They obviously wanted to be in on everything big from rowing and cycling to athletics and so they were. British medal hopes specially performing for the royal highnesses so they’d better do well!

William and Kate everywhere with laughing boy Harry, but there were others too. Fergie and her daughters in on this, that and the other. Just imagine how hard it was for them getting tickets, same as all the bankers, City of London traders, company directors, all friends of friends with tens of thousands of tickets from corporate sponsors going their way. Well, we sponsor the venues, the athletes, their equipment, their accommodation and food so we want plenty of tickets for all our mates. It’s the entire corporate establishment of finance, industry and politics topped by the aristocracy and royalty, all coming together to enthuse over and watch British sport.

Sure there were plenty of plebs there alongside them, from those lucky enough to win the lottery for seats on the website, then all the competitors, their families and friends, but the great majority of the former either got seats at the back or top of the stands or watched on the screens outside.

So nice to see all the royals funning it up and being so hip inspirational but there was my grandson of 13, lean, lithe and great at sports at school. Strong, potentially good at so many things who’d have loved to watch the cycling, the shooting, the athletics and weightlifting. What it must have been like for so many kids of that age. Not a chance dear boy. Not a chance! The many millions of our young sporting enthusiasts never got anywhere closer than a television screen. You needed to be British Establishment and our sporting youth fodder for their pleasure so maybe it’s better that my talented grandson won’t be all fired up and enthusiastic for sport if that’s the way they want it. And it’s here, thinking of his already fair achievements as a cross country runner at 12 that I remember a film.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner starred Tom Courtenay as a teenager at a young offenders institute who had a talent for running which is recognised and encouraged by an officer there. As he trains and runs he reflects back on his depressed working class life and despite his athletic promise lives with his feelings of being a social outcast just like the hundreds of thousands of kids we have in this country who can’t participate in a sport because their schools and places they live lack facilities. Can’t have the thrill of going to the Olympics because there’s no money at home.

In the film Tom Courtenay is built up to represent his young offenders institute in a key race against youths from middle class schools. Those of a much higher social status in the eyes of his mentor who wants to use him to show what kids from a much poorer background can do. He participates and is easily winning his long distance race but throughout, his demons of social class deprivation return to haunt him. It’s not so much the better off kids that he resents but the fact that his talent is being used. He doesn’t want to be part of someone else’s plans. He wants to be a person for himself and in a great act of defiance, when he’s so close to winning the race he stops short of the line. He won’t be part of the system.

All the athletes competing at the London Olympics are part of a system. Sure they train and compete to achieve excellence for themselves but they are nonetheless part of someone else’s game… the country they’ve been chosen to represent (the political consequences of their achievements for countless small nations is very considerable in terms of status)… the patriotism stirred up by the national media, each athlete’s victory becoming a matter of national pride, or failure something they’d rather forget or put down    to injury… the fervour of nationalism whipped up by the same media… the athlete being an integral part of teams such as Team GB… so that they’re not really competing for themselves anymore but for politicians, for their country, for national pride. For something outside of themselves.

To be a top class athlete in any sport today it’s essential to be part of a system. Without it they won’t get the financial support, the sponsorship they need. The sponsorship equates to their national potential. They’re part of something much bigger now. Their nation, their monarchy with its royals and princes, its elite politicians and money-men. You don’t say go fuck yourself like Tom Courtenay. That takes real guts, but then you can also win if you’re tough enough and determined. Stand on the podium and raise your gloved fist in defiance if you don’t like the way your fellow black people, or any people for that matter, are being treated.

Olympic Games and its sport can therefore also be a symbol for everyone. Pleasure for the rich and powerful who can pay to be there and watch. Inspirational and personal for the youth who compete. Sporting prowess is a matter for the youth not the politicians who want everyone to be included in their own less clean, less wholesome game.

And now, just when you’d thought you’d read everything, just another little word about FOOTBALL and the English football team! You’re going to love this! On Wednesday 8^th August FIFA the International Football Federation officially announced that they’d given the English Football Team third place in their world rankings. There’s no mistake here! Third in their World Rankings!

Now this would have been laughable enough if it had just been for Western Europe but no, we’re talking the whole f… ing world here.

So, Roy Hodgson’s side of pathetic lamentable losers that have mastered the enormously complex skill of passing the ball backwards instead of forward joke, joke, are third best in the world. Okay, let’s look at a few other teams, say Spain, Germany, Brazil, Italy, Argentina and Portugal. Six national football squads and England rated better than any four of them. Say England better than Brazil or Spain, Germany or Portugal! Now I’ve said the names, I ask you to consider England’s recent performances, their players and the skills they’ve demonstrated compared to theirs, especially their achievements in tournaments

Roy Hodgson’s England squad is currently not even a team in the making as the talk up merchants and other pundits around them have said. It is a rat-bag team that has demonstrated precisely nothing, only the fact that it is going nowhere. It has utterly failed to prove itself despite being given various opportunities to do so. Its deep seated woodenness, fundamental lack of imagination, coordination and basic footballing skills demonstrated so far by its players means that there is something so deeply wrong that it would be far better wearing Humpty-Dumpty tee shirts than England colours. A team cannot be made from this group of players let alone one that is genuinely third best in the world, so FIFA, come on? Where are you people getting your ideas from?

Spain, never mind their showing in the Olympics, we’ve all seen them play… seen Germany and Portugal. Is Roy’s squad better than those? Better than Brazil? Better than Argentina? Better even than South Korea? For whom has such a ranking been sent out? Is it for our Ere we Go, Great Escape, Rule Britannia skinhead mob of tattooed to the eyeballs gormless travelling fans who will always believe and have undying faith that the lazy, clueless so called professionals who make up the basis of Premier League Football with no more than tuppence worth of skills between them are worth 50 grand a week each for ninety minutes’ work and that’s to say nothing for the jokers at the top. Is that who it’s all for, the faithful who willingly squander fifty quid and more every week to watch these monkeys play hokey jokey.

Or could it be that making Roy’s squad seem ten times better than it is will up the value of its players and make them better financial prospects in the transfer racket? In that respect I leave you with something to think about. Usain Bolt playing for Manchester United in the Premier League. Hmm… we could be talking serious money here! Don’t knock it! It could still happen yet if some grubby agent gets the idea in his head!

TEAM GB OLYMPIC FOOTBALL 2012 : GOODBYE AND GOOD RIDDANCE!

In sport there are winners and there are gallant losers. We lift our hats to both. But there’s also another category of competitor that is quite frankly just not worth pissing on. They are a no skill, no real effort, no inspiration whatsoever class of losers and yes you know who I’m talking about. You’ve seen them perform. The pathetic and contemptible GB football squad that just got booted out of the London Olympics after their dreadful display in Cardiff.

This wretched crew that so clearly made passing the ball back a speciality because they were so utterly lacking in imagination were clearly a horror squad that most admirers of British competitive sport would like to forget in a hurry. Having watched all their games with mounting apprehension the only thing we all wanted to know was that given their singularly wooden performances and demonstrations of absolute lack of skill, how long it would be before they were dumped out of the competition and how it would happen.

We didn’t have long to wait and we really needn’t have asked. Despite all the coach’s assurances about improvement and a team in the making it took a simple shot by a South Korean against which the GB goalkeeper stood rooted to the spot as it sailed by into the net and later a handful of penalties which he made no real effort to save, seemingly rooted to the ground likewise. As for Team GB’s miss in the penalty shootout, Sturridge’s effort was a ghastly fiasco in which the direction of the kick was clearly telegraphed to the opposing goalkeeper. A shocking display beyond the lowest amateur standard.

What with the shock of a missed penalty early on in the game the rest is silence, except of course for the comments of Stuart Pearce who aired the view that the overall experience “has been fantastic,” and that all the individuals who contributed to it could “go back to their clubs and countries better for it.” Perhaps he even believes that his squad of likely lads is a good prospect for the Rio Olympics in four years’ time!

Now I ask all those fans who went through the misery of watching this squad of no hopers throughout the four games they played, two at least against third raters. Is that a joke? Who’s kidding who here? At least three-quarters of this team demonstrated little professional skill or coordination and should be dumped without further ado. New blood is required and an entirely different and fresh approach. The same applies to the coach and coaching staff.

Will it happen? Anyone who knows that British national team football has been stuck in a rut for more years than most people can remember, anyone with any real intelligence that is, will understand that it won’t. Pathetic players and pathetic performances are here to stay because the best and most talented players are only interested in earning big money and big money is what they won’t earn representing Team GB. Patriotism? National pride? Singing Rule Britannia and God Save the Queen? Forget it! That’s only for the mugs who travel around supporting them. The jack the lads of the Premier League know where their bread’s buttered and won’t get out of bed for anything under fifty k.

And just imagine any of them having to do any serious training. Like Team GB cyclists or rowers or athletes of any kind. Getting out of bed on at 6 am on cold winter mornings day after day to go running! Leave it out!

THE FIFTY POUND TRICK ; THE CONSEQUENCES OF SAYING NO TO A LITTLE OLD LADY

During my time working on London street markets I’ve had an endless variety of experiences and met an endless variety of people, some of them good some of them bad. The two ends of the spectrum are very good and very bad. That said, most experiences and most people fall in between, somewhere towards the middle. Very good people and very good experiences are exceptional, same as the other end of the scale. Having said this there’s an important observation I would make. Very bad people and very bad experiences are as extraordinary as they are exceptional and the two go together. Very bad people are special. They are people without conscience, without any sense of difference between right or wrong, good or evil, and their conduct can immerse you in an experience that’s so hateful that it’s likely to stay with you for the rest of your life.

This post is about one of those people and the hell she brought down on me one Sunday afternoon at Camden Lock Market. In a way I was lucky. I had the good fortune to have my wife with me and although she wasn’t present at the exact time of the incident, the fact that she arrived soon after allowed her to stand as my protector. Without her I might easily have been swallowed up into darkness and evil intent.

It was three in the afternoon when an elderly lady came to our stall. I judged her to be in her seventies, late rather than early. She was smartly dressed and of neat appearance. Speaking with a slight French accent in a voice that was clear but quiet she began asking me questions about our small geodes and agate slices. Wanting to know what they were and where they came from and interested in what I had to say. She was looking for a gift for a child and was curious about our prices. She couldn’t spend much she said. No more than five pounds, so could I help her.

Her manner was pleasing and made me want to give her a bargain. I selected an attractive medium sized geode with a good internal quartz crystal formation and another of miniature size. She liked both, after which I chose two small agate slices with bright concentric colours and patterns. There, would those do I asked, feeling magnanimous. She could have them close to cost price, especially for her. Yes, I liked her and wanted to be generous. Only five pounds for the lot! Her face lit up with appreciation. I was being very kind she said. They would do perfectly.

I felt glad. Louise, away wandering the market would also have been pleased. Moments later I carefully wrapped them in tissue and put them all in a carrier. “You’ve got a good deal for a fiver,” I enthused, handing it over and receiving the ten pound note she’d taken from her purse. And there was the change. A five pound note taken from my trouser pocket.

She hesitated, looked at the note and raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me sir,” she said strongly, “you’ve made a mistake. I gave you a fifty pound note.”

I looked at her hard, trying to make sense of what I’d heard. “A fifty pound note?” I repeated. “Are you sure? I thought you gave me ten.”    

An expression of anger and dismay came over her face. “I’m absolutely certain young man! I gave you a fifty pound note.”

I could hardly believe what she was saying. She couldn’t be right. I knew exactly what note she’d given me but even so I had to be sure. I put my hand into my trouser pocket and fished out the tenner she’d given me, holding it up. “That’s what you gave me lady,” I said firmly, using the word ‘lady’ to signal we weren’t altogether friends anymore.

“I gave you a fifty pound note,” she said loudly so that everyone could hear. “Now don’t you go trying that old market trader’s trick on me! I want you to turn out your pockets.”

I felt myself turning white. I remembered having taken a fifty note earlier on for a sale of large trees. It was almost certainly stuffed in the bundle I kept in the inside pocket of my jacket. I couldn’t prove that I’d taken it earlier though. Market trading was a cash business. We rarely gave anyone receipts.

“Turn out your pockets or I’ll call the market manager then the police.”

My face must have turned many shades whiter. I showed my trouser pockets. See, there was nothing. No fifty pound note. Just a bit of loose change.

“Now the jacket,” she insisted.

My thoughts ran wild. What if I refused? I had no doubt that she’d only given me a tenner. If I refused now she’d make a big deal of it. I fished inside for the loose bundle of notes and took them out. “They’re my takings from the morning,” I said firmly. Nothing to do with her.

“And there’s the fifty pound note I gave you,” she shouted. “Give it back or I’ll get the police.”

By now all the traders around me were listening. People passing by had stopped and were giving me looks. Some bloody market trader trying to cheat an old lady! I already felt more than nervous but something in me said NO! I wasn’t going along with it. No way! I made a living all right but I was honest. Absolutely and always. I’d just never do a thing like that. It was beyond contempt.

My thoughts ran fast. I knew the score now, beyond any question. This women was a cheat and probably well practiced with it. It was all very deliberate. She was trying to rip me off and would do anything it took.

My attitude hardened along with my face. “You gave me a tenner lady, no more. Go and call the market manager for all I care. You can do what you like.”

Right, that settled it I thought. She’d have to back down because I for one wasn’t giving in. I seemed to be right. Moments later she left the stall and walked off. I was glad. I could have been in a serious fix I said to myself and carried on trying to sell. Ten minutes went by and bloody hell, there she was again. Coming towards me with the market manager, waving her hands and looking distressed. “There he is,” she shouted. “He’s the one. He took my money!”

The manager looked at me coolly. “She says you short changed her,” he muttered.

“Absolutely not,” I said vehemently. “I’ve been taking money and giving change for years and no-one’s ever complained. I know exactly what she gave me. I’m a hundred percent certain of it.”

“She says you’ve got her fifty pound note in your jacket pocket,” he came back.

I shook my head. No ways! “That’s from my earlier takings. Look, it’s on the inside of the bundle,” I said, taking it out. “It’s got my twenties wrapped round it. That’s where all the big money goes. Small notes in my trouser pocket.”

He hesitated. He’d seen it all in his time and knew us well enough. What I’d told him made sense.

“Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?” he asked, turning to her.

What came next was a shock. “He’s a thief,” she shouted. “He’s a thief! I want you to call the police.”

The man held up his hands. “Let me speak to him for a minute,” he said consolingly, nudging me to one side. “I know she gave you a tenner,” he said quickly, “but she’ll make a whole bloody scene. Just give her the money and let her bugger off. We’ll make it rent free next month if you like.”

The blood ran out of my face. I felt furious. Something in me rebelled. I shook my head. “She’s the thief,” I said calmly. Sorry I just wouldn’t do it. If she got away with it now she’d think she could do it to anyone. Maybe she already had. I made an honest living. No, I just wasn’t doing it. I was adamant. Let her call the bloody police!

As I looked up I saw Louise. She’d just returned to the stall. “What’s going on?” she wanted to know. I explained, we both did, with the woman meanwhile shouting the odds. Louise’s face turned white with anger. “That’s my husband you’re accusing,” she said in a fury. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. Go and call the police…You’re the one who’s the thief.”

A kind of silence fell on the area. No-one talking anymore. Two policemen had arrived out of nowhere. Someone must have got busy with a mobile. Right! So who was who and what was what? The manager explained who he was, and that there was a bit of a problem. We were two people who traded on the market. One of them said ‘okay’ and his colleague said ‘right’… They’d hear the woman’s story first then mine. If they thought it necessary we’d have to go down to the Station.

Louise and I looked at each other. At best the day’s trading was over. The worst was bordering on frightful. Even so I wouldn’t give way. I knew she was trying it on. Being a thief was bad enough but making false allegations, telling lies about people to harm them, quite another.

Ten minutes later it was my turn. More pencil scratching on paper after which they conferred. Right, they’d heard both sides of the story. What would happen now was that we’d both have to make statements down at the Station. Then they’d consider the whole matter further. This gave us a serious problem. Louise would insist on being there with me but the van was parked miles away. She’d have to leave all our stuff while she went to collect it. It could take well over an hour and in that time the whole lot would disappear.

I tried explaining it all to the police. We needed to pack all our stuff away. Could I come down to the Station later? I got a real funny look. Like we somehow had plane tickets for Argentina! No I had to go with them now. It was a desperate situation and through it all I could hear the woman going on about her fifty pound note and me being a thief. I looked at her in an altogether new light. She wanted to destroy me. Do me in for just fifty quid!

Just then I had an idea. I went over to the American running the hot cider stall across the way. We knew each other and I’d done him some favours. They were taking me to the police station I said. Louise would have to pack up and get the van. He understood immediately. One of his helpers would lend a hand packing. He’d keep an eye on the stock while she went for the van. I shouldn’t worry. Everything would be alright.

Minutes later I kissed Louise. I had to go now. She shouldn’t worry. Just get to me soon as she could. It would be the main Camden Town Police Station.

Outside the market two cars were waiting with a crowd of onlookers picking up on the story. Market traders! Wasn’t it typical! Trying to cheat a defenceless old lady! The police had got hold of him now!

Things happened unexpectedly fast at the Station. First I’d be interviewed under caution. I wasn’t being arrested or charged. I protested. I’d been told I was going there to make a statement, nothing more. If I was to be interviewed I wanted a solicitor present. The two young policemen definitely didn’t like that and spoke to the sergeant. It might take hours to find the duty solicitor. The woman had made a serious allegation. I could be there all night in the cells.

As for me I let them know I wasn’t doing anything until my wife arrived.

The sergeant was communicative. They’d take a statement from her then she could go. The man was curious. Exactly what was the whole thing about? I briefly explained. There was a consultation with his two lads then what looked like a discussion. They were all looking at the old lady now.

“We want you to make a statement so we can get it all clear,” the stripes came over brisk. “You go inside with one of my lads and he’ll write down what you say. Just so we can all get it right.”

It never happened. Ten minutes later I was standing outside on the steps having a smoke and waiting for Louise to show up. The police weren’t taking a statement and the dear old lady was on her way back to Hampstead. There’d been earlier complaints. Reports from nearby markets along the High Street. The same little old lady! She’d been busy elsewhere. I hugged Louise when she arrived. I’d been right after all! I hadn’t given way. She wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry.

My wife disagreed. She’d only try her luck further afield. And for every trader who said no there’d be plenty who’d hand her the money. She was in a far better business than we were. A sophisticated kind of blackmail that probably worked nine times out of ten. She likewise gave me a hug. That was one of the reasons she’d married me. I was an honest man and I didn’t run scared.

I blinked back the tears. Hearing that was worth more than all the money I’d ever make. As for the woman, she’d probably been doing that kind of stuff all her life. Some life that, spending it doing harm to others.