Hackney Borough Council have a further implementation. A man with two wives must be given a house with two kitchens…then Hackney is Middle England for Blacks. Hackney, the poorest borough in Europe and having the greatest race mix.
For a colourful “tourist” ride, take the 653 bus from Tottenham Court road to Aldgate, it bisects Hackney.
It is not possible to negotiate when there are people squatting on the floor, waiting at the door… waiting to take your job, without conditions, people who will eagerly do it so much cheaper, not necessarily better, people from Africa, India, Turkey, from anywhere, any conceivable corner of the Planet, a vast army of the World’s demanding, , unwanted, disenchanted, who clamored into the country night and day to the aid, protection and at the behest of money. No bloodshed, no bombs, , no outcry which could not be suppressed at this, the greatest invasion in the Country’s history, only the historic phrase “Rivers of Blood” made in protest by Mr Powell who was relentlessly put down by his own party, the National Press, TV and the leaders of this sea of black faces, this ragged army of invaders, who raged from the temples and mosques.. shouting the new word “Racist” at him and anyone else who opposed them and opposed giving their own country away without a fight, anyone who decided they object at being forced to live with other cultures, sheep’s head, not fish and chips, anyone who decides that black people, en masse, are intimidating, that the black levers of power are humiliating by design. To compound this, laws of silence are enforced with heavy penalties for anyone who dare speak out….. No one does… The Ethnic population has, by multiplication, and infiltration, become very strong, strong enough to be in a position to destabilize the vote in very many constituencies, as with Ethnic Albanians, they now wish for independence.. a Black Parliament on the cards. White people must be politically correct when they speak to or about black people.. a touch of subservience in their “attitude” preferred. The “Race Relations” Tribunal having huge powers and use them, able to take anyone to the highest court in the land. England now gripped tight in the same turmoil as Kosovo, captured from within by a writhing Trojan Horse.
Ethnic Albanians return in triumph to Kosovo, with the same savagery, the aid of the West, the bombs of NATO.
Islam, vindicated or placated ?
Justice , without doubt, is the will of the stronger, the rule of the many. ( all the trouble and violence in Iran at the moment is caused by the prolific wave of people born since 1979.
(CNN. 7.14. 99. )
Mostly beyond peoples’ comprehension here as to what is going on there.. Always the same remarks..
“How can this be? Are the English so stupid ?.. why don’t they do something ? “
England long ago failed to do anything, or to hear
“ The Shrill Clarion Call”
Certainly it clearly, religiously, hears the opening bars of
“Coronation street” Eight p.m. each evening
And
“Time Gentlemen please !!
Goodnight .. goodnight Mavis,
goodnight Elsie, Ta Ta …
Ask Bill to get your teeth done, you look terrible“
( thanks and apologies to T. S. Elliot)
July 14, 1999.
Se afișează postările cu eticheta Hackney. Afișați toate postările
Se afișează postările cu eticheta Hackney. Afișați toate postările
Bucuresti, my Wife and Mahler’s 1st Symphony
Against this indictment of the West, all is not quite lost, so far as I am concerned,
Here in Bucuresti, there is a humanity, the likes of which I have not known since my days as a child in Hackney..
Children play in the streets, the streets, free to be walked in at any hour, If there is repression, I have never encountered it.
The women, attractive, smart, educated, unafraid, they smile at Peter, perhaps with some curiosity, some scepticism .
Bucuresti, once the “Paris” of Eastern Europe .. not very long before it regains that title.
No identity problem, no pressure to entertain other, alien people, to give them homes, money, rather than the indigenous population. No other cultures forced down the throat, forced to become subservient to them… now a indictable offence to speak out against such a intolerable situation, quite confident the truth, the reality, the realization will break out, perhaps erupt is more appropriate .
Crossing the border from “Europe” into Hungary, into the East, is a revelation. Suddenly there is sanity, people freely communicate with each other, the tense, tight atmosphere specifically created here by those in power, for their own purposes does not exist.
In my long life there have only been three things I have managed to find which have been any good…
Bucuresti, my Wife and Mahler’s 1st Symphony .
Here in Bucuresti, there is a humanity, the likes of which I have not known since my days as a child in Hackney..
Children play in the streets, the streets, free to be walked in at any hour, If there is repression, I have never encountered it.
The women, attractive, smart, educated, unafraid, they smile at Peter, perhaps with some curiosity, some scepticism .
Bucuresti, once the “Paris” of Eastern Europe .. not very long before it regains that title.
No identity problem, no pressure to entertain other, alien people, to give them homes, money, rather than the indigenous population. No other cultures forced down the throat, forced to become subservient to them… now a indictable offence to speak out against such a intolerable situation, quite confident the truth, the reality, the realization will break out, perhaps erupt is more appropriate .
Crossing the border from “Europe” into Hungary, into the East, is a revelation. Suddenly there is sanity, people freely communicate with each other, the tense, tight atmosphere specifically created here by those in power, for their own purposes does not exist.
In my long life there have only been three things I have managed to find which have been any good…
Bucuresti, my Wife and Mahler’s 1st Symphony .
"Cheap labour"
At the time of writing there are 17,000,000 workless people in Europe.
The post office in Brook Rd; Hackney, has eight cubicles, all serviced by Asian ladies. Each day they constantly pay out to long lines of the Demanding World’s Disenchanted who have crowded onto these shores in hope and anticipation.
I had once the audacity, the temerity, to attempt to calculate the amount paid out by H.M Government each week to these people, the noughts fell off the end.
It would be reasonable to say there are at least thirty such other offices in this, the poorest borough, through sheer weight of numbers, in Europe.
The hard economic philosophy of a " pool of unemployment" and "cheap labour" has not come cheap.. in any respect.. however, subtracted from this incredible cost, must be the quite obvious control and advantage by Business and Government over those who have to endure to survive. Or, as Daniella quickly observed, " Simply, perhaps, another punishment for the 'proletariat', for whatever reason, whatever whim "…
The chattering class, capricious, avaricious, uncaring, unthinking, immune to those whose backs they ride, so remorselessly, so heavily upon.
The three wealthiest people in the World hold the equivalent of the gross national income of the 48 poorest, deprived countries of the World
'EuroNews" 9.9.98.
A Romanian peasant lady draws 700 lei a Month pension
(A cup of coffee in Mcdonalds is 7000 lei)
PRO. TV. 1999-03-04
The post office in Brook Rd; Hackney, has eight cubicles, all serviced by Asian ladies. Each day they constantly pay out to long lines of the Demanding World’s Disenchanted who have crowded onto these shores in hope and anticipation.
I had once the audacity, the temerity, to attempt to calculate the amount paid out by H.M Government each week to these people, the noughts fell off the end.
It would be reasonable to say there are at least thirty such other offices in this, the poorest borough, through sheer weight of numbers, in Europe.
The hard economic philosophy of a " pool of unemployment" and "cheap labour" has not come cheap.. in any respect.. however, subtracted from this incredible cost, must be the quite obvious control and advantage by Business and Government over those who have to endure to survive. Or, as Daniella quickly observed, " Simply, perhaps, another punishment for the 'proletariat', for whatever reason, whatever whim "…
The chattering class, capricious, avaricious, uncaring, unthinking, immune to those whose backs they ride, so remorselessly, so heavily upon.
The three wealthiest people in the World hold the equivalent of the gross national income of the 48 poorest, deprived countries of the World
'EuroNews" 9.9.98.
A Romanian peasant lady draws 700 lei a Month pension
(A cup of coffee in Mcdonalds is 7000 lei)
PRO. TV. 1999-03-04
Hackney to Hilton
Still, have it on internet.. this quite satisfied with… wondering where the words will reach. Cynthia maintains I never have wanted to sell it, always slightly dubious as to which way other people, strangers, will manipulate it to other ends. As it is, can sit here in Bucuresti and take a long look at England, never able to accept that which successive governments forced upon us, unable, unwilling to accept that I ….
“Must learn to live with Black People”
England, an island now consider having lost itself, this irreparable damage, all within the last fifty years, its cohesion, culture, seriously threatened. Someone remarking, rather lucidly,
“England has a identity crisis.” … Ancient English Kings turning in their graves .
My solution, for the declining, politically correct, rigidly controlled, by hard, hatchet faced, feminists, the “Head in the Sand” attitude of a weakened, floundering, matriarch England… a land of “spin doctors “..whatever this may mean, imply. A strange, weird, “Minister Without Portfolio” with quite apparent unlimited power, used from the shadows. No, my only possible solution, is to leave .. never able to come to terms with the underlying reality.. the underlying apprehension …
………. the fear .
“Why is it that no one has stood up and spoken out against this drift ?” .
Aware one or two people have ‘dared’ …only to be pulled down, shouted down .. indeed, mostly by the ferocious howls of ‘racist’ from black faced members of The English Parliament who so clearly see the inherent threat to their , perhaps tenuous position….. So be it
Sit here and smile, thank Mrs. Thatcher.. Dear God, thank her for giving me the opportunity to escape, although she did not quite see it like that.. assumed I would buy my council flat, which I did and vote Tory, which I did not.. never having been guilty of voting, only in this present case, sitting here, looking out, my wide view encompassing the rather better part of Bucuresti.. the Athenaeum.. The Hilton Hotel..
Once wrote, back in darkest Hackney
“Hackney to the Hilton Hotel ?..one million miles.!!.”
Have lived to travel that distance.
Yes, I voted …with both feet.
Not imperative to have read book one, although this rests firmly on it.
As with that volume, there is not a beginning, middle end, rather a kalaidascope of time, people and places.
Thought I would have more to say about this so long projected start, the final count down, my long flight from Hackney, from Clapton Common.. a nightmare ago.
Even now, Hackney beckons, whispers, its open, running sores of seething humanity still quite vivid in my mind.
The “Swan” opposite, as on so many other Friday nights, all 1,642 of them, …..10.45 p.m. the establishment fully wound up.. hot, beat of heavy sounds, fresh from the jungle.
Loud, occasionall shreiks reaching from the street below, girls, unable to contain their orgasms any longer.
********************************************
“Must learn to live with Black People”
England, an island now consider having lost itself, this irreparable damage, all within the last fifty years, its cohesion, culture, seriously threatened. Someone remarking, rather lucidly,
“England has a identity crisis.” … Ancient English Kings turning in their graves .
My solution, for the declining, politically correct, rigidly controlled, by hard, hatchet faced, feminists, the “Head in the Sand” attitude of a weakened, floundering, matriarch England… a land of “spin doctors “..whatever this may mean, imply. A strange, weird, “Minister Without Portfolio” with quite apparent unlimited power, used from the shadows. No, my only possible solution, is to leave .. never able to come to terms with the underlying reality.. the underlying apprehension …
………. the fear .
“Why is it that no one has stood up and spoken out against this drift ?” .
Aware one or two people have ‘dared’ …only to be pulled down, shouted down .. indeed, mostly by the ferocious howls of ‘racist’ from black faced members of The English Parliament who so clearly see the inherent threat to their , perhaps tenuous position….. So be it
Sit here and smile, thank Mrs. Thatcher.. Dear God, thank her for giving me the opportunity to escape, although she did not quite see it like that.. assumed I would buy my council flat, which I did and vote Tory, which I did not.. never having been guilty of voting, only in this present case, sitting here, looking out, my wide view encompassing the rather better part of Bucuresti.. the Athenaeum.. The Hilton Hotel..
Once wrote, back in darkest Hackney
“Hackney to the Hilton Hotel ?..one million miles.!!.”
Have lived to travel that distance.
Yes, I voted …with both feet.
Not imperative to have read book one, although this rests firmly on it.
As with that volume, there is not a beginning, middle end, rather a kalaidascope of time, people and places.
Thought I would have more to say about this so long projected start, the final count down, my long flight from Hackney, from Clapton Common.. a nightmare ago.
Even now, Hackney beckons, whispers, its open, running sores of seething humanity still quite vivid in my mind.
The “Swan” opposite, as on so many other Friday nights, all 1,642 of them, …..10.45 p.m. the establishment fully wound up.. hot, beat of heavy sounds, fresh from the jungle.
Loud, occasionall shreiks reaching from the street below, girls, unable to contain their orgasms any longer.
********************************************
The Candle Lit Wedding
The morning finally arrived, "The" morning, so far as Cynthia was concerned, the one she had waited through all past eternity for.
A great deal of activity... in Protopopescu Str. No 9. Not allowed to see bride.. people rushing in every direction.. not quite Harrods on a Friday evening.
My sister, a couple of Cynthia's children, myself, bundled in a Taxi to the Church.. still snowing.
Commotion at the church.. Evidently was or had been a funeral in progress.. A great deal of shouting and consternation ..definitely the bride to be allowed no where near .. had to wait when she finally did arrive with her entourage, wait a hundred yards away, outside the gates.. in the soft snow... while the dead were, to the accompaniment of loud claxons and wailing, slowly carted off.
Noticed a huge Pink monster slowly come to a halt beyond the distant gates. At first thinking an advertising hoard on wheels.. Then realised it was "The Tram" such a splendid thing, a resurrection, complete with Balloons and "Just Married".. in English.. fluttering all over it.
No further time, a crowd slowly walking down the long path towards the Church, Cynthia in full flowing bridal dress, not her Grandmothers this time, flanked by her sister and a young boy, each carrying the most enormous candle I had ever seen, the candles wreathed in bright flowers.. For a moment wondered if in the right department. Bernie's wedding in Northern Thailand had not been anything like .. such splendour, surely, could not have anything to do with me.. Cynthia looked so different.
From no where I had hit the front.. everyone pushing me forward whispering the S.P.. to approach Cynthia and kiss her...such a crush ..so many people...
Obviously, on my travels had slipped, fallen into another time, another dimension, unlike anything ever previously known.
Could never visualise my kissing any woman in public.. or at all.. Here in this surrealism.. Fallen into a white Hole, a dream, a white dream, everything a flowing white. Could see my sister ..smiling, a face amongst all the other white faces.. Slowly pushed inside the dark Church, an atmosphere like those I had the temerity to visit on previous occasions. in my other life... a candle lit, incense laden, heaviness.. Carmen.. Naples, the tiny, silent, deserted Church, hidden in the crevices of Capri.. not the stiff formalism attached to the English version of Christianity.
A choir, somewhere singing as if their lives depended upon it.
The priest, Father, whatever, obviously enjoying himself in his Golden robes, placed a crown upon Cynthia's head and mine.. quite definitely asleep.. nevertheless, after a hour of Kissing Cynthia, kissing the walls, kissing the books, Crossing myself, drinking wine from the proffered cup.. really wanted to go home, to my Yellow room with the Green tendrils entwined about me, could see Doris reading my thoughts.. her face agitated.
Had not the power to walk away from that situation, so remote, so unreal...
So far from Hackney.
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A great deal of activity... in Protopopescu Str. No 9. Not allowed to see bride.. people rushing in every direction.. not quite Harrods on a Friday evening.
My sister, a couple of Cynthia's children, myself, bundled in a Taxi to the Church.. still snowing.
Commotion at the church.. Evidently was or had been a funeral in progress.. A great deal of shouting and consternation ..definitely the bride to be allowed no where near .. had to wait when she finally did arrive with her entourage, wait a hundred yards away, outside the gates.. in the soft snow... while the dead were, to the accompaniment of loud claxons and wailing, slowly carted off.
Noticed a huge Pink monster slowly come to a halt beyond the distant gates. At first thinking an advertising hoard on wheels.. Then realised it was "The Tram" such a splendid thing, a resurrection, complete with Balloons and "Just Married".. in English.. fluttering all over it.
No further time, a crowd slowly walking down the long path towards the Church, Cynthia in full flowing bridal dress, not her Grandmothers this time, flanked by her sister and a young boy, each carrying the most enormous candle I had ever seen, the candles wreathed in bright flowers.. For a moment wondered if in the right department. Bernie's wedding in Northern Thailand had not been anything like .. such splendour, surely, could not have anything to do with me.. Cynthia looked so different.
From no where I had hit the front.. everyone pushing me forward whispering the S.P.. to approach Cynthia and kiss her...such a crush ..so many people...
Obviously, on my travels had slipped, fallen into another time, another dimension, unlike anything ever previously known.
Could never visualise my kissing any woman in public.. or at all.. Here in this surrealism.. Fallen into a white Hole, a dream, a white dream, everything a flowing white. Could see my sister ..smiling, a face amongst all the other white faces.. Slowly pushed inside the dark Church, an atmosphere like those I had the temerity to visit on previous occasions. in my other life... a candle lit, incense laden, heaviness.. Carmen.. Naples, the tiny, silent, deserted Church, hidden in the crevices of Capri.. not the stiff formalism attached to the English version of Christianity.
A choir, somewhere singing as if their lives depended upon it.
The priest, Father, whatever, obviously enjoying himself in his Golden robes, placed a crown upon Cynthia's head and mine.. quite definitely asleep.. nevertheless, after a hour of Kissing Cynthia, kissing the walls, kissing the books, Crossing myself, drinking wine from the proffered cup.. really wanted to go home, to my Yellow room with the Green tendrils entwined about me, could see Doris reading my thoughts.. her face agitated.
Had not the power to walk away from that situation, so remote, so unreal...
So far from Hackney.
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