The bottom line of this perhaps rather long narrative, is not, as I initially started out as a perhaps green, green badge cab driver, who did not move to the valley of Diesel “Ilford” with the obligatory new cab, wife, mortgage and two kids.

No one more surprised than I at the realisation of what has materialised, a first hand description humiliation and deprivation of the British working class from the 1930's.

This erosion brought about entirely by deliberate policy of successive governments.. and the ten draconian years of Tony Blair who deliberately, for whatever reason, encouraged the influx of irrepresible waves of the World's disenchanted onto these shores, by doing so, creating a powerful, intimidating, devisive weapon against the indigenous labouring masses and a hard core of … crime, poverty and unemployment… the triple iron fist of all governments,plus Enron, 9/11, Afghan conflict over oil, Kosovo all emphatically used by Blair; any outcry was by "politically incorrect racists" as Dr David Kelly was to find to the cost of his life.

The differential between rich and poor, is greater now, than during the Middle Ages.

There were cracks in this existence.

There were cracks in this existence.
Ruth had taken to gambling as a way of life, becoming tired with the unpleasant monotony of work. Getting up to be at the 'office' by nine thirty, hardly a hardship, although only a 'temp' and her week rarely stretched longer then three days. The early morning struggle, after a hard night at the 'Kaluki Table' becoming too much ... especially if on a winning streak. Gradually, her day turned into night, she would, perhaps, become conscious for a few hours in the afternoon, I would dish up some food and we would either go out for some air, weather permitting, or simply, she would go back to sleep. By 9.00 p.m. she was ready to leave ... for me to escort her to the Victoria Sporting Club.
She had worked out the amount of money I would have to give her, once 'I got my Badge' ... It was to be 'fifteen pounds a week', which was slightly less than the average weekly wage. She did not specify if that amount was to be hers, solely, or whether, from that, she would buy food.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fred settled into his new house, yet the feeling came through to me that he had reached the end of his road. The upheaval from 'Nightingale' and his protracted struggle with Hackney Borough Council had been too much, on top of all his other problems. Certainly he went here, went there ... anything other than sit in front of the typewriter. He had come to a standstill in the brain box, and knew it.
Conceivably, he regretted the 'high life' ... up the social ladder, the accompanying pressures hardly being to his liking. Rarely did he associate with anyone 'in the Business' socially. His journeys to the Television Centre at Wood Lane, not made with any eagerness. "That bloody lot", he would mutter. He never used the occasions to further his own interests ... never put himself about. A few drinks in the bar with the immediate parties interested in the script. The script itself, usually being walked all over by the producer, regardless of the pained expression on Fred's face and his puffing protests. I tried to support him so much as possible, suggesting that it hardly mattered what they did ... so long as the money was good.
The stiffling atmosphere of the establishment did little to help Fred, but no way was he completely intimidated. He did not abandon his antecedents, not beyond coming out with some really choice language when pushed, his face brilliant red. not a fool, knew more than a certain amount of resentment of him appearing from nowhere, from 'Hackney'.

His simplicity overcame those who tried so hard to put him down, but he, unable to escape from them....always had him dangling at the end of the telephone, felt besieged by people and things he did not want. Slowly, quite slowly, he was drifting into oblivion.

By way of diversion he began to take an interest in my now more frequent visits to the public carriage office. I had still not bought a moped, but had met the situation half way with a push bike. Fred would cycle around the 'City of London' with me, the 'City Ramble' as it was affectionately known, being a ball game all of its own. Its nooks and crannies ... its 'prestigious' buildings. The livery halls, I had managed to find thirty two of these, possibly one or two more left.

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