ANTI-SEMITISM IN MODERN BRITAIN: A TEACHER’S STORY

PREFACE

        

This is a true story of anti-Semitism in modern Britain as told to me at the time by its victim, a young Jew who applied for his first teaching job at a state funded Church of England School. I have used the extensive notes I took at the time to convey the full reality of his experience. Nothing has been added by me and nothing omitted. This is how it was for the man and his family.

What you are about to read is a weekly serialization of his story. One chapter after another detailing the sequence of events. My aim throughout has been to tell it straight. There’s been no glossing up or dumbing down here for the sake of literary finesse. My notes, carefully, meticulously transcribed, tell a real shocker. Today some might call it racism but therein lies a problem. Today the word only officially applies to the experiences of black people, Asians or Muslims. It excludes Jews. Jews, officially, do not experience racism, only anti-Semitism which is not really racist but something different. Something of a lower order. Officially Jews do not experience racism!

In way it’s convenient. The word itself is something the Jewish Establishment in Britain do not like. It’s troublesome. Rather like allegations of anti-Semitism which in the last fifty years it has sought to downplay yet still remains in the hearts and minds of so many Jews who have experienced it. A whole history of unwritten, untold experiences buried deep but never forgotten.

The history of anti-Semitism in modern Britain is a history waiting to be written. The official line of the Jewish Establishment, particularly the Board of Deputies of British Jews and its media mouthpiece the Jewish Chronicle is that anti-Semitism is not an important issue for the Jewish Community and never has been. Their point of view is that although there may be incidents of anti-Semitism, they are irregular and taken together don't add up to much. There is nothing 'official' behind them. They are the acts of unpleasant people or those opposed to the policies of the Israeli Government. There is nothing institutional in their character and none of it is really worth getting upset about anyway.

This Jewish Establishment has always had the same soothing words of advice to give to Jews in Britain who have had to bear insult, hostility and contempt to say nothing of outright prejudice.

Don't complain… Don't make a fuss… Don't rock the boat… But above all, don't make trouble! At the same time, in recent years, it has devoted much energy and commitment to what may best be described as Interfaith Issues. This has involved cuddling up with Muslim organizations who refuse to condemn fundamentalist terror attacks on Jews, Jewish property and the Jewish State of Israel and similarly the broad swathe of the Christian Church that still believes the Jews murdered Jesus! In practice this has meant open collaboration with such groups as the wretched Council for Christians and Jews while turning a blind eye to church anti-Semitism. Elements of this Jewish Establishment, furthermore, have not been shy in getting into bed with sections of the British media whose reports and editorials are endlessly hostile to the Jewish State and whose vicious one-sidedness has done more than anything in recent years to create a fast rising tide of venomous hostility towards British Jews current throughout the entire British Labour movement.

It has downplayed and minimalized the complaints of so many. Marginalizing those offended or humiliated into non persons or people said to be making too much of nothing. In this story, the victim of a long horrific experience got no help whatsoever from them and had to fight his long fight on his own. When help eventually came it was from some surprising sources.

There are many surprises in this story which is what makes it a tale of optimism and hope. A very British story in its very best sense.

 

CHAPTER ONE     WHAT A DIFFERENCE A NAME MAKES

The central character of this story, a short, stocky man of thirty-two is sitting at a Victorian roll top desk in his living room busily writing application letters for jobs. Outside, early Spring rain lashes against the windows. Inside all is warm and comfortable. The home he and his family occupy is richly furnished with antique oriental carpets and furniture. The living room contains broad shelves of books, cases of tropical butterflies and his copies of Gauguin, Monet and Van Gogh paintings mounted on walls. These sumptuous surroundings, put together down years of dreary employment before he became a university student belie the state of their finances. Since leaving Oxford with a postgraduate degree and sporting distinction he has been mostly unemployed. Having tried to find a permanent job as a teacher for almost a year without success he is seriously worried though tries to hide his anxiety from the wife he adores. Apart from an occasional week’s work filling temporary vacancies for teachers off sick, he has earned little money to feed his family, pay the rent and other bills. What savings they had are almost gone.

The bright, happy disposition he displays is an attempt to encourage his wife who studies hard during the day to gain a long sought after place at university to read Geology. Despite their circumstances he is resolved to do everything he can to help her achieve her ambition. Driven by his determination he has become increasingly dispirited by his lack of success in finding work and has come to believe that the cause of the problem lies in his name. He is a Jew of Russian descent and his name sounds like it. After all when he shortened it before as an experiment to get casual work he didn’t have any problem so why not do it for real? Change it once and for all. Make it more acceptably English.

He communicates his thoughts to his wife. Though not Jewish herself she finds the idea upsetting. There are difficult exchanges between them. She doesn’t see why he should have to do it. She likes the name of the man she married. He should be who he is.

He remonstrates. It doesn’t matter who he is. What matters is what he wants to be and right now he wants to be someone who can keep a roof over their heads, pay the bills and give them a holiday once in a while. The arguments between them reach no conclusion but beneath it all his mind is made up. His wife worked to support him during his time at college. He will do whatever it takes for her now.

A week later, telling her nothing, he consults a solicitor and uses the last of their savings to get what he wants. Now sounding altogether more English he begins the process of applying for teaching jobs anew. His first letter, responding to an ad in a journal, brings immediate results. A Church of England Secondary School in Essex invites him to attend for an interview. They are looking for a teacher of Sociology and History and he seems eminently qualified.

Happy with his first good break for months he tells his wife what he did. The result it seems justified his decision. Her reaction is surprisingly muted. Changing his name might be one thing, telling them he’s a Jew quite another. What would he do if they asked? He shrugs his shoulders. There’s no reason they should. Not anymore.

That afternoon he phones the school to confirm the appointment and a few days later gets up early to drive 130 miles to the venue outside London. Alone with his thoughts he approaches his destination with his heart in his mouth. Does he tell them or wait till he’s asked? Practical considerations take over. He was never really much of a Jew anyway so what does it matter if he says nothing. Deny it he won’t, but he won’t volunteer anything either.

 

CHAPTER TWO     INTERVIEW  

A cold dry day late February. A long wide road somewhere in Essex. Fields of bare earth on one side with cottages and a large red brick farmhouse. Directly opposite a series of modern but run down looking glass and concrete blocks of light and dark blue adjacent to which are grassy playing fields. A large sign in the driveway announces the school.

The story continues in his own words…

Finding a place in the car park I got out and walked to the sign announcing Reception at the main building. Having found it I tapped on the glass, told them who I was and what I was there for. After a brief wait a tall woman appeared and introduced herself as the Senior Mistress. I can’t help noticing how ugly she is. Her long face filled with big teeth under a top of seriously artificial curled hair is enough to terrify the most recalcitrant pupil. I accompanied her along a series of corridors to the Headmaster’s Study. Apart from an occasional child coming into view there’s nothing but silence. After a quick firm knock on the door she opened it onto a small room.

My first sight as I entered was of many shelves lining the walls then filing cabinets and a large desk. The man sitting behind it got up and introduced himself as the Headmaster. My immediate impression was of a short wiry looking fellow with a pointed face, a bit like a whippet. I judged him to be somewhere in his early sixties. The briefest of smiles flits across his face as though it’s an effort before it just as suddenly vanished. Having shaken his hand I was invited to sit down after which he nodded at the Senior Mistress who hurried out. He conveys a sense of crustiness. Old world Edwardian authority.

The atmosphere brightens. “Did you have a good journey?” he asked pleasantly, broadening the introduction. I told him I did after which he instantly continued, “I see you are well educated. A first class honours degree then a Masters from Oxford and a Blue to go with it!” I smiled modestly, waiting for him to comment on my lack of teaching experience. He didn’t but went on instead to talk about the school. A church institution. State maintained.

“We give a good Christian education here,” he said firmly. “Religion plays an important part in the life of the school.” I nodded positively. “Yes of course. After all it is a church school.” He seemed to like that. “Then you’d have no objection to attending our morning religious assemblies?”  “None whatsoever,” I quickly replied, thinking of the routine I’d known from previous experiences. A few hymns for starters. All Things Bright and Beautiful or Rock of Ages, followed by the Lord’s Prayer before they got down to calling out the kids names for good or diabolical reasons. After all, it was a Church School!

The man’s demeanor still seemed cautious. The school was attached to the church at the centre of town.   Its vicar was the Chairman of Governors. “You’ll be expected to attend church services at times with the school,” he said, looking at me fixedly. “Just occasionally mind you. Easter, Christmas and Lent. All the High Holy days.”

“Of course,” I said quickly, very matter of fact.

My easy acquiescence seemed to assure him. There was a distinctly positive look about him now. Nothing else about religion. No questions about my personal beliefs, like whether I did or I didn’t. I wasn’t averse to religious practice, that was the key. It was therefore accepted. I was a god fearing Christian soul. A member of the faith and therefore no need to ask. And no problems on my side. Jesus was after all a god fearing Yiddisher boy. Time now for more mundane matters. He gave me a brief history of the school. Subjects taught, staff numbers, class sizes, backgrounds of the children, reputation. Then more positively as far as I was concerned, details of the Social Studies Department where I’d be working. My ears pricked up. There were three others teachers in the Department and I’d be the fourth. “You’ll be teaching History to the Lower School, Sociology to the Lower and Upper Sixth. Up to GCE ‘A’ level standard.”

It sounded very interesting I said brightly. “A real challenge.”

“You’ll be a probationer of course,” he added, ignoring my enthusiasm. “Your first year will be on probation during which your teaching will be inspected.” I nodded but stayed silent. He clearly wanted to say more. He knew my undergraduate degree qualified me to teach. That was Government regulation. However teaching was a profession that had to be learned. Something that required great skill. I agreed, saying that I knew he was right. He liked that and went on to tell me about the Social Studies team. I’d be the junior in the Department. I said “of course,” thinking it was all looking good. I was half way there I told myself. Half way and more. Twenty minutes gone and everything okay so far. Much better than I’d expected. Above all, nothing about my lack of experience.

“You’ll be employed by the Board of Governors,” he said out of the blue, “but paid by the local authority.” I’m thrown a fraction. Is he letting me know I’ve got the job or is he going to tell me there are other applicants? That he’ll be writing to me in due course. He hasn’t mentioned anyone else yet!

The question in my head was quickly answered. “I see you’re a family man. From Bath. You’ll be looking for accommodation I take it.”

“We’d be planning to buy a house in the area,” I replied.

He smiled a fraction. I sensed it was a good sign but he still hadn’t told me anything definite. My doubt was answered with him getting up. “You’ll be starting on Monday 26th of April. You’ll get a letter from the Governors making it official. In the meantime maybe you should give the Borough a call. Ask for the Housing Department. They provide temporary accommodation for teachers coming into the area. It’s a special arrangement. You can tell them you’ll be employed at the school.”

I rose promptly to shake his hand. I was delighted. Thanked him for giving me the job. Said how grateful I was for his suggestion. I’d contact the Housing Department straight away.

He didn’t leave his office to show me out but called up Reception. The Senior Mistress reappeared and I left with her but not before thanking him again. He showed no pleasure or emotion, only a hurried formality. I sensed no genuine warmth.

I walked out the building to the car park feeling elated. It seemed to have happened so quickly. No searching questions or exploration of my views or attitudes to education. The only things that seemed important to him were my academic qualifications and willingness to participate in the formal aspects of religious school ritual. No problem for me there. He’d never asked whether I was a believer. Whether I went to church. Whether I was even a Christian.

I got into my car with a clear conscience as well as a job. I hadn’t told him a lie nor would I have done. When I got home that night Louise had a spaghetti supper ready and waiting. I’d phoned her earlier with the news and she’d gone out and bought wine. We were both over the moon. I’d got my first permanent job as a teacher. The future looked bright. Soon we’d have our own house. It was just as I’d thought. See what a difference a name makes!    

 

 

CHAPTER THREE     CHANGING FORTUNES

 Immediately after the interview we began contacting estate agents. Everything at a rush. I was taking the job. I’d already made up my mind. No point looking elsewhere. Not even locally. I felt elated. Forgot most of everything else. Louise’s plan to study in Bristol could wait. We’d work something out when the time came. It was early March now and I was starting in April. Full of a mad sense of urgency I telephoned the local authority Housing Department, explained the situation and requested temporary accommodation. Soon as possible please. 

A week later I was contacted again by the school. Invited to spend a day there 12th March. Meeting people. Getting the feel of the place. It was fine with Louise. We’d go together. Begin looking at houses soon as the visit was over. Everything went fine. I got together with the Headmaster right at the start who gave me the itinerary along with my salary details. Much better than I’d expected with a whopping big bonus of four months a year paid holiday. I was inwardly delighted but didn’t show it. I conveyed an affable but quiet, modest disposition and spent the next six hours meeting staff and pupils including two periods sitting in lessons. I was introduced to my departmental colleagues in the Staff Room after which came a decent midday lunch. The aim of the day was getting the feel of the place. Making contact with people. Sniffing things out. I appeared to impress the Headmaster and teachers with my ‘learning’ and ‘modesty’ though I made no effort with the former. The Head told me so when I left using those very words. It kind of made my toes curl!

We began house hunting in earnest the following day with our daughter staying with my mother in London. We saw many places and met many strange people, all telling us one tale or another and showing us the delectable ‘beauty’ of their little semi-detached castles in Essex. There were only two that we fancied. One sold before we arrived, the other still available on a lower middle class housing estate in Upminster close to some fields. We looked round and liked it. Decided it had the right feel and the right price.

I went to Paris the following week for my grandmother’s funeral. Met many members of my father’s family I’d not seen for years. They were rich and I wasn’t. Because of my parent’s divorce I’d been cut out of the will. I still went, for the sake of old memories. Louise stayed in London with her mother. On my return I found she’d been busy organising finance for the house. Spent a sunny Sunday afternoon walking happily arm in arm with her in Regent’s Park in excellent mood and returned to Bath that evening after visiting Granny, my mother’s mother of whom we were very fond. Louise stayed in London with our daughter, intent on sorting out the house purchase once and for all.

Back in Bath I found myself being contacted by schools urgently requiring temporary teachers. Now there was a thing. It never rains so they say! I spent the next three weeks working in Bristol, teaching subjects as varied as the schools themselves. Sometimes the kids were great, other times hell. Sometimes they were bright but more often remedial. The work was enjoyable though occasionally depressing. In one class the kids only wanted to play ‘jacks’. In another I told them about Einstein. The worst was a class of 15 year old boys. Some of them were threatening and violent, others clearly drunk. Once I had to call for assistance. At another all-girls school, there was real success. Lessons rewarding and the feedback a dream. One child offered me sweets from her precious supply. A wonderful gesture. I was much moved.

End of March I heard from the Housing Department. They could give us temporary accommodation. The news heartened Louise, still in London trying to sort out what was now becoming a tricky house purchase. Soon after I drove down and we went together to look over the offer having obtained keys to the premises. Our hearts sank. An unfurnished dump on an underclass housing estate. On the bright side it had to be cheaper than a hotel. Set against that there was no way I could leave my car there at night without finding it vandalized next morning. The important thing however was that it meant we’d all be together again. No more separation. The task now was to find a place for our daughter in a suitable local nursery.

More part time teaching early April. The money invaluable, helping pay some of our bills. Middle of the month I came to London to search for Larissa’s nursery. On the day that we found one Louise heard she’d gained a place at Bristol to read Geology. Great news, everything she’d hoped for, then suddenly it hit us. If she accepted it meant we’d really be separated. Split up all over again from October. Together only on weekends. The thought hung over me like a dagger. Louise silent. Confused. We’d been overtaken by events. Our close knit loving little family faced being broken up. Why couldn’t she have got a place somewhere in London?

A few days later the nursery came through. Good news for now but maybe only a stop gap. First things first. Move into the temporary accommodation and start the job at the school. We drove to the housing estate at Rush Green. All three of us. Mattresses in the car boot. Unloaded and bedded down for the night. Apart from anything else the place stank. At least the cooker provided was working. The plan was to be there just a few weeks. Louise could always be relied upon to work miracles in the kitchen.

That night we lay close, staring up at the ceiling of a damp empty flat in the dark. The situation was unsettling in more ways than one. With my academic background of degrees and publications I should have been teaching at a university not a church secondary school. It was all a pig’s ear. Changing my name I took the first thing that came up. Maybe I should have waited. Seen if there was anything better closer to home. Home was Bath after all. Strange the way things had worked out. The situation moving along almost out of control.

Three days before I was due to start at the school we finally tied up the house purchase. The die was cast. Everything seemed definite. I had a job. We had a house. Three months back it was everything I’d wanted. Thinking about it now I wasn’t so sure, not with the breakup of my family looming. Would it really be worth it or would our close knit lives run to dust?

The night before the big day. My head ached so bad I felt it would bust. Another night in the hole but at least those who loved me were there. How would it be on my own? I’d so much wanted things to change for the better and now this. Soon I’d be riding a tiger.

If only I’d known. That night before my first day.

 

CHAPTER FOUR     MURDERING JEWS

With the end of April approaching I drove to the school. It was a really big day for me. I was starting my career as teacher. It began with assembly, prayers and hymns. I participated, watching my colleagues do likewise, most of them vigorously but not all. I was introduced to pupils by the Head as a new teacher. Saw hundreds of faces staring my way and couldn’t help smiling. Assembly dismissed, followed by tea in the Staff Room. I went over the time-table with my Head of Department then walked into my first class. The lesson went well. I thought the kids learned from it. After that I continued teaching a mixture of classes, mainly English medieval history, making the lessons lively. I asked questions, got discussions going, wrote summaries on the blackboard and felt full of enthusiasm. The kids were keen and attentive. The day went well as did others in the first week.

On the other side there was the Staff Room. There I discovered distinct rituals along with a well-defined pecking order among my fellow teachers. There was a marked difference between seniors and juniors which determined many things, like when to take tea, where one sat and with whom. Everything bound up with status. Seniors sat with seniors, juniors with juniors. Occasionally a senior would come and sit with a group of juniors. Occasionally a favored junior was allowed to join a seniors group. It struck me as antiquated. I soon learned the importance of knowing my ‘place’ and the necessity of sitting with a group, most definitely not on my own reading a paper. Such little ‘mistakes’ were corrected by a ‘word in my ear’ from a ‘concerned’ senior helpfully giving me advice. Failing to sit with a group is seen as ignoring them. I quickly showed my desire to be part of junior groupings, noting that seniors require deferential conduct from juniors. I found the set up extraordinary but sat in the junior groupings staying as quiet as possible. This is deemed positive. I became known as a good listener!

I also discovered that the traditionalistic, conservative values of the staff extend into their views on education. This is confirmed by the views of the Remedial teacher who told me as a ‘helpful gesture’ that the learning abilities of the children are fixed by genetic factors and that education could do little to overcome inherent disadvantage. I said nothing. Her view seems to be common among the staff towards pupils in general. Each child had their natural level and could not be educated beyond it. I found myself amazed. It was straight out of the Middle Ages!

In the following weeks I maintained my ‘enthusiasm’. Volunteering for various additional duties. This was heavily taken advantage of causing me to lose many free periods when I should have been resting, marking homework etc. As a result I was always very tired when I returned to our depressing temporary accommodation. We were still waiting to move into our new home. To overcome the frustration of delay and the sheer awfulness of our evening surroundings we went home to Bath every weekend just to cheer ourselves up.

At the end of the first month I made what seemed to be my first serious mistake. Having been drawn into a discussion by my Head of Department, a practicing priest, on the subject of education I criticized his philosophy that school could at best only provide an enthusiastic environment and teachers should not have a concern to help develop a child’s attitude to learning. He regarded my view as over-intellectual, impractical and above all showing a lack of experience. This is communicated as a clear put down. I’m made to understand that I have overstepped my junior status. I tried to compromise but wouldn’t give way on my view and noted that with this disagreement his manner towards me became guarded from now on. Later, Louise helped me appreciate my situation. The school was just a job. Don’t get involved in any serious discussion!

After a month I attended my first parents-teachers evening, first being instructed by the Deputy Head what I should wear and what I should say. Above all I couldn’t be critical of pupils in any way. I must not make any comment except praise.

Looking back at my first month at the school it struck me that my status there was deleterious to my self-esteem. This contrasted strongly with external reality. I’d just received a letter from a prestigious academic journal in the USA telling me they’d publish a paper I’d sent them.

Five weeks have gone by and still no sign of us moving into our house. We still slept on the floor using our mattresses. The delay seemed to run on and on. Louise feeling mighty fed up. At school I’m kept continually busy marking homework. I made the decision not to take any home but would use any free time I had there to do it. My lunch break was crucial in this regard. I found a quiet spot in the library where I could work. My frequent absence from the Staff Room was noted. Enquiries about my lack of presence was made by senior staff through junior acolytes. For my personal amusement I broke the taboo and sat in the senior staff area joining discussions with random comments. This was met by stony silence. Experience not repeated!

A school holiday at the end of this period. We returned to Bath then immediately went on to Cornwall for a superb camping and touring vacation. Swimming, walking in wilderness areas, visiting picturesque seaside towns, famous smugglers’ inns and villages in warm sunny weather. The sheer awfulness of our temporary accommodation and the atmosphere pervading the Staff Room was quickly forgotten. We all felt very relaxed. The money received for my first month’s salary was more than welcome. We enjoyed a final day, returning from Cornwall to our beautiful home in Bath then leaving reluctantly late evening to go back to the unfurnished dump we lived at on the council housing estate.

The following day school began with morning assembly. Prayers led by the Deputy Head who begins with a reminder of the Easter festival and message of Jesus. “One of love as opposed to the message of hate by the Jews who killed him.” My ears pricked up. Had I heard right? I looked round but saw no reaction on the faces of my fellow teachers.

The Deputy Head was now talking about the followers of Jesus “who loved him,” contrasting these with, “the murderers who hated our Lord.” His words etch deep in my mind. I felt stunned. I’ve never heard this said before. Jews by implication hated and murdered Jesus. I felt deeply offended. Was struck in particular by the tone of voice with which the remarks were made. The context was highly disturbing, given they’d been said to young impressionable children. The teaching staff around me were entirely unresponsive. I was left feeling angry. His comments were a clear attack on Jews. An attack on the whole Jewish people. My anger was mixed with a dulling of my senses. I felt shocked.

The Deputy Head brought the service to a close. The overall Christian message was one of love…

Hymns were now sung after which the Headmaster himself took over. Recent achievements were mentioned. Sports fixtures etc. The assembly ended. Pupils and teachers file out. I didn’t go to Staff Room for tea but sat in my quiet place in library then walked to school greenhouse area for a smoke. It helped calm my nerves but all the same I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.

That evening I told Louise. Her manner was fatalistic. “Well what else did you expect, it’s a Church school!”

I said nothing but felt a deep seated unease. There might be trouble ahead.  Jews don’t normally hide who they are.

A MARKET TRADER’S PROBLEM: CAN YOU KEEP AN EYE ON THE STALL, I NEED TO HAVE A PISS. THE DANGERS OF PUTTING YOUR TRUST IN OTHERS

So what has this post got to do with crystals or crystal healing you are entitled to ask. Short answer, nothing immediately obvious. That said you don’t have to read it. There’s nothing compelling you. If you prefer watching Ed Milliband jump up and down like a petulant monkey during Prime Minister’s Questions or read about your favourite celebrity bimbo curling her pubes with a tuning fork in some gutter press tart sheet then go ahead. Please. Be my guest. I can’t compete with that sort of thing. If on the other hand you’re in any way curious about the title and want to learn a bit more about the perils of being a trader on a London street market then maybe you’ll spare me a minute.

Okay, if you’re still with me I want you to imagine what it’s like being out on the street seven-thirty a.m. till six at night, five sometimes six days a week throughout the months October till April. It’s dark early mornings and pretty cold too all the way through the day so you need to keep warm. Clothing helps but there’s nothing like tea and a cigarette, and later a coffee or two. The caffeine gives anyone working a bit of a boost. Consider this though. Most men working the markets aren’t exactly what you’d call kids. They’re at the higher end of the thirty to fifty age bracket, many of them with the same nasty problem.

It’s what happens to them when they get older. Enlarged prostate! Drink a tea or a coffee and two minutes later the urine’s all ready to flow, only the control they once had just isn’t there anymore. I don’t want to get personal but you can either piss in your pants or head for the café where you’re well known because in nine out of ten street markets there’s nothing official in the way of a toilet. As for pubs you’ll always be sure of a welcome, just as long as you’re buying and that means more pissing. Like you’re on some kind of treadmill.

Tea or coffee keeps traders warm and gives them a lift on a real cold and frosty but it comes with a price for a man with a problem. When you’ve got to go then you’ve just got to go. Holding it in is simply too painful so you ask your mate on the next stall, third line of the title. It’s okay, he’s heard it before. You say it to him and he says it to you, like you’re in some kind of street opera. The pair of you desperately dancing from one leg to another singing can you keep an eye on the stall… and after a while when they’ve all had their tea a whole bloody encore of traders hopping around wanting a piss singing the same line like it’s a scene straight out of Puccini, the only thing missing being a dagger, a jealous husband and some heroine or other but preferably not the one in the café who does you a bacon roll regular cos she’s one of those typical up for a shag grannies of seventy.

It all sounds straightforward enough. You ask the guys each side of you or the fruit moll over the street and they’ll keep a reasonable lookout. Most of everything’s on the same level. Straight out the pound shop only three times the price. Then there’s me and my crystals. Something totally different. On street markets like these most traders are reasonable types. If they say they’ll keep an eye while you’re emptying then they’ll give it a glance. Maybe even wander over on occasion. What they won’t do is keep an eye if they know you’re pissing it up in the pub. If you’re straight with them they’ll be with you. They’ve got sharp eyes and a promise is always a promise.

It’s not the same though if you’re on some private market. Traders who work markets like Covent Garden are quite something else. Most sell craft of one kind or another, others jewellery, ornaments and collectables. There are days when everything’s mixed or just one of a kind. What you never get are fruit and veg men, canned or jarred foods, cooking utensils or cheap cosmetics. What the craft crowd call the shit end. Those who trade in private markets are also one of a kind. Affable on the surface but full of bile underneath. They’re in deadly competition with each other. Resenting every penny anyone else takes because it should have been them, and piling up yellow resentment by the bucket load when they see you doing serious business! You all work together but make no mistake, they’re not really your friends. That said, when you urgently need a piss on one of these markets and you ask the guy working the stall next to you if he’ll keep an eye you know he’ll say yes. But you also know that he won’t, and furthermore wouldn’t give a jonny jack rabbit if a gang of Romanian women showed up carrying holdalls!

So when you ask that favour and get a positive response you know it means just about nothing. It’s the word of someone who’d frankly prefer to see you piss in your pants and in your heart of hearts you know it. And in his heart of hearts he knows it too but it’s not something you’re likely to bring up in some ruddy confessional. You asking for a promise you know he won’t keep and him making a promise he knows he won’t either. Mutually assured lying! So you rush off close to bursting, pretending to yourself that if fifty Albanians came from all parts of London in a co-ordinated attempt to clean out your stall he’d be there to fight them off, even though knowing the truth while you’re pissing your tea out he’s keeping watch on their behalf and helping them piss all your profits away. But then it’s not East Europeans you need to be worried about but the French kids who’ve gone over your green gem trees like locusts and left not a wrack behind!

So even your pissing was fearful and painful and while you’re doing it you hate the trader next to you selling those hateful little models of Swiss chalets and cuckoo clocks and you’d really like to piss all over them and promise yourself that one day you will! And when you’re back at your stall you see that nothing has gone at all and that you’re okay, only you’re not because two of your willows aren’t there anymore and what you resent more than anything else is not that the bastard on the stall next to you let you down which was on the cards anyway, but that you’d been happy thinking nothing was nicked then plunged into despair when you realised you’d got it wrong and having thanked him prematurely you can’t turn round and say something filthy. And what is the really bad thing in all this? Well I’ll tell you. You want to get your own back, so when he next needs to go for a piss you tell him, sure, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out and naturally you don’t. Trouble is he doesn’t get any thieves coming to his stall because nobody wants any of the shit that he’s selling!

So much for putting your trust in others! The people you spend time with day after day. Talking the endless rubbish that traders incessantly talk about. Everyone competing against one another in a mutually assured urination fest! Okay, you need to go for a wee. He promises to keep an eye on your stall. In return you get him a tea as a thank you. He drinks up and needs a wee likewise so you promise to keep an eye in return for which he returns the favour. No sugar mate I’m part diabetic! Now imagine this going on all over the market. Two to three hundred traders all running across to the gents in a hurry then scurrying back holding more cups of tea. And so it goes on like some perverted version of La Traviata.

The fact is that anywhere you are and whatever market you’re working, if you’re on your own you can trust no-one. Everyone’s liable to let anyone down. Not because they’re intrinsically bad but because looking after anyone else’s stall isn’t rightly their business. Their stall is their business, not yours. Why should any trader have to act as anyone else’s unpaid security? What for? Surely not the cup of tea you’re bringing back for them! No, they’ve got their own stuff to look after and sell thank you very much. You and your gear come way down the list, besides which, they don’t like you or your lousy stuff anyway. Fuck you and your talk about crystals and healing, and all the crazies who give you money for bits of rock you dug up in some fucking back garden. And there they are, trying to make an honest living selling designer teapots or zip up penis warmers for dogs, and then there’s you and the shit that’s taking the food out of the mouths of their kids!

Look after your stall while you’re having a wee? No worries!

Okay, now you’ve got some idea of what it’s like working on a market are you still willing to give it a try? If so I need to tell you that you’ve first got to take the compulsory Street Traders Test as required by law. It’s quite simple really. You go to the Snake House at the London Zoo and ask the Head Keeper if you can put your hand into a cage of rattlesnakes. If he’s agreeable and you come out alive then you are certified as fit for the job and may I wish you all the best in your chosen career.

Alternatively of course there’s always bound to be something waiting for you in banking should you change your mind. It’s an occupation that has many compensations, one being an intimate acquaintance with a certain celebrity starlet’s tuning fork.

CRYSTAL PRINCESSES FROM ESSEX

My eyes picked her up in seconds. She was outsize. Big in body with massive thighs, shapely legs in black fishnet stockings, thrusting tits held in place by an extra-small bra under a tight white tee-shirt and to cap it all off a seriously fat arse bursting out of a tiny denim mini-skirt. She looked ridiculous as she pranced towards the stall in her four inch stilettos, but it wasn’t her ruby red lipstick that caught my attention. A fine amethyst crystal dangled neatly on a leather thong between her wondrous appendages.

My mind raced. A real sauce box. She had to be from Essex I speculated. Correctly as it turned out from the minute she opened her mouth!

She wasn’t alone. Hurrying along behind her was a skinny, sharp faced blonde also wearing a mini but this one ultra-short in leather with slightly ripped white fishnets encasing her long shapely legs. Neat little arse, the thought crossed my mind and then the fact both were eyeing me up with a well-controlled satisfaction.

They knew what they were about all right. I was under a pheromone attack and desperately needed assistance. My eyes fastened onto a large piece of Rose Quartz at the front of the table and I tried drinking in its calm, peaceful vibes. Relax, think love and peace… Let the calm flow in and around you…

It helped but only marginally. The blonde was also wearing a crystal. A fine clear quartz double termination also on leather. Clearly they both knew their stuff. With the first flush of their arrival over they began taking in the stall, glancing over the Gem Trees and the various crystals I had out on display along with my semi-precious pendants and mineral specimens. As for myself I’d taken in the Rose tattooed just above the fat girl’s preposterous bum. A really sweet smelling place I thought before letting my mind wander. Christ, if ever I was stuck with her on a desert island without food or any hope of rescue I could live off those thighs for over a year. I immediately banished the thought. A creature like that could easily do for me while I was sleeping.

The idea dissipated when the blonde began talking. Did I have any Moldovite, she asked matter of fact?         

I immediately played my friendly market trader’s gambit. “You girls from Hornchurch,” I enquired affably. This was a market in Central London. Lunchtime on a warm autumn day. Both were from Essex. No doubt about it. They could have come up for the day from Southend or Chelmsford but unlikely. Too far out from London. They had to be from somewhere nearer at hand.

I got a warm smiley rejoinder. How did I know then? Not far from Hornchurch at that.

Surely not Upminster I chuckled?

Their knowing looks said it all. “You some healing wizard?” the skinny blonde asked, tartly arching an eyebrow.

“I’m into crystal healing,” I purred, taking due cognizance, “but I wouldn’t call myself a wizard.”

Her eyes gave me the once over. That special kind of look that every market trader knows. Full of promise but dangerous. Essex all over and predatory with it.

“We’re from the estate down the end of Hall Lane. Know it?”

I knew exactly. “Used to live there myself,” I confirmed, “before I moved out of London.”

The one with the black fishnets smiled at her friend. “We don’t exactly live there any more either. Got ourselves a flat in Romford.”

My eyes widened. Romford! The biggest shit-hole in the Galaxy!

“We’re just out on our lunch-break,” she went on, common as a second hand tampax from that part of the world. “Someone told us there was a stall here selling crystals.”

Essex or not I liked the fact that they were interested. I could see them admiring the trees under the light and much else besides. I made most of the stuff myself I said pleasantly, wanting to convey that I was some sort of craftsman though somehow forgetting my wife and then feeling stupid. Get off with those two? I had to be out of my head. Early twenties and straight out of Romford. Probably shagged their way through the whole Klingon Empire. Five minutes with either and I’d have chlamydia growing out of my eyeballs. That said why be prejudiced? I was there to make a living and they were both wearing crystals. It had to say something. I mean, Essex girls or not they were also believers. Why else were they wearing them?

“That’s a nice double termination you’re wearing,” I said encouragingly. “It’ll give you plenty of energy.”

“Pointed at both ends,” she nodded. “Nice and transparent. Not like the rubbish most people sell.”

“Sounds like you know more than I do,” I breezed, taking in the points bursting out of her top like a promise. Even so, she was nothing compared to her friend. The size of her arse in that tiny mini-skirt was so very Essex. What was uncommon however was her amethyst crystal. Very dark. The very best quality that came only from Uruguay and perfectly formed. What the hell? It was the size of her that was overwhelming my senses, not the crystal. Strange that. As a rule I can’t abide fat women but this one was different. Not so much a tub of lard as a great big bubbly sauce box with something engaging about those legs of hers.

She knew I was looking her over. What the hell indeed? It had to be the fishnet stockings. A woman really needed to have class to look special in them. Classy rather than cheap. There are many men, market traders among them I know of, who are turned on by cheap looking girls. Cheap can mean many things but one of them’s ‘available’ and available means doing something you’d never ever imagined you’d do and winding up in a semi in Romford eating kebabs twenty-four seven and lying on a beach in Benidorm two weeks of the year with three awful kids wanting cod and chips every night… and the ‘ladies’ looking over my crystals conveyed that kind of promise. Or did they? Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe that really wasn’t their style and they were planning to study philosophy at Oxford.

It was a consideration I had to put into abeyance. Having asked permission the big girl picked up my biggest single quartz crystal. A superb piece from Brazil, Not quite transparent but clear enough and well-rounded with a perfect point at one end. Around seven inches long, it didn’t come cheap. Good energy but nothing compared to Moldovite or Sugilite. Seconds later I did a serious double-take, wondering whether I was seeing right. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, working it with her hands and testing its energy, and yet I couldn’t help thinking there was something else going on. Something that wasn’t entirely spiritual. Indeed the more I thought about it there seemed to be a psycho-physical connection between her and the crystal! If I didn’t know better I’d have said she was getting off on it.

My thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. Incredible! I’d never considered that kind of relationship before! Was this something that only happened to women or could men get it too?

She knew what I was thinking. It had powerful energies she confirmed then gave me a real knowing look… Nothing compared to Moldovite, or best of all…

We both said the magical name together. Sugilite!

By this time I’d gone round to the front of the stall hoping I might make a sale. For a moment I thought she would ask if I had any of the wonder mineral but was glad that she didn’t because none was available and the waiting list already long. It really did have a special place in the hearts and minds of the fraternity but then how had she known about it? I was curious and wanted to ask but didn’t. So far that day my sales weren’t up to much. I needed to concentrate on taking some money and the situation seemed opportune. Could I interest her in a nice piece of Rose Quartz I ventured? That piece I had there near the front of the table was special. Just in from Madagascar. A beautiful rose colour and lovely to touch.

“Perfect for calm and tranquillity,” I enthused. “A really loving stone.”

“You mean shagging…” she said matter of fact. “I’m not looking for healing. “I’m more into something that’s activating and enervating.”  

I followed her eyes as they ran over the stall. “Something like Moldovite!”

I saw where she was looking. There was a beautiful pendant lying near one of the trees. A deep rich forest green in colour. From Moravia in the Czech Republic where all the best Moldovite came from. The mineral was rare and it didn’t come cheap. It was certainly an activating stone and she knew it.

“How much?” she said picking it up. “It hasn’t got a chain or anything.”

The chain was incidental. A freebee chucked in for the kind of money I wanted.

I thought quickly. She certainly wouldn’t have it.

“A really fine piece I said lightly “and at a very good price. A hundred and sixty, nothing less. It’s one of the best pieces I’ve had.”

She looked at me disdainfully. “You’re a cheeky bastard,” she said warmly. “I know your kind all right! Dirty as the night is long.”

Somehow I liked her for that. “That’s pleasure,” I said sweetly. “You know what you’re holding is special.”

“Give you one-forty,” she shot back. “Can’t do any more.”

I considered, then shook hands at one-forty-five. A good deal for both of us I thought till she pulled out a wallet bulging with twenties.

“And a nice silver chain she insisted,” asking me to fasten it round her neck.

I did so graciously and with no small degree of affection. It looked good on her and it pleased me.

It wasn’t the money I reflected, just that she had her own kind of class and had it in spades, only it wasn’t my kind of class. I wished her well silently, hoping that the man she met and fell for wouldn’t hurt her too much. Where she’d got that kind of money I wouldn’t ask but she certainly had a real eye for quality.

The sale wasn’t over. Her friend, a blonde piece of work if ever there was one, grabbed the Rose Quartz. I could tell that she liked it. For twenty-five it was a steal and she knew it.

There was something about both of them as they pranced away out of sight They’d both bought qualitied things which is more than I can say about some of the purchases made by women from Chelsea or Kensington. Only these two weren’t Chelsea or Kensington and never would be. They were different kinds of lighthouses that a man can’t take his eyes off. Indeed, the history of the British aristocracy is littered with doxies like these. Raunchy slags who knew how to press all the right buttons.

BLUSTERING BORIS

If you look at the faces of people who attend Conservative Party Conferences, whether men or women, young or old, British, Asian or African, they all seem to have a strange mad look about them. Staring eyes in thin mean faces indicating a semi-neurotic punitive disposition for which Tories of this ilk are famous i.e. don’t fine them for stealing a bottle of water, they’re serious criminals so lock them away, or better still send them in irons to Australia.

Others with this weird disposition have it in plumper fleshier faces. They’ve still got those eyes though! Not  quite as bunged up with venomous intent for their main objects of hate, such as union leaders or student demonstrators, this species of Tory is far more into populist bluster and malevolent carping about human rights ‘indulgencies’ and ‘old leftie’ radicalism, all of which is hidden away under a good natured bonhomie.

Boris Johnson is an excellent specimen of this kind of Tory pond life. A hearty good-natured fellow full of witty good natured banter packed with spontaneous effervescence. As irrepressible as a pumped up schoolboy. All of it waiting to be launched at the right place and the right time for the right occasion. One that will catch the fundamentalist mood and deliver the most telling swipes at the right people for the right purpose. That said he’s a natural star at any annual conference of the faithful.

Politicians of this kind generally come with physical attributes to wrap their sentiment around. Iconic populist bluster is founded on iconic appearance. A little black moustache and piercing eyes… a tendency to stick out your chin and bang your chest, or a calculated suave condescension. Thus Hitler, Mussolini and Margaret Thatcher! Boris Johnson, indeed, has some of his own. A splendid head of white-blond hair and strange roaming eyes in an insouciant face that seems ready to smile or have a good chuckle at just about any moment he pleases. It’s quite undeniable, almost like he’s really enjoying himself. That said you’ve only got to watch a performance to find yourself being struck with the idea, at the deepest psychological level, that he’s actually quietly laughing at everything he’s saying. Almost as though he finds it all ludicrous.

This can only mean one of two things. Either he’s totally on top of his subject matter and in complete control of its delivery to an already receptive audience, or that his personality is such that he simply can’t take any of it seriously, i.e. in the serious manner required by those looking for a hard-nosed leader. And yet there he is, throwing out wild spontaneous asides and swiping at favourite bogeymen that in seconds have the faithful rapturously eating out of his hand.

Currently he’s a one-off. Full of seemingly disparate incoherence, he makes it all come together as a blustering performance that is uniquely himself. Simply Boris!

“I’m not here to defend privilege, I’m here to spread it,” David Cameron said in his Tory Conference speech, knowing only too well that 98% of the British people simply never get close enough to have a sniff and never will, unlike he and his ultra-privileged comrade in arms Boris Johnson who both drew it in deep at Eton, one becoming a Prime Minister the other Lord Mayor of London.

The topic of this post is the second, a man with an easily identifiable persona and perfectly matching style as a combative blusterer. Nothing is unidirectional with him. His speeches come in bits, asides that are rarely connected with everything going off at a tangent. If fact, each bit is at a tangent to everything else except the one central component, an engaging effusive delivery reeking of bluster. This effusive quality is the central core of his personality. One he’s carefully crafted over the years into a formidable political weapon, endearing itself to voters and turning him into a unique political species of being.

His ‘public’ especially like him for his seeming bumbling incoherence, his political disjointedness. The fact that with his permanently insouciant smile he never appears to take anything seriously. They particularly like him for that because they themselves are no longer inclined to take politicians or politics seriously, especially after revelations concerning the horrendous shortcomings of Members of Parliament in the Expenses Scandal and the recent broken promises of Nick Clegg. However as endearing as his blustering political incoherence may be, it also masks a populist right wing agenda and serious resolve. As an old Etonian he has no time for organised labour and why should he? He can understand nothing of the making ends meet, daily struggles of the poor except from his distant elevated position of privilege. Yet none of this detracts from his popularity. Perhaps it’s because he’s made politics fun and maybe most people simply don’t care anymore.

The electorate of London who only a few years ago voted him mayor did so over a candidate with far greater political experience and an altogether more sympathetic manner towards working people and the poor. Ken Livingston’s demeanour had always been more serious than that of his rival yet voters rejected him despite his many achievements. He was made to look grey, humourless and lefty by a London media and business campaign against which the irascible blond blusterer was altogether more fun. Indeed, the personality of the challenger became more important than the politics of the incumbent and won the day.

Later, the high spring tide of Toryism that followed Labour’s ignominious ebb brought blustering Boris in on the flood and it didn’t take him long to become muscular joy-boy to the constituency faithful in every dark corner of Essex. Yes he was the populist spur ready to lay into the otherwise beloved leader should he ever go over indulgent with Clegg. Meanwhile both will keep firing epithets of admiration at one another across party lines. One has the constituencies and the Daily Mail on his side, the other Cabinet loyalty and possibly Murdoch. The two old public school chums detest one another despite the smiles but keep it well under wraps. Someone’s got to pay for the Crisis and there’s still much dirty work to be done. Besides, a ship can only have one Captain!

Either way, with either one at the helm the voyage ahead will be hell! That’s because neither of them are very nice people. But then, neither are any of the Liberal Democrats and likewise the creatures of One Nation Labour who’ve glibly thrown out everything decent the Labour Party ever stood for… help and welfare for those who need it most in our society. That’s the way things have become. You don’t know who anyone is these days when everyone in each party is beginning to sound like everyone else over a fence and all of them waving the flag, banging the patriotic drum like the scoundrels they are and making no promises to anyone desperately struggling to make ends meet.

Yes, they’re all in it together. They all look the same and sound the same with the Tories trying to strike bluer than Labour and the Liberal Democrats yellow all over. Everyone that is except blustering Boris. He just blusters away busily saying nothing. That’s why he’s loved! If you try to think of anything important he’s said than you’ll try a long time. That’s why the party faithful love him. He keeps them busy. Keeps them on their toes thinking about whether anything he said actually means anything. In that sense he’s discovered the real secret at the heart of British politics. That nobody cares what you say because whatever it is nobody really believes you. No point wasting your words then. Just smile insouciantly and say whatever comes into your head!