ASKING YOU FROM MY SOUL IF YOU PLEASE AND WANT TO HELP ME I SUFFER WITH MY HEAD AND I CAN'T FIND WORK TO SUPPORT MY TWO CHILDREN TO GIVE THEM CLOTHES AND FOOD WE DO NOT HAVE A HOUSE NOT TO LIVE WHERE WE CAN WHO HAS PITY AND SOUL TO HELP US LET GOD GIVE THEM HEALTH AND HAPPINESS GOD BLESS YOU
(written on a Bucharest beggar's piece of cardboard)
There is no connection between G.W. Bush, his Zionist backers, their lust for oil, such people who live in temples of gold …….and the woman waiting in the street, waiting to be given … for the children… for the children.
… or is there a faint reflexion?
Thursday, March 06, 2003 ……2:47:42 AM
Se afișează postările cu eticheta Bucuresti. Afișați toate postările
Se afișează postările cu eticheta Bucuresti. Afișați toate postările
Twin Towers (2) ……Five months and four days after
Friday, February 15, 2002…….8:38 AM
A most glorious, sunny morning. Peace stretches tight over Bucuresti.
The shouting, posing, gesticulating, the billions of mostly repetitious, mostly meaningless words, the endless armies of the night marching nowhere, the billions of dollars, all thrown, supposedly, after the so elusive Uncle Ben Laden, his responsibility for our troubles, his audacious contempt for America. This charged atmosphere somewhat died away, the Planet slowly sinking back into its miasmal mist of poverty, despair, disintegration of people, their hopes, their fears, the infinite plethora of wars in Africa, Jews verses Palestinians, the so called ‘Olympics”, the endless scenario of figures on Wall Street, all backed by a veiled, immutable, constant, threat.
“If we all are not vigilant, if we do not conform, not accept that ………
“Justice is the will of the stronger” then, most certainly, Uncle Ben will decidedly get us again…if we could but just find him, if we knew precisely whom he was. “
Only ‘President Bush’, he only, can save us ... A wonderful diversion for him, a get out for a deeply declining economy, as the Lewinsky affair with Clinton, leaving him to devise the bombing of Yugoslavia as his particular diversion. This, now having repercussions with Milosevic on trial in the Hague, people with the slightest interest, questioning the validly of Bush, his puppets and his dollars, to put the man on trial.
Hiroshima and the indiscriminate civilian bombing of Belgrade? Which particular villains were at the bottom of that ? A question which could quite reasonably be asked……… No prizes for the right answer.
For what it is worth now, it should be mentioned that Yugoslavia fought against the Germans 39-45… Quite easy to see why the Americans are becoming universally hated as arrogant aggressors, more, and more falling into domination by Jews, their philosophy, their harsh terms for the Philistines.
The Russians still remain very quiet, unobtrusive. Quiet flows the Don.
Only visible, Chechnya and some pressure on Moldavia, that the population learn Russian. Rather interesting to know Russian real plans, aspirations, the Balkans, Afghanistan, they all so hinged on Russian borders, little more than pawns in this deadly game of power poker.
(Just a couple of years ago, Lebed, one of the hawks in the Russian hierarchy, said he could be in Bucuresti in six hours……… hardly a social call)
February 25, 2002… Ford Motor company Dagenham England is closing its’ 700acre site after seventy years, the rot firmly established, simply needs the appearance of another Hitler?….)
A most glorious, sunny morning. Peace stretches tight over Bucuresti.
The shouting, posing, gesticulating, the billions of mostly repetitious, mostly meaningless words, the endless armies of the night marching nowhere, the billions of dollars, all thrown, supposedly, after the so elusive Uncle Ben Laden, his responsibility for our troubles, his audacious contempt for America. This charged atmosphere somewhat died away, the Planet slowly sinking back into its miasmal mist of poverty, despair, disintegration of people, their hopes, their fears, the infinite plethora of wars in Africa, Jews verses Palestinians, the so called ‘Olympics”, the endless scenario of figures on Wall Street, all backed by a veiled, immutable, constant, threat.
“If we all are not vigilant, if we do not conform, not accept that ………
“Justice is the will of the stronger” then, most certainly, Uncle Ben will decidedly get us again…if we could but just find him, if we knew precisely whom he was. “
Only ‘President Bush’, he only, can save us ... A wonderful diversion for him, a get out for a deeply declining economy, as the Lewinsky affair with Clinton, leaving him to devise the bombing of Yugoslavia as his particular diversion. This, now having repercussions with Milosevic on trial in the Hague, people with the slightest interest, questioning the validly of Bush, his puppets and his dollars, to put the man on trial.
Hiroshima and the indiscriminate civilian bombing of Belgrade? Which particular villains were at the bottom of that ? A question which could quite reasonably be asked……… No prizes for the right answer.
For what it is worth now, it should be mentioned that Yugoslavia fought against the Germans 39-45… Quite easy to see why the Americans are becoming universally hated as arrogant aggressors, more, and more falling into domination by Jews, their philosophy, their harsh terms for the Philistines.
The Russians still remain very quiet, unobtrusive. Quiet flows the Don.
Only visible, Chechnya and some pressure on Moldavia, that the population learn Russian. Rather interesting to know Russian real plans, aspirations, the Balkans, Afghanistan, they all so hinged on Russian borders, little more than pawns in this deadly game of power poker.
(Just a couple of years ago, Lebed, one of the hawks in the Russian hierarchy, said he could be in Bucuresti in six hours……… hardly a social call)
February 25, 2002… Ford Motor company Dagenham England is closing its’ 700acre site after seventy years, the rot firmly established, simply needs the appearance of another Hitler?….)
Friday, July 27th ….2001.
As said so many times over the years, difficult to keep picking up pieces of my existence , so much occurring by way of distraction.
Now nine months since Aura and I parted with such bitter hostility, have not seen her, which hardly means I have not thought about her. My only conclusion is that it was a tragedy .. a strong word … perhaps, but I hardly sit and think for so very long without coming up with a few well placed words.
Aura falls in the category of Jennifer, AndreeA ..someone who will not go away from the back of my brain, ever, someone I will always watch out for, but never see again. There have been one or two exceptions to this, but the odds are heavily against.
I resist going to those places we always went….the park “The” park where we strolled on the summer sunny afternoons, she looking quite incredibly attractive in her short skirt, showing her long legs, her brief tops showing all of her which discretion would allow.. ..The looks we received from those squatting on the benches in the shade, they looked and actually stopped talking while we passed, their eyes following us ..a unusual “couple ‘ to say the least.
No, such moments in eternity are stamped indelibly, they are but “moments” against the reality.. A very harsh one.
Her deception of Peter, done with the skill of a professional, has never ceased to amaze me,. a simple country girl originally ….
Invariably, without exception, they all have bitten the hand that fed them. No doubt, she applied the same effort to her double life as passing her solicitors exams… with deep determination.
Played her part all the way to Otopeni Airport, where, I am told, she waited patiently for the German to arrive just a few hours after my departure, such impeccable timing…
Not quite so blatant as Pa at Bangkok Airport when she picked up the Swiss man, actually in the airport while I was waiting for a baggage check, she did look a million dollars, with her hair platted Thai fashion, down below her waste, a white bolero top which concealed nothing, briefest of white shorts and high heeled shoes supporting her five foot nothing exceptional chassis. Midnight and the place had almost come to a standstill staring at her.. She waved and smiled at me Returned to Pattaya with him in the cab I had paid for.. told me this with some hilarity.
No deception on her part… No treachery… we played by the rules…
Aura played for Aura … I can never even start to forgive her for that.
Possibly, to other people, my life has at least been different, then, as I have reiterated to all the those who hang back from changing their lives, that which I have, what I appear to have, is something I have worked for.. worked for consistently, maybe unconsciously, working to this vague undefined end, to sit here in Bucuresti, this glorious sunny morning, in relative peace and dare I say it, with comparative few problems. Only in such backwaters of time am I able to sit, wait, fornicate…….. write.
Now nine months since Aura and I parted with such bitter hostility, have not seen her, which hardly means I have not thought about her. My only conclusion is that it was a tragedy .. a strong word … perhaps, but I hardly sit and think for so very long without coming up with a few well placed words.
Aura falls in the category of Jennifer, AndreeA ..someone who will not go away from the back of my brain, ever, someone I will always watch out for, but never see again. There have been one or two exceptions to this, but the odds are heavily against.
I resist going to those places we always went….the park “The” park where we strolled on the summer sunny afternoons, she looking quite incredibly attractive in her short skirt, showing her long legs, her brief tops showing all of her which discretion would allow.. ..The looks we received from those squatting on the benches in the shade, they looked and actually stopped talking while we passed, their eyes following us ..a unusual “couple ‘ to say the least.
No, such moments in eternity are stamped indelibly, they are but “moments” against the reality.. A very harsh one.
Her deception of Peter, done with the skill of a professional, has never ceased to amaze me,. a simple country girl originally ….
Invariably, without exception, they all have bitten the hand that fed them. No doubt, she applied the same effort to her double life as passing her solicitors exams… with deep determination.
Played her part all the way to Otopeni Airport, where, I am told, she waited patiently for the German to arrive just a few hours after my departure, such impeccable timing…
Not quite so blatant as Pa at Bangkok Airport when she picked up the Swiss man, actually in the airport while I was waiting for a baggage check, she did look a million dollars, with her hair platted Thai fashion, down below her waste, a white bolero top which concealed nothing, briefest of white shorts and high heeled shoes supporting her five foot nothing exceptional chassis. Midnight and the place had almost come to a standstill staring at her.. She waved and smiled at me Returned to Pattaya with him in the cab I had paid for.. told me this with some hilarity.
No deception on her part… No treachery… we played by the rules…
Aura played for Aura … I can never even start to forgive her for that.
Possibly, to other people, my life has at least been different, then, as I have reiterated to all the those who hang back from changing their lives, that which I have, what I appear to have, is something I have worked for.. worked for consistently, maybe unconsciously, working to this vague undefined end, to sit here in Bucuresti, this glorious sunny morning, in relative peace and dare I say it, with comparative few problems. Only in such backwaters of time am I able to sit, wait, fornicate…….. write.
The Predator
Aura , as so very many other young ladies… Willing to stand up….. or lie down…anything.. for one of those………… evidently
Casablanca/Pattaya/Bucuresti.. nothing changes.
A Sad reflection on Society
He also promised Aura "Love and Marriage" She, heavily into promises.. Omitted, as so many other men do, to fill her in on the facts ..having a wife and three children, the same age as Aura. That he was a alcoholic, eight pints every day, minimum .. Aura defended him, saying she "did not mind" That he also had a "Boyfriend" Aura considerably shaken at this. I knew people who knew him, even rang them for Aura to hear the truth for herself.. she still would not believe it ..what is my problem ? She discovered it all, ultimately…
Waited, what appeared to be a very long silence.. then throwing the whole pent up package at her.. pointing out how she had attacked even her two flat mates for giving the German the low down.. Maybe they tired of covering for her ..becoming apparent, everyone, including the people immediately surrounding her, were tired of Aura and her tricks ..her lies, her fantasies, Tricky Aura, a very close second to the other tricky bitch, Raluca.
Nothing against the German ..he, a nothing.
Nothing more than he appears to be.. A predator.. Nothing against anyone on this Planet other than those who have attempted to turn me over. Aura now falls into this category. No one has ever succeeded in fucking Peter.. not altogether. I may look stupid.. Do think a lot…. Aura tried really hard to screw me, even the last night before my departure for U.K. she had me waltzing round the stores… said all that …
Casablanca/Pattaya/Bucuresti.. nothing changes.
A Sad reflection on Society
He also promised Aura "Love and Marriage" She, heavily into promises.. Omitted, as so many other men do, to fill her in on the facts ..having a wife and three children, the same age as Aura. That he was a alcoholic, eight pints every day, minimum .. Aura defended him, saying she "did not mind" That he also had a "Boyfriend" Aura considerably shaken at this. I knew people who knew him, even rang them for Aura to hear the truth for herself.. she still would not believe it ..what is my problem ? She discovered it all, ultimately…
Waited, what appeared to be a very long silence.. then throwing the whole pent up package at her.. pointing out how she had attacked even her two flat mates for giving the German the low down.. Maybe they tired of covering for her ..becoming apparent, everyone, including the people immediately surrounding her, were tired of Aura and her tricks ..her lies, her fantasies, Tricky Aura, a very close second to the other tricky bitch, Raluca.
Nothing against the German ..he, a nothing.
Nothing more than he appears to be.. A predator.. Nothing against anyone on this Planet other than those who have attempted to turn me over. Aura now falls into this category. No one has ever succeeded in fucking Peter.. not altogether. I may look stupid.. Do think a lot…. Aura tried really hard to screw me, even the last night before my departure for U.K. she had me waltzing round the stores… said all that …
Nun for you and nun for me
Had rather a interesting confrontation with that young woman a couple of days ago.. A particularly hot evening, about 4.p.m. Glorious…
Never been to Aura's home, abode.. where she stayed, where she supervised these other young ladies, the house belonging to some Germans, they quite pleased to have Aura run it for them .
Often, over the long period of time I have know Aura, had heard stories, yet always kept discreetly away from the premises, hardly worried me. Have been kept away from, shall we perhaps say, better places, a mere detail in the arrangement she and I had.
This particular afternoon started thinking, little else too do, Cyntia having triggered the idea of popping round previously, she being rather cute at indirectly wynding people up. Made me think, maybe I should drop by, see what does transpire, what does go on, if anything.
Peter put his shorts on, his "Pattaya" singlet, his gold braided "Tottenham" supporters hat, bare feet other than for sandals .. black glasses..
Dresses for the beach, apparently. Quite brown now ..all over.. dressed in almost nothing. Looked good, felt up to the occasion, which I knew it was going to be.
Called the cab, showed him the bit of paper, useless trying to pronounce these streets.
Personally, like Bucharest cabs ..taking your life in your hands every second of the way, the overriding factors being it is extremely cheap and I am not driving…A change for me to sit in the back seat, which I always do.
So, sat in the back seat, put my feet up, made myself quite comfortable, hung tightly on to the handrail above the door, lucky this time there was one.. usually they are broken off, the doors actually closed fully.. Not the faintest echo of the Public carriage office and the Hackney carriage rules and regulations.. quite refreshing
The Taxi inspectors at Penton street would have a group heart attack if they saw this lot of rotting metal hurtling about the boulevards.
Set out on our journey through the pot holes, through the trams, the buses, veering through the cars the hooting and the honking.. the mad rush to oblivion. The driver successfully fought his way through, as they all do, James Bond fashion, regardless of my asking him to take it easy, I, in no particular hurry. My few words of Romanian.. totally ignored .. Foot down, hand on the horn. This piece of protracted excitement, travelling across town, cost me just over a pound sterling, gave him a couple of bob on top, he, most grateful .
Arrived, the driver did the business at the door ringing, evidently the wrong bell, as there was no answer. Thought, well I will hang about, nothing else too do.. he left leaving me posing on the doorstep in my very brief attire. Waited about half an hour.
Aura had mentioned having a Nun stay with her, I always fancied a drop of nun.. "Nun for you and nun for me"… how the story goes.. Wondered what manner of Nun she was.. complete with a mobile phone and a penchant for Jack Daniel's whisky, must be interesting..
Lo and Behold.. along comes a nun in full rig, she not knowing me from bar of soap, I standing in front of the street door, she opened it, followed her in, gave me a funny look, followed her to the lift, gave me another funny look, muttered something, muttered a few words back, pointing upwards towards God, which no doubt consoled her.. Stepped out the same landing as herself, now she quite worried this naked man, in her terms, perhaps pursuing her, maybe believing her luck had changed, who knows what a nun thinks?? When I stood by the same door as she, she became very worried, anyway the door was opened. .there was someone there, as said, the cab driver had rung the wrong bell. Consternation ! Aura not there. .her friend whom I assumed was the girl friend of the Swiss man I heard so very much about, who had received so much money, she gave me a strange look, the nun gave me a strange look…
Asked for Aura, said she was not there, said I would wait and gave every indication of doing so indefinitely.
With that they invited me in into a strange room, in a time warp, furniture at least fifty years old.. clearly nothing had been touched.. neat and tidy.. Large terrace which I went and sat on.. A drink materialized.. the usual 90 % proof stuff.. firewater nothing less. .quite usual in Romania.
Had a few sips, knowing full well they would tip Aura off on the mobile phone I had given her. Peter was there ..never fear.. They disappeared, I sat, looking at the landscape.
Eventually recovering their composure, Aura no doubt informing them I would not bite.. invited me in, another drink.
Now quite comfortable.. few drinks, chatting the birds.. Peter's forte..
Asked the girl, in all innocence, about her "Swiss" man. She came back "What Swiss man !?" Here we go.. Peter thought ..strange.. "You are Auras' friend.. the one she has Known since childhood??" Yes, she was, however, her boy friend, she insisted, was a "Turk" Rather the other end of the spectrum.." Oh…!"
Never said anything more. The nun disappeared. She had been hit by a car, quite seriously damaging her eye.. so very dangerous cars in Bucharest.. no compensation, peanuts.. about all..
Sat there, almost naked as far as these ladies were so obviously concerned . Did have my heavy silver bracelet with the names of all my known children, which offset the inclination of looking at me as if I were some hooligan.
Aura made her breathless, dramatic appearance just as I was getting into the swing of things .
To say she was giving me black looks in no way described her demeanor. If she had a knife she would , I say without hesitation, have stabbed me that instant, that split second in time, when our eyes met.
She removed, somewhat brusquely, my dark glasses in order to get a much better look at me, maybe believing looks could kill. Peter refusing to be ruffled by this display on her part and put the glasses, quite deliberately back on his face.
Apparent the last person she wanted to see in that apartment was Peter. I had already jumped to that obvious conclusion .. enjoying the situation immensely..
From the "Off" known, for whatever reason, Peter had to be kept under wraps , however , here he was, bold, bold as a bowler hat on a Bradford millionaire, sitting quite comfortably, pumping her friend… Still of the opinion Aura's previous.. a Greek.. was still lurking around in his BMW.
Well, we shall see now..
kids stuff….. we know.
Enjoyed it, which is the criterion in my life now… whether or not anything amuses me and it does take rather a lot to do so.
Quite casually, started the ball rolling with …..
"Where is the young lady ..your friend whom you have told me so very much about.. the one who has the "Swiss Man " the man who gives her $12.000 as if it were mere bagatelle!!!
"I do not have any other men" this reply through the tears.. "So why are you crying your eyes out.."
Now really starting to shout and I can do so extremely loudly, loud enough for people to come out on their verandahs, no discretion here, no twitching net curtains "Crying because I lied to you"
"Well, you would not be the first woman to do that or quite conceivably, the last"
Most women lie to Peter, quite a common characteristic for females to lie, even the most devoutly religious ones ..as found to my cost. It is part of the female .
"So why did you concoct such a elaborate story which continued for months??
" I don't know" she said lamely
As Raluca, she went very strange just before sticking the knife in and stole a apartment from me.
On the face of it I had obviously driven Aura mad as have done with the other female faces. All the women ever encountered have cracked in one way or the other.. so it must be Peter. Know I am no good. No! will not go to heaven.
When it comes to women, they simply cannot handle it, must be something about me.. not playing by the rules..
By now, quite a audience, said to Fanny "if you do not tell me now, this instant what is going on and stop sniveling, I will shout louder.." We had taken the situation out to the edge of the terrace. Glorious evening, people becoming quite engrossed in this clearly mad foreigner.. this ancient old man shouting at the young woman.
As my mother, the more she was told to "Shut Up" the louder she shouted, she never gave a toss for anyone. Only the Blacks eventually intimidated and humiliated her, broke her, as so many other old ladies.
Why should I shut up?? have looked after the girl as if she were wife, mistress, princess, daughter, …..granddaughter, which she could be.. simply not the slightest grounds for fucking me about ..story of Peter.
Had every right to know what is going on in the young woman's life, away from myself, when she did not show, feel I am not unreasonable .
By now the girl like a piece of wet rag, all her arrogance, independence, determination if you like, ebbed away as quickly as the tide on Maldon Flats.
Said to her 'Going to stay here until the Greek shows up, like a good fight.. not had one for ages'
"I have no Greek.. he is in England "she insisted.. "How do I know that?? you are capable of telling me anything which comes into your head ..which you think may fit your plan. Yes, I do know what you told me about the Greek, you also told me your girlfriend had a Swiss boyfriend…giving her $12000 a time.…"
Had to rub it in, anyway the little drama had dragged on for about two hours, I getting tired and bored, had my evenings entertainment.
Tried to wynd the situation down.
"Hardly know what to say in these cases, never know what there is too say, what can be said?.. No answer on this Planet, do not ask me for one. As most females, you, consciously or otherwise, revel in being a enigma, a mystery.. What are you all about!? ..why tell me such intricate stories..? hardly run away with the idea you are different from any other woman, because you are not"
Started to consider my situation.. how many 71 year old men have 23 year old birds?? With that thought decided to ease off further, poor bitch..
Why concern myself why? Why she came out with such a fanny of a story, so much conviction attached to it.
Thought of one or two other stories I had been told by other female faces, told with so much earnestness, so much conviction.
I shut up.
No longer interested, very tired.. needed a drink, needed to go back to the comparative sanity of Cynthia, someone who so far has not gone quite off her rocker, has come pretty close to it on occasions. She possess this fierce determination to hold on to Peter and evidently her sanity at all costs, do not know why, disregarding his wanderings, his misplaced attitudes, his lack of respect for society and the people in it, herself on occasions. All this she totally ignores, acts at times, as if Aura is part of the family, other times, she is slightly more the other way. Whatever, the situation, so far as she is concerned… Nothing too much trouble.. twenty four hours a day.. every day. Naturally, now wanting to return to Cynthia on my weary horse, weary of charging at windmills, needing the comfort of a "Home" .
By now the situation had subsided, Aura going down in the lift with me, I also thinking more practically… of her beautiful naked body in bed and the way she can use it….
She told the cab driver the directions, plenty on my mind without attempting the Romanian language.
Saw I had recovered, now more pliable, looking at her breasts, falling the way all women wish all men to fall ..hostage to their charms, their mystery, aware I had not taken too much real interest in her little lies, saw also, her own position had completely changed, the "Cat out of the bag".. having to admit the truth to her friends.
God knows what fanny, what fairy stories she had told them about the "Englishman". Probably I was "Prince Charming", twenty four years old, had three camels and two Mercedes, for all I know..
All out in the open now .. she working her way through University………Okay..
My parting shot.
"Better have a shower, straighten your face out, change your knickers, come round about nine………"
Drifted away.
An evenings' entertainment.. something..
Had little intention of mentioning to Cyn, would only be ammunition for her to throw at me, not directly.. simply sniping at the opportune moment, as indeed every woman, a inherent capability.. biding their time.. then shooting straight when one is unprepared.
Naturally she is not entirely happy with the situation, although it suits her sometimes.. My, shall we say "girlfriend" living with us occasionally. Then we all have our problems. I making it quiet clear when she married me, would still play my small games, this she readily concurred to.
If she tries to become respectable now, slippers by the fire. nodding my evenings away in the armchair.. loses her fetish for the whip, the chains and the handcuffs. Watching me watching the legs go by, watching the breasts go by……in other arms, in other situations… bizarre conceivably, in other people's terms.
Too late, Peter will never change, not going to "succumb" as Susan would say, almost went down with that trollop.. have no intention of changing or shutting up to suit anyone, why should I?
"No one keeps me ..!" As my mother would say acidly, with some bitterness, some venom.
End of another little story.
That was it ! she suddenly broke down into sobs and gasps, all the belligerence and venom, turning to water. Collapsed within herself ..said she had lied.. I said "Fucking sure you have" my voice beginning to gain momentum. I usually speak too softly for most people. Said to her "Had this situation long before you were born, before your mother was born," so I came straight out with it asking "So where's the geezer!!"
Aura came round.. very demure, had a little food, a little red wine..
Bed.
A long night, which she spent most of gently crying in my arms, nothing was going to console her, as if a child ……..as my children..
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"There'ya are, sport.. There'ya go."
….. As they would remark in "Orstrilia".
August. 6th; 2000. …. Jennifer's Birthday……
3.30.a.m…. Jennifer's time.
Never been to Aura's home, abode.. where she stayed, where she supervised these other young ladies, the house belonging to some Germans, they quite pleased to have Aura run it for them .
Often, over the long period of time I have know Aura, had heard stories, yet always kept discreetly away from the premises, hardly worried me. Have been kept away from, shall we perhaps say, better places, a mere detail in the arrangement she and I had.
This particular afternoon started thinking, little else too do, Cyntia having triggered the idea of popping round previously, she being rather cute at indirectly wynding people up. Made me think, maybe I should drop by, see what does transpire, what does go on, if anything.
Peter put his shorts on, his "Pattaya" singlet, his gold braided "Tottenham" supporters hat, bare feet other than for sandals .. black glasses..
Dresses for the beach, apparently. Quite brown now ..all over.. dressed in almost nothing. Looked good, felt up to the occasion, which I knew it was going to be.
Called the cab, showed him the bit of paper, useless trying to pronounce these streets.
Personally, like Bucharest cabs ..taking your life in your hands every second of the way, the overriding factors being it is extremely cheap and I am not driving…A change for me to sit in the back seat, which I always do.
So, sat in the back seat, put my feet up, made myself quite comfortable, hung tightly on to the handrail above the door, lucky this time there was one.. usually they are broken off, the doors actually closed fully.. Not the faintest echo of the Public carriage office and the Hackney carriage rules and regulations.. quite refreshing
The Taxi inspectors at Penton street would have a group heart attack if they saw this lot of rotting metal hurtling about the boulevards.
Set out on our journey through the pot holes, through the trams, the buses, veering through the cars the hooting and the honking.. the mad rush to oblivion. The driver successfully fought his way through, as they all do, James Bond fashion, regardless of my asking him to take it easy, I, in no particular hurry. My few words of Romanian.. totally ignored .. Foot down, hand on the horn. This piece of protracted excitement, travelling across town, cost me just over a pound sterling, gave him a couple of bob on top, he, most grateful .
Arrived, the driver did the business at the door ringing, evidently the wrong bell, as there was no answer. Thought, well I will hang about, nothing else too do.. he left leaving me posing on the doorstep in my very brief attire. Waited about half an hour.
Aura had mentioned having a Nun stay with her, I always fancied a drop of nun.. "Nun for you and nun for me"… how the story goes.. Wondered what manner of Nun she was.. complete with a mobile phone and a penchant for Jack Daniel's whisky, must be interesting..
Lo and Behold.. along comes a nun in full rig, she not knowing me from bar of soap, I standing in front of the street door, she opened it, followed her in, gave me a funny look, followed her to the lift, gave me another funny look, muttered something, muttered a few words back, pointing upwards towards God, which no doubt consoled her.. Stepped out the same landing as herself, now she quite worried this naked man, in her terms, perhaps pursuing her, maybe believing her luck had changed, who knows what a nun thinks?? When I stood by the same door as she, she became very worried, anyway the door was opened. .there was someone there, as said, the cab driver had rung the wrong bell. Consternation ! Aura not there. .her friend whom I assumed was the girl friend of the Swiss man I heard so very much about, who had received so much money, she gave me a strange look, the nun gave me a strange look…
Asked for Aura, said she was not there, said I would wait and gave every indication of doing so indefinitely.
With that they invited me in into a strange room, in a time warp, furniture at least fifty years old.. clearly nothing had been touched.. neat and tidy.. Large terrace which I went and sat on.. A drink materialized.. the usual 90 % proof stuff.. firewater nothing less. .quite usual in Romania.
Had a few sips, knowing full well they would tip Aura off on the mobile phone I had given her. Peter was there ..never fear.. They disappeared, I sat, looking at the landscape.
Eventually recovering their composure, Aura no doubt informing them I would not bite.. invited me in, another drink.
Now quite comfortable.. few drinks, chatting the birds.. Peter's forte..
Asked the girl, in all innocence, about her "Swiss" man. She came back "What Swiss man !?" Here we go.. Peter thought ..strange.. "You are Auras' friend.. the one she has Known since childhood??" Yes, she was, however, her boy friend, she insisted, was a "Turk" Rather the other end of the spectrum.." Oh…!"
Never said anything more. The nun disappeared. She had been hit by a car, quite seriously damaging her eye.. so very dangerous cars in Bucharest.. no compensation, peanuts.. about all..
Sat there, almost naked as far as these ladies were so obviously concerned . Did have my heavy silver bracelet with the names of all my known children, which offset the inclination of looking at me as if I were some hooligan.
Aura made her breathless, dramatic appearance just as I was getting into the swing of things .
To say she was giving me black looks in no way described her demeanor. If she had a knife she would , I say without hesitation, have stabbed me that instant, that split second in time, when our eyes met.
She removed, somewhat brusquely, my dark glasses in order to get a much better look at me, maybe believing looks could kill. Peter refusing to be ruffled by this display on her part and put the glasses, quite deliberately back on his face.
Apparent the last person she wanted to see in that apartment was Peter. I had already jumped to that obvious conclusion .. enjoying the situation immensely..
From the "Off" known, for whatever reason, Peter had to be kept under wraps , however , here he was, bold, bold as a bowler hat on a Bradford millionaire, sitting quite comfortably, pumping her friend… Still of the opinion Aura's previous.. a Greek.. was still lurking around in his BMW.
Well, we shall see now..
kids stuff….. we know.
Enjoyed it, which is the criterion in my life now… whether or not anything amuses me and it does take rather a lot to do so.
Quite casually, started the ball rolling with …..
"Where is the young lady ..your friend whom you have told me so very much about.. the one who has the "Swiss Man " the man who gives her $12.000 as if it were mere bagatelle!!!
"I do not have any other men" this reply through the tears.. "So why are you crying your eyes out.."
Now really starting to shout and I can do so extremely loudly, loud enough for people to come out on their verandahs, no discretion here, no twitching net curtains "Crying because I lied to you"
"Well, you would not be the first woman to do that or quite conceivably, the last"
Most women lie to Peter, quite a common characteristic for females to lie, even the most devoutly religious ones ..as found to my cost. It is part of the female .
"So why did you concoct such a elaborate story which continued for months??
" I don't know" she said lamely
As Raluca, she went very strange just before sticking the knife in and stole a apartment from me.
On the face of it I had obviously driven Aura mad as have done with the other female faces. All the women ever encountered have cracked in one way or the other.. so it must be Peter. Know I am no good. No! will not go to heaven.
When it comes to women, they simply cannot handle it, must be something about me.. not playing by the rules..
By now, quite a audience, said to Fanny "if you do not tell me now, this instant what is going on and stop sniveling, I will shout louder.." We had taken the situation out to the edge of the terrace. Glorious evening, people becoming quite engrossed in this clearly mad foreigner.. this ancient old man shouting at the young woman.
As my mother, the more she was told to "Shut Up" the louder she shouted, she never gave a toss for anyone. Only the Blacks eventually intimidated and humiliated her, broke her, as so many other old ladies.
Why should I shut up?? have looked after the girl as if she were wife, mistress, princess, daughter, …..granddaughter, which she could be.. simply not the slightest grounds for fucking me about ..story of Peter.
Had every right to know what is going on in the young woman's life, away from myself, when she did not show, feel I am not unreasonable .
By now the girl like a piece of wet rag, all her arrogance, independence, determination if you like, ebbed away as quickly as the tide on Maldon Flats.
Said to her 'Going to stay here until the Greek shows up, like a good fight.. not had one for ages'
"I have no Greek.. he is in England "she insisted.. "How do I know that?? you are capable of telling me anything which comes into your head ..which you think may fit your plan. Yes, I do know what you told me about the Greek, you also told me your girlfriend had a Swiss boyfriend…giving her $12000 a time.…"
Had to rub it in, anyway the little drama had dragged on for about two hours, I getting tired and bored, had my evenings entertainment.
Tried to wynd the situation down.
"Hardly know what to say in these cases, never know what there is too say, what can be said?.. No answer on this Planet, do not ask me for one. As most females, you, consciously or otherwise, revel in being a enigma, a mystery.. What are you all about!? ..why tell me such intricate stories..? hardly run away with the idea you are different from any other woman, because you are not"
Started to consider my situation.. how many 71 year old men have 23 year old birds?? With that thought decided to ease off further, poor bitch..
Why concern myself why? Why she came out with such a fanny of a story, so much conviction attached to it.
Thought of one or two other stories I had been told by other female faces, told with so much earnestness, so much conviction.
I shut up.
No longer interested, very tired.. needed a drink, needed to go back to the comparative sanity of Cynthia, someone who so far has not gone quite off her rocker, has come pretty close to it on occasions. She possess this fierce determination to hold on to Peter and evidently her sanity at all costs, do not know why, disregarding his wanderings, his misplaced attitudes, his lack of respect for society and the people in it, herself on occasions. All this she totally ignores, acts at times, as if Aura is part of the family, other times, she is slightly more the other way. Whatever, the situation, so far as she is concerned… Nothing too much trouble.. twenty four hours a day.. every day. Naturally, now wanting to return to Cynthia on my weary horse, weary of charging at windmills, needing the comfort of a "Home" .
By now the situation had subsided, Aura going down in the lift with me, I also thinking more practically… of her beautiful naked body in bed and the way she can use it….
She told the cab driver the directions, plenty on my mind without attempting the Romanian language.
Saw I had recovered, now more pliable, looking at her breasts, falling the way all women wish all men to fall ..hostage to their charms, their mystery, aware I had not taken too much real interest in her little lies, saw also, her own position had completely changed, the "Cat out of the bag".. having to admit the truth to her friends.
God knows what fanny, what fairy stories she had told them about the "Englishman". Probably I was "Prince Charming", twenty four years old, had three camels and two Mercedes, for all I know..
All out in the open now .. she working her way through University………Okay..
My parting shot.
"Better have a shower, straighten your face out, change your knickers, come round about nine………"
Drifted away.
An evenings' entertainment.. something..
Had little intention of mentioning to Cyn, would only be ammunition for her to throw at me, not directly.. simply sniping at the opportune moment, as indeed every woman, a inherent capability.. biding their time.. then shooting straight when one is unprepared.
Naturally she is not entirely happy with the situation, although it suits her sometimes.. My, shall we say "girlfriend" living with us occasionally. Then we all have our problems. I making it quiet clear when she married me, would still play my small games, this she readily concurred to.
If she tries to become respectable now, slippers by the fire. nodding my evenings away in the armchair.. loses her fetish for the whip, the chains and the handcuffs. Watching me watching the legs go by, watching the breasts go by……in other arms, in other situations… bizarre conceivably, in other people's terms.
Too late, Peter will never change, not going to "succumb" as Susan would say, almost went down with that trollop.. have no intention of changing or shutting up to suit anyone, why should I?
"No one keeps me ..!" As my mother would say acidly, with some bitterness, some venom.
End of another little story.
That was it ! she suddenly broke down into sobs and gasps, all the belligerence and venom, turning to water. Collapsed within herself ..said she had lied.. I said "Fucking sure you have" my voice beginning to gain momentum. I usually speak too softly for most people. Said to her "Had this situation long before you were born, before your mother was born," so I came straight out with it asking "So where's the geezer!!"
Aura came round.. very demure, had a little food, a little red wine..
Bed.
A long night, which she spent most of gently crying in my arms, nothing was going to console her, as if a child ……..as my children..
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"There'ya are, sport.. There'ya go."
….. As they would remark in "Orstrilia".
August. 6th; 2000. …. Jennifer's Birthday……
3.30.a.m…. Jennifer's time.
Radu Beller Sunday, May 14, 2000…….4:57 PM
Been a very hot day, did precisely nothing, Cyn went to Church and returned sometime late this afternoon, suited me, her disappearing with her friends.
Woke this morning very early, knew it would be a nothing day, wished I could skip this particular twenty four hours, make it Monday morning as , perhaps , so many other people, find Sundays a drag. Okay back in London.. about this time get in the cab, drift down to the Royal Oak see all the surviving faces, have my tea, have my chat, go out ..drift down Edgware road in the evening sunlight, see who is who, what is what, wait for the first nonchalantly waving hand, usually a couple of young, smart Arabs, wanting the short ride down to the Hilton, a start to the evenings work, they mostly give over the odds.
Beginning to see quite clearly, my period of Clapton Common and the Cab trade was not the horror story I always believed it to be. .not after having so much empty time to simply sit and watch other people's lives from the inside, after being on the outside all those years, crawling in the gutters, which cannot be disputed, no more than that.
Now time ticks interminably.. my initial reaction to this morning was to get on a plane and go home.. do a long Sunday with Barry.. the day he goes to town in a very big way.. forget the other six. Sunday for him is a fifteen hrs.. every Sunday.. written elsewhere about him, how the life has left its mark on him his eyesight.. Work and its consequences can be more appealing to simply sitting about as King Farouk, as I do…not quite rotting away, because I do find plenty to occupy myself with ..it would be easy simply to let go as Cyntia would like …do nothing, turn into a cabbage.. her looking after every, my slightest whim and need...I becoming simply a nothing... Have not lived for so long to let that happen, If I am going to die, wish to die either in the arms of two or three young women, or at the wheel, probably round Russel square. Not as one of my friends, still driving at eighty two, driving home late one night to Brighton, if you don’t mind, he pulled over for a sleep.. the cab and himself squashed like box of tomatoes by a heavy lorry ..the driver fallen asleep ..my friend never knew what hit him .. a good way to go
It possibly sound extreme but being "retired' is akin to living in a padded cell, regardless of glimpses of life here I have portrayed. As also said, there are very many men who would like to be in my position.. anyway…… will "shut up" as Aura always demands of me…afraid I may start shouting ..she becoming tremulous……
Woke this morning very early, knew it would be a nothing day, wished I could skip this particular twenty four hours, make it Monday morning as , perhaps , so many other people, find Sundays a drag. Okay back in London.. about this time get in the cab, drift down to the Royal Oak see all the surviving faces, have my tea, have my chat, go out ..drift down Edgware road in the evening sunlight, see who is who, what is what, wait for the first nonchalantly waving hand, usually a couple of young, smart Arabs, wanting the short ride down to the Hilton, a start to the evenings work, they mostly give over the odds.
Beginning to see quite clearly, my period of Clapton Common and the Cab trade was not the horror story I always believed it to be. .not after having so much empty time to simply sit and watch other people's lives from the inside, after being on the outside all those years, crawling in the gutters, which cannot be disputed, no more than that.
Now time ticks interminably.. my initial reaction to this morning was to get on a plane and go home.. do a long Sunday with Barry.. the day he goes to town in a very big way.. forget the other six. Sunday for him is a fifteen hrs.. every Sunday.. written elsewhere about him, how the life has left its mark on him his eyesight.. Work and its consequences can be more appealing to simply sitting about as King Farouk, as I do…not quite rotting away, because I do find plenty to occupy myself with ..it would be easy simply to let go as Cyntia would like …do nothing, turn into a cabbage.. her looking after every, my slightest whim and need...I becoming simply a nothing... Have not lived for so long to let that happen, If I am going to die, wish to die either in the arms of two or three young women, or at the wheel, probably round Russel square. Not as one of my friends, still driving at eighty two, driving home late one night to Brighton, if you don’t mind, he pulled over for a sleep.. the cab and himself squashed like box of tomatoes by a heavy lorry ..the driver fallen asleep ..my friend never knew what hit him .. a good way to go
It possibly sound extreme but being "retired' is akin to living in a padded cell, regardless of glimpses of life here I have portrayed. As also said, there are very many men who would like to be in my position.. anyway…… will "shut up" as Aura always demands of me…afraid I may start shouting ..she becoming tremulous……
Saturday, April 15, 2000……..1:25 PM.
Very hot .
If it were not for the barking dogs of Bucharest which are driving me to some distraction, peace stretches quite tight over Beller. Sit here in the Sun in great splendor, has to be better than grinding round the wretched streets in a black tin box , has to be..
My small "Verandah, a large vodka and orange, My smart garden chairs cushions, sun shade ..this must, has to be, better than Clapton Common, splendid isolation. Cynthia having toddled off to do some building work, the only woman ever known to carry about with her a hammer, screw driver, nails, around in her pockets, she most efficient in that aspect , most aspects if one takes time to consider it .
Sit here quite naked, sun beats gently down, Thailand without the drama's, demands and expense.. so what is my problem?? unable to think of any particular one at the moment, only the always present , at the back, right at the back of my mind, this urgency to finish that which I have to say ..wish to say, regarding my existence, my experience on Planet Earth, not quite going to say "What has it all been about !! " , most people poise that question at some point in their lives.. I have wondered, many times , my slight contention, conclusion, being that it has something to do with space, space probes, especially "Voyager One".
Anyway, wandering off as usual. The problem is time, time to settle the account, time running out quickly, slipping away as the tide beneath Southend Pier, insidiously, silently, leaving nothing but vast acres of black mud.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
If it were not for the barking dogs of Bucharest which are driving me to some distraction, peace stretches quite tight over Beller. Sit here in the Sun in great splendor, has to be better than grinding round the wretched streets in a black tin box , has to be..
My small "Verandah, a large vodka and orange, My smart garden chairs cushions, sun shade ..this must, has to be, better than Clapton Common, splendid isolation. Cynthia having toddled off to do some building work, the only woman ever known to carry about with her a hammer, screw driver, nails, around in her pockets, she most efficient in that aspect , most aspects if one takes time to consider it .
Sit here quite naked, sun beats gently down, Thailand without the drama's, demands and expense.. so what is my problem?? unable to think of any particular one at the moment, only the always present , at the back, right at the back of my mind, this urgency to finish that which I have to say ..wish to say, regarding my existence, my experience on Planet Earth, not quite going to say "What has it all been about !! " , most people poise that question at some point in their lives.. I have wondered, many times , my slight contention, conclusion, being that it has something to do with space, space probes, especially "Voyager One".
Anyway, wandering off as usual. The problem is time, time to settle the account, time running out quickly, slipping away as the tide beneath Southend Pier, insidiously, silently, leaving nothing but vast acres of black mud.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Bucharest, Tuesday, February 29, 2000 ….2:46 .p.m
A very warm day….. sitting here looking at the words.
Out and about this morning with Cynthia. Aura left us at the University, deciding she had better show her face, although she should have been there at eight a.m. What is her problem? Not quite realizing she is off the hook, no longer having to fear falling by the wayside. . back to the cow shed and the village, tried to impress this on her, hardly the case even before we met. Young, intelligent, attractive woman who has never failed a exam, never had any help or hand outs, having worked her way to the front via scholarships and her own efforts. The trouble, being lack of confidence and naturally, finance, her scholarship allowance being 700.000 lei a month ( $ 38) with the threat of, if failing even one exam, loosing that princely sum. No good looking to her parents, (Her mother earns less than $2 a day in the fields..12 hours….. You want to believe it. Aura's wrist is permanently damaged after wielding a scythe in the fields from dawn to dusk …….from the age of ten.)
The experience of her early existence, drained and intimidated Aura in many respects, still having to struggle, to find some occupation, even cleaning, the strain showing quite clearly that day we all inadvertently met in the rain
Rather a different person now. . having been through the Peter process.. Sir Galahad evidently still not quite dead, slightly stiff perhaps, nevertheless, with some reluctance, still charging at windmills……
Sitting here, now 3.a.m. after a long day of doing nothing, always been my time, ever since Jennifer. Used to pick up Mark the from school at 3.30.p.m. and her from Churchill's club at 3.30.a.m.
Usually ring Aura about this time if she is at her home.. has become used to me, always saying very softly, “ Oh Peter why don't you sleep!” surprised, always surprised at my ringing her, as if she does not bare consideration ... reticent … hardly the word
Out and about this morning with Cynthia. Aura left us at the University, deciding she had better show her face, although she should have been there at eight a.m. What is her problem? Not quite realizing she is off the hook, no longer having to fear falling by the wayside. . back to the cow shed and the village, tried to impress this on her, hardly the case even before we met. Young, intelligent, attractive woman who has never failed a exam, never had any help or hand outs, having worked her way to the front via scholarships and her own efforts. The trouble, being lack of confidence and naturally, finance, her scholarship allowance being 700.000 lei a month ( $ 38) with the threat of, if failing even one exam, loosing that princely sum. No good looking to her parents, (Her mother earns less than $2 a day in the fields..12 hours….. You want to believe it. Aura's wrist is permanently damaged after wielding a scythe in the fields from dawn to dusk …….from the age of ten.)
The experience of her early existence, drained and intimidated Aura in many respects, still having to struggle, to find some occupation, even cleaning, the strain showing quite clearly that day we all inadvertently met in the rain
Rather a different person now. . having been through the Peter process.. Sir Galahad evidently still not quite dead, slightly stiff perhaps, nevertheless, with some reluctance, still charging at windmills……
Sitting here, now 3.a.m. after a long day of doing nothing, always been my time, ever since Jennifer. Used to pick up Mark the from school at 3.30.p.m. and her from Churchill's club at 3.30.a.m.
Usually ring Aura about this time if she is at her home.. has become used to me, always saying very softly, “ Oh Peter why don't you sleep!” surprised, always surprised at my ringing her, as if she does not bare consideration ... reticent … hardly the word
England having an identity crisis
Book two, short, sharp essay.. no more, the preamble, so strong, regarding my conviction, consideration of England, the English, having an identity crisis.... felt determined to get that down for whatever reason, not so long ago ..only about a year. Now, hardly care, said what had to be said, wanted to say ..did not need any female face for that particular piece.
Out of it , England, Europe, simply become too much, too many rules, regulations, too many constraints, too much extortion of the individual, too many cameras watching too many people.
Those who actually control the country.. responsible for manipulating the proliferating masses down the road of mirages.. those faces are afraid.. quite evidently afraid, afraid their wealth, their power, accrued rigorously over centuries, will be snatched from them, their myriad armies of so heavily armed, uniformed robots, their cameras, constantly alert, constantly looking out.. to instantly apprehend, crush, another Lenin ..or more distinctly, another Hitler.
The politically correct, obedient people of the United Kingdom “subjects” inexorably watch football, watch Coronation street, mesmerized. World Without End.. Amen.
As said in book two, none of this tension, fear, if you like, pervade the atmosphere of Romania.. Bucuresti is rather tension free. Children play in the streets unmolested, old ladies are able to walk their dogs any time, day or night, not forced to be imprisoned in their own homes locked, barred and bolted. Young women do not have to be escorted everywhere.
Could hardly imagine the English, those few elite who “rule” letting that situation continue if they were in control here.. No.. they would soon import some tension, build some mosques.. build some temples in Piata Victoria and Unirii… soon tighten the situation up, London, Neasden, having the largest temple in Europe.. possibly more mosques than Islam, the mosque in Park Road, Regents Park, being one of the most opulent in the World. In Contrast, the “Church of England “ at the other end of the market, fortunate in managing to dispose of most of their real estate, it converts into excellent flats, “Christianity” in deep decline.
The recent fiasco of the war next door, Americans/British dropping bombs on Yugoslavia, maybe simply a demonstration of power, what will happen to others if they do not conform to Big Brother, to NATO, a stern warning of the have's, to the have not's, to behave themselves.. to be “Politically Correct” to force the self inflicted tensions, fears and greed of the West on others in the name of “Democracy” I could spell it perhaps differently.
Who are the inhabitants of the Pentagon and the heavily fortified shelters of subterranean Whitehall? these faceless creators of the greatest one sided European war of intervention I have ever lived through. All about ?? no one apparently knows, care even less.
Heard said “Little more than a deflection on Mr. Clinton”s part of the Lewinsky affair”.. not quite “Helen of Troy”, not up to such a standard, culture spelt with a K, how else?
The Americans lost two men, so I believe and they through a accident. During 39..45. the Russians alone lost twenty two million. Perhaps, as I saw on one placard “Stop playing God..” maybe it is that.
The only people who have rubbed their hands at the oppression here by the West are those making money from the sad fiasco, a crude, “Carrot and stick for the donkey” situation. The perception of West being the Balkans are donkeys, ripe for “development” a little persuasion .. a B57, perhaps.
The French already having “bought” oil concessions here and taken back “Dacia Cars” eyes on the practically slave labour market, as with the Greeks, members of “The European Community” NATO and the oldest “Democracy”. Some of these gentlemen have wasted no time in opening up shop here, averse to exploitation naturally, in the “Community” , not above it in Romania.
One enterprising, Noble Greek in particular, has opened a sausage factory in Otopeni, The Romanian ladies locked in, twelve hours a day, six days a week for $60 a month, bring your own food…works out .. 20 cents a hour. (July. 99)
Obviously, the Romanian people, struggling from beneath the clutches of one regime, have in all innocence, fallen under another, believing the encouraging words, promises and beatific, gentle smiles of Madeline Albright, Robin Cook and a few other faces of the West… all bleating out in unison ..
“Thank you for your wonderful assistance in our struggle with the despot of Belgrade, but few of you peasants will get a visa for the West “ italics are mine.
The Russians and the Germans both stripped and took everything they could carry from Romania, the only difference being the Germans paid for the bread.
Curious, the cost of bombing the Chinese embassy ? How much to reconstruct Yugoslavia.. bridges over the Danube? …stop the sequence of centuries.. Christians and Muslims eating each other.
In View of the Kosovo debacle, Hungary, now a member of the much trumpeted, nevertheless, crooked European Community, it would be reasonable to conclude Romania will be bombed by NATO in the name of democracy, unless she willingly gives up land the Hungarians covet.
***********************************************************************
Did you know ? the “Serbs” i.e. the now discredited people of Yugoslavia, made rubber blow up tanks and put down white, canvass highways, which the young, highly trained, highly motivated, dedicated pilots of 21st century NATO warplanes, proceeded to bomb, at great expense, with great accuracy and deadly seriousness.
***********************************************************************
It should be perhaps pointed out, now the smoke has cleared.. Mr Milosevich attempted to stop the proliferation of Muslims, breeding to the extent of not only destabilizing Kosovo, but the Balkans.. He is too late.
The Balkans have been the tinder box on many occasions, my exaggerated scenario being.. the Muslims and the West fight it out. Russia, who has slept so far apparently, (then the German’s fell for that one) waits the opportune moment and strikes whoever remains standing.
Thirty years previous, Mr Enoch Powell voiced the idea parallel to Mr Milosevich when England had been thrown open to all who wished to go there, no Visa’s, no questions . At the time the indigenous working population had control of their own destiny, they were in a strong position to negotiate a high living standard, almost independent… much to the extreme annoyance, displeasure and anxiety of those in control of Capital who decided to break this powerful labour market by throwing the country open to mass immigration, smashing the private labour sector, Mrs. Thatcher, the culmination of this process, dealing the final, fatal blow by destroying all “State Industries” ( industries which belong to the people ) last bastions of organized labour.
First the striking miners obliterated with troops, violence and humiliation. Then ! with slight sleight of hand and a poker face, giving away to her friends and acquaintances, the coal mines, transport, railways, gas, electricity and anything else she could think of, effectively ending, the era of Trade Unions and organized labour, attempting to conceal her remarkable actions with the respectable, nevertheless quite deceptive word “privatization”. Mrs. Thatcher, now in full swing, unstoppable, irrepressible, became the founder of Global Labour Exploitation and in a rare, quiet moment, over a bottle of scotch, gave nodding assent to the Channel Tunnel. A most remarkable, ruthless woman.
Her final blow to those unfortunate enough to be poor, to be diseducated was the selling off of Council Housing, a faint chance of a home, a legacy from more enlightened days.. selling to anyone who wanted to buy, heavily discounted to sitting tenants. Those clever enough capitalized. Thank her for quite inadvertently getting Peter off the hook, would most certainly not be sitting here saying my piece without that legislation. No, not going back, don’t get excited.. a Romanian Citizen, thank God. Quite possibly be dead now, London a very dangerous place for old people, young, come to that. Council House sales, most controversial, a strange condescension to the poor, the only substantial piece of the cake they ever had or ever will eat. End result is no chance of a secure home, only the .. “select”. In the case of Hounslow, which holds Heathrow airport, any such person who gets off a plane without anywhere to live, must be given a house “immediately” without regard to the homeless indigenous population, a reward from the revolting rich, who conspired to divide England, punish the proletariat, save themselves, a conspiracy indeed…
It has been seen.. Indian wandering the streets, pots and pans, old blankets, having disembarked from a Jumbo with two wives and seven kids.. all wrapped up in traditional Sari gear, shouting out, ..indeed.. demanding.. his right..!!
“Give us our house and money !!”
The only English words he knew…
Out of it , England, Europe, simply become too much, too many rules, regulations, too many constraints, too much extortion of the individual, too many cameras watching too many people.
Those who actually control the country.. responsible for manipulating the proliferating masses down the road of mirages.. those faces are afraid.. quite evidently afraid, afraid their wealth, their power, accrued rigorously over centuries, will be snatched from them, their myriad armies of so heavily armed, uniformed robots, their cameras, constantly alert, constantly looking out.. to instantly apprehend, crush, another Lenin ..or more distinctly, another Hitler.
The politically correct, obedient people of the United Kingdom “subjects” inexorably watch football, watch Coronation street, mesmerized. World Without End.. Amen.
As said in book two, none of this tension, fear, if you like, pervade the atmosphere of Romania.. Bucuresti is rather tension free. Children play in the streets unmolested, old ladies are able to walk their dogs any time, day or night, not forced to be imprisoned in their own homes locked, barred and bolted. Young women do not have to be escorted everywhere.
Could hardly imagine the English, those few elite who “rule” letting that situation continue if they were in control here.. No.. they would soon import some tension, build some mosques.. build some temples in Piata Victoria and Unirii… soon tighten the situation up, London, Neasden, having the largest temple in Europe.. possibly more mosques than Islam, the mosque in Park Road, Regents Park, being one of the most opulent in the World. In Contrast, the “Church of England “ at the other end of the market, fortunate in managing to dispose of most of their real estate, it converts into excellent flats, “Christianity” in deep decline.
The recent fiasco of the war next door, Americans/British dropping bombs on Yugoslavia, maybe simply a demonstration of power, what will happen to others if they do not conform to Big Brother, to NATO, a stern warning of the have's, to the have not's, to behave themselves.. to be “Politically Correct” to force the self inflicted tensions, fears and greed of the West on others in the name of “Democracy” I could spell it perhaps differently.
Who are the inhabitants of the Pentagon and the heavily fortified shelters of subterranean Whitehall? these faceless creators of the greatest one sided European war of intervention I have ever lived through. All about ?? no one apparently knows, care even less.
Heard said “Little more than a deflection on Mr. Clinton”s part of the Lewinsky affair”.. not quite “Helen of Troy”, not up to such a standard, culture spelt with a K, how else?
The Americans lost two men, so I believe and they through a accident. During 39..45. the Russians alone lost twenty two million. Perhaps, as I saw on one placard “Stop playing God..” maybe it is that.
The only people who have rubbed their hands at the oppression here by the West are those making money from the sad fiasco, a crude, “Carrot and stick for the donkey” situation. The perception of West being the Balkans are donkeys, ripe for “development” a little persuasion .. a B57, perhaps.
The French already having “bought” oil concessions here and taken back “Dacia Cars” eyes on the practically slave labour market, as with the Greeks, members of “The European Community” NATO and the oldest “Democracy”. Some of these gentlemen have wasted no time in opening up shop here, averse to exploitation naturally, in the “Community” , not above it in Romania.
One enterprising, Noble Greek in particular, has opened a sausage factory in Otopeni, The Romanian ladies locked in, twelve hours a day, six days a week for $60 a month, bring your own food…works out .. 20 cents a hour. (July. 99)
Obviously, the Romanian people, struggling from beneath the clutches of one regime, have in all innocence, fallen under another, believing the encouraging words, promises and beatific, gentle smiles of Madeline Albright, Robin Cook and a few other faces of the West… all bleating out in unison ..
“Thank you for your wonderful assistance in our struggle with the despot of Belgrade, but few of you peasants will get a visa for the West “ italics are mine.
The Russians and the Germans both stripped and took everything they could carry from Romania, the only difference being the Germans paid for the bread.
Curious, the cost of bombing the Chinese embassy ? How much to reconstruct Yugoslavia.. bridges over the Danube? …stop the sequence of centuries.. Christians and Muslims eating each other.
In View of the Kosovo debacle, Hungary, now a member of the much trumpeted, nevertheless, crooked European Community, it would be reasonable to conclude Romania will be bombed by NATO in the name of democracy, unless she willingly gives up land the Hungarians covet.
***********************************************************************
Did you know ? the “Serbs” i.e. the now discredited people of Yugoslavia, made rubber blow up tanks and put down white, canvass highways, which the young, highly trained, highly motivated, dedicated pilots of 21st century NATO warplanes, proceeded to bomb, at great expense, with great accuracy and deadly seriousness.
***********************************************************************
It should be perhaps pointed out, now the smoke has cleared.. Mr Milosevich attempted to stop the proliferation of Muslims, breeding to the extent of not only destabilizing Kosovo, but the Balkans.. He is too late.
The Balkans have been the tinder box on many occasions, my exaggerated scenario being.. the Muslims and the West fight it out. Russia, who has slept so far apparently, (then the German’s fell for that one) waits the opportune moment and strikes whoever remains standing.
Thirty years previous, Mr Enoch Powell voiced the idea parallel to Mr Milosevich when England had been thrown open to all who wished to go there, no Visa’s, no questions . At the time the indigenous working population had control of their own destiny, they were in a strong position to negotiate a high living standard, almost independent… much to the extreme annoyance, displeasure and anxiety of those in control of Capital who decided to break this powerful labour market by throwing the country open to mass immigration, smashing the private labour sector, Mrs. Thatcher, the culmination of this process, dealing the final, fatal blow by destroying all “State Industries” ( industries which belong to the people ) last bastions of organized labour.
First the striking miners obliterated with troops, violence and humiliation. Then ! with slight sleight of hand and a poker face, giving away to her friends and acquaintances, the coal mines, transport, railways, gas, electricity and anything else she could think of, effectively ending, the era of Trade Unions and organized labour, attempting to conceal her remarkable actions with the respectable, nevertheless quite deceptive word “privatization”. Mrs. Thatcher, now in full swing, unstoppable, irrepressible, became the founder of Global Labour Exploitation and in a rare, quiet moment, over a bottle of scotch, gave nodding assent to the Channel Tunnel. A most remarkable, ruthless woman.
Her final blow to those unfortunate enough to be poor, to be diseducated was the selling off of Council Housing, a faint chance of a home, a legacy from more enlightened days.. selling to anyone who wanted to buy, heavily discounted to sitting tenants. Those clever enough capitalized. Thank her for quite inadvertently getting Peter off the hook, would most certainly not be sitting here saying my piece without that legislation. No, not going back, don’t get excited.. a Romanian Citizen, thank God. Quite possibly be dead now, London a very dangerous place for old people, young, come to that. Council House sales, most controversial, a strange condescension to the poor, the only substantial piece of the cake they ever had or ever will eat. End result is no chance of a secure home, only the .. “select”. In the case of Hounslow, which holds Heathrow airport, any such person who gets off a plane without anywhere to live, must be given a house “immediately” without regard to the homeless indigenous population, a reward from the revolting rich, who conspired to divide England, punish the proletariat, save themselves, a conspiracy indeed…
It has been seen.. Indian wandering the streets, pots and pans, old blankets, having disembarked from a Jumbo with two wives and seven kids.. all wrapped up in traditional Sari gear, shouting out, ..indeed.. demanding.. his right..!!
“Give us our house and money !!”
The only English words he knew…
Monday 21st June 1999. Bucuresti
Hardly feel confident about anything at the moment.. felt confident this morning, then , as usual, with the daytime passing, time passing, my confidence slowly evaporated, more so when it occurred to me that Cynthia was playing Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. with me ..crying …once I start thinking along those lines, then it is goodnight nurse.
The question is whether to start the book.. how to start it, where to start it.. the whole thing a black wall in front of me.. not good.. At this moment unable to see anywhere too start, personally feel have changed so very much over these last months, especially this morning ..woke up ..thought.. thought I would make things happen, nothing much has recently…. Now tired, not feel like anything whatsoever.. No longer have that drive, that motivation as I had with AndreeA.. with “AndreeA’s Passion” She, no force at all within me now, hardly feel there is a woman on this Planet who can inveigle me to get up off my arse and do something ..anything….which is a different scenario from two years ago.. I breathed, lived existed only for AndreeA. Whatever she wanted ..I would get it, or do it. If she wanted me to put shelves up ..demanded I put up shelves, in her arrogant way, she, adorning, complimenting, my small beautiful apartment in London… then I would put shelves up.. She would watch, silent, staring pointedly, sitting on the floor knees up, arms round, long skirt pulled down, she would watch, head slightly to one side,.. while I worked, a gentle smile of sublime satisfaction crossing her face each time I used the drill.. ……….AndreeA.
Maybe this is it, maybe these are the words which will finally finish up in print ..maybe. As previously, will be writing backwards, nothing normal.. no beginning middle and end.. as Cyntia remarked about “Normality’ in her acid manner.. “ What is Normal ? ” then she always answers a question with a question ..or if the situation is tight, refuses to answer at all. No it is impossible, my thoughts not coherent.. even erratic.. then I have always been that… the common consensus. one minute up, the next down.. so be it.. quite capable of jumping from one situation to another ..no problem at all, able to do this as my brain never really forgets anything, certainly it sometimes needs time, eventually it clicks . Fortunately I write only for myself.. hardly need a audience, so remain free from any considerations, other than my own feelings.
May as well make the attempt.. not a bad afternoon, sitting here in Bucuresti, Cynthia gone to work.. thankfully.. Blinds down, doors shut, fan going. Faintly, madmen motorcars racing up and down the street below…echoes of Clapton Common… hardly appears to be anything to stop me from starting.., just my own disinclination .. have become very lazy during this Bucuresti period.
The question is whether to start the book.. how to start it, where to start it.. the whole thing a black wall in front of me.. not good.. At this moment unable to see anywhere too start, personally feel have changed so very much over these last months, especially this morning ..woke up ..thought.. thought I would make things happen, nothing much has recently…. Now tired, not feel like anything whatsoever.. No longer have that drive, that motivation as I had with AndreeA.. with “AndreeA’s Passion” She, no force at all within me now, hardly feel there is a woman on this Planet who can inveigle me to get up off my arse and do something ..anything….which is a different scenario from two years ago.. I breathed, lived existed only for AndreeA. Whatever she wanted ..I would get it, or do it. If she wanted me to put shelves up ..demanded I put up shelves, in her arrogant way, she, adorning, complimenting, my small beautiful apartment in London… then I would put shelves up.. She would watch, silent, staring pointedly, sitting on the floor knees up, arms round, long skirt pulled down, she would watch, head slightly to one side,.. while I worked, a gentle smile of sublime satisfaction crossing her face each time I used the drill.. ……….AndreeA.
Maybe this is it, maybe these are the words which will finally finish up in print ..maybe. As previously, will be writing backwards, nothing normal.. no beginning middle and end.. as Cyntia remarked about “Normality’ in her acid manner.. “ What is Normal ? ” then she always answers a question with a question ..or if the situation is tight, refuses to answer at all. No it is impossible, my thoughts not coherent.. even erratic.. then I have always been that… the common consensus. one minute up, the next down.. so be it.. quite capable of jumping from one situation to another ..no problem at all, able to do this as my brain never really forgets anything, certainly it sometimes needs time, eventually it clicks . Fortunately I write only for myself.. hardly need a audience, so remain free from any considerations, other than my own feelings.
May as well make the attempt.. not a bad afternoon, sitting here in Bucuresti, Cynthia gone to work.. thankfully.. Blinds down, doors shut, fan going. Faintly, madmen motorcars racing up and down the street below…echoes of Clapton Common… hardly appears to be anything to stop me from starting.., just my own disinclination .. have become very lazy during this Bucuresti period.
A self induced, cultural suicide, almost complete.
Sunday 19th October, 1998. Bucuresti.
Certainly I have been back, back to England, had to go, to see if my thoughts were balanced, to see if I was simply over the top, conclusions mostly in my head ..The first day, went down the escalator at Kings Cross underground, at the bottom, a black man, half naked, dreadlocks, bare foot, beating bongo drums and doing some wild dance.. begging.. Jamaican fashion.. As during the war people ignored this subterranean apparition, as the discomforts, tribulations of war.. Asked myself why people are so tolerant ? maybe it is not tolerance, maybe they are simply too tired of fighting the inevitable .
Hoped I could soften my comments, soften them without removing the reality, the shock . The first few days I tried, then forced to revert to my previous position.
The general consensus of the white English in the inner city areas.. all inner city areas.. is that they have to get out, a idea they have gradually become used to, the inevitability of it all. One has no answer as to why the English are so willing to lie down, a politically correct paralysis, be walked over by these hordes of people from other lands, at the insistence of successive governments, especially by Mr. Straw, the now Home Secretary, to such a degree as to force Sir Paul Condon, the chief of the metropolitan police to publicly humiliate himself over his inability to catch the people who killed a black, the controlled press overwhelming saying it could only have been “white thugs”, as if blacks were all angels. Naturally the blacks rising up in their multitudes, still pushing their luck, want, indeed demand, Paul Condon resign, step down, be replaced. Not any imagination required to know what with.
It is the way they have always operated, the imperceptible takeover of the country, inch by insidious inch. Mr Straw, would like to accommodate them, but even he would not play his hand so openly, step so close to the brink..
Prince Charles, caught in a cleft stick, obviously, not quite so silly, so weak, as some people try to make out, may find it prudent, expedient, politic, no doubt easier, to marry a Indian Princess, Camilla quietly put to one side, as his forebear, H8 would have done without the slightest hesitation if it suited his purpose. People accept the now situation, no longer mentioning the fact of having crouched in cold concrete tombs of air raid shelters, quietly waiting the approach, the clamor, the horror, the din of death This ‘home front’ this tenacity, keeping the Germans out, simply ..simply to let the world’s devious disenchanted slip in through the back. Nobody willing to raise this issue any more, on pain of imprisonment, free speech quietly defunct, anyway they are tired of raising it. No one since Enoch Powel, has dared? deigned raise his voice, there is no voice, only a enforced silence now in this wilderness. The weak token defiance, the standard, common defence phrase, when push becomes shove, when confronted by the arrogance.. by the arrogant black levers of power is “If I had a black face “ ..no more, no more allowed in politically correct England. No, it is accepted the fate .. the inevitability, the transition, as death was accepted .
By the year 2020 this country will be unrecognisable ..difficult to find the so trumpeted ‘English way of life’.. “the stiff upper lip”. London, Luton, Nottingham, Leicester Birmingham, all major conurbations, annexed fully by Islam.
All civilizations have come to a end being swamped by barbarism in one form in or another, why should England be so different ? A highly developed, sophisticated society of one thousand years, weakened from within by complacency, apathy, by a indifference towards dignity, a willingness to accept the lowest common denominator, words I knew as a child, pride honor, bravery, almost now a subject for disparagement. Anyone brave enough to defend himself in this country is immediately branded aggressive, incongruously, could find himself in prison.
A self induced, cultural suicide, almost complete. England long lost its power, now its glory fast fading, a natural rhythm. the sink into obscurity, into the past tense, into history, without doubt to rise again , a different breed, a different concept.
To myself, both sad and academic. Sad, having lived long enough to know what England was like, Certainly we were and still are flagrantly oppressed by the rich, by those in power ..the difference being, then we had a cohesion, something to hang on to, a order.. street doors left open… a way of life, now being rapidly eroded, reaching the stage where in certain parts of London and other inner city centers ..to fly the Union Jack is to ask for serious trouble. British Airways has bowed to this, removing the flag from its aircraft for a more ’multicultural symbol of England’…. if you do not mind.
Dieu et mon droit ..” I’ m in the dinghy. pull away jack.”
Think this applies to rather a great number of people. …Out, being the In word…. If the blacks want England , let them have it. I am not upset, not now, not anymore, having found another way. The country has never given me anything other than the opportunity to work from the age of thirteen to sixty nine.. suppose I should be grateful to the establishment for allowing me this honour. Work and very little else.
Never any consideration, kindness shown, other than those first few weeks of the War as a child.. a glorious September in Reading. Have been given more help, more consideration during the comparatively short time lived in Romania than all my years put together.
This insidious invasion of slithering, black, creeping feet.. there has never been any defence against that offered, ………..not one shot fired.
Certainly, a great deal of unrest below decks, the mutterings of discontent, the whispers.. one eye on the eye of the ever watchful cameras .
George Orwell only fourteen years out in his deliberations.. the Police State here, now.
Certainly if I were a young man with a young family, I would send my children to a Muslim school to make it easier for them when the transition does come.
Nero fiddled while Rome burnt.. he had his reasons.
The masses inexorably, watch football, watch Coronation Street, watch, mesmerized, while this rock, this Realm, this earth, this Eden, this Majesty, this seat of Mars, this green and pleasant land, this England, falls, topples, slides, beneath the excrement of the World’s unwanted.
Certainly I have been back, back to England, had to go, to see if my thoughts were balanced, to see if I was simply over the top, conclusions mostly in my head ..The first day, went down the escalator at Kings Cross underground, at the bottom, a black man, half naked, dreadlocks, bare foot, beating bongo drums and doing some wild dance.. begging.. Jamaican fashion.. As during the war people ignored this subterranean apparition, as the discomforts, tribulations of war.. Asked myself why people are so tolerant ? maybe it is not tolerance, maybe they are simply too tired of fighting the inevitable .
Hoped I could soften my comments, soften them without removing the reality, the shock . The first few days I tried, then forced to revert to my previous position.
The general consensus of the white English in the inner city areas.. all inner city areas.. is that they have to get out, a idea they have gradually become used to, the inevitability of it all. One has no answer as to why the English are so willing to lie down, a politically correct paralysis, be walked over by these hordes of people from other lands, at the insistence of successive governments, especially by Mr. Straw, the now Home Secretary, to such a degree as to force Sir Paul Condon, the chief of the metropolitan police to publicly humiliate himself over his inability to catch the people who killed a black, the controlled press overwhelming saying it could only have been “white thugs”, as if blacks were all angels. Naturally the blacks rising up in their multitudes, still pushing their luck, want, indeed demand, Paul Condon resign, step down, be replaced. Not any imagination required to know what with.
It is the way they have always operated, the imperceptible takeover of the country, inch by insidious inch. Mr Straw, would like to accommodate them, but even he would not play his hand so openly, step so close to the brink..
Prince Charles, caught in a cleft stick, obviously, not quite so silly, so weak, as some people try to make out, may find it prudent, expedient, politic, no doubt easier, to marry a Indian Princess, Camilla quietly put to one side, as his forebear, H8 would have done without the slightest hesitation if it suited his purpose. People accept the now situation, no longer mentioning the fact of having crouched in cold concrete tombs of air raid shelters, quietly waiting the approach, the clamor, the horror, the din of death This ‘home front’ this tenacity, keeping the Germans out, simply ..simply to let the world’s devious disenchanted slip in through the back. Nobody willing to raise this issue any more, on pain of imprisonment, free speech quietly defunct, anyway they are tired of raising it. No one since Enoch Powel, has dared? deigned raise his voice, there is no voice, only a enforced silence now in this wilderness. The weak token defiance, the standard, common defence phrase, when push becomes shove, when confronted by the arrogance.. by the arrogant black levers of power is “If I had a black face “ ..no more, no more allowed in politically correct England. No, it is accepted the fate .. the inevitability, the transition, as death was accepted .
By the year 2020 this country will be unrecognisable ..difficult to find the so trumpeted ‘English way of life’.. “the stiff upper lip”. London, Luton, Nottingham, Leicester Birmingham, all major conurbations, annexed fully by Islam.
All civilizations have come to a end being swamped by barbarism in one form in or another, why should England be so different ? A highly developed, sophisticated society of one thousand years, weakened from within by complacency, apathy, by a indifference towards dignity, a willingness to accept the lowest common denominator, words I knew as a child, pride honor, bravery, almost now a subject for disparagement. Anyone brave enough to defend himself in this country is immediately branded aggressive, incongruously, could find himself in prison.
A self induced, cultural suicide, almost complete. England long lost its power, now its glory fast fading, a natural rhythm. the sink into obscurity, into the past tense, into history, without doubt to rise again , a different breed, a different concept.
To myself, both sad and academic. Sad, having lived long enough to know what England was like, Certainly we were and still are flagrantly oppressed by the rich, by those in power ..the difference being, then we had a cohesion, something to hang on to, a order.. street doors left open… a way of life, now being rapidly eroded, reaching the stage where in certain parts of London and other inner city centers ..to fly the Union Jack is to ask for serious trouble. British Airways has bowed to this, removing the flag from its aircraft for a more ’multicultural symbol of England’…. if you do not mind.
Dieu et mon droit ..” I’ m in the dinghy. pull away jack.”
Think this applies to rather a great number of people. …Out, being the In word…. If the blacks want England , let them have it. I am not upset, not now, not anymore, having found another way. The country has never given me anything other than the opportunity to work from the age of thirteen to sixty nine.. suppose I should be grateful to the establishment for allowing me this honour. Work and very little else.
Never any consideration, kindness shown, other than those first few weeks of the War as a child.. a glorious September in Reading. Have been given more help, more consideration during the comparatively short time lived in Romania than all my years put together.
This insidious invasion of slithering, black, creeping feet.. there has never been any defence against that offered, ………..not one shot fired.
Certainly, a great deal of unrest below decks, the mutterings of discontent, the whispers.. one eye on the eye of the ever watchful cameras .
George Orwell only fourteen years out in his deliberations.. the Police State here, now.
Certainly if I were a young man with a young family, I would send my children to a Muslim school to make it easier for them when the transition does come.
Nero fiddled while Rome burnt.. he had his reasons.
The masses inexorably, watch football, watch Coronation Street, watch, mesmerized, while this rock, this Realm, this earth, this Eden, this Majesty, this seat of Mars, this green and pleasant land, this England, falls, topples, slides, beneath the excrement of the World’s unwanted.
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 .
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.
********************************************
Friday, 4th; September. 1998. 9.a.m
Bucuresti
Athenaeum.
Friday, 4th; September. 1998. 9.a.m.
Wet…cold.
It has been a very long time ..I waiting to sit down here and start the second book to something which has become, perhaps, a saga in my existence, determined this will not take me another twenty five years, quite obviously time will not permit this. Time, “the” factor .. a gamble, a calculated gamble on how much time I actually do have remaining, this overriding my quite frequent wish it would end immediately… abruptly.
There have been some interesting moments which I considered appropriate for leaving this Planet, besides those when the going became tough.
To this moment, no publisher has rushed forward throwing hard currency at me for the rights . Not exactly a commercial proposition, no “ Love and Romance “ …the one exception.. no living “Happily ever After”. Politics creeping slowly onto the pages, initially my being unaware of this, the book deciding to write itself after about the first ten years, people looking at me as if a candidate for the funny farm when mentioning this, words coming out of my head which I know not the meaning of, having to look them up in the dictionary.. there has also been a touch of disbelief of content for the people who read it.
Without exception, other than for my sister and brother in law, who only managed to struggle through the first couple of pages.. and they not exactly hard, those who pick it up do not put it down.. always reminding me of people downing a pint.
Athenaeum.
Friday, 4th; September. 1998. 9.a.m.
Wet…cold.
It has been a very long time ..I waiting to sit down here and start the second book to something which has become, perhaps, a saga in my existence, determined this will not take me another twenty five years, quite obviously time will not permit this. Time, “the” factor .. a gamble, a calculated gamble on how much time I actually do have remaining, this overriding my quite frequent wish it would end immediately… abruptly.
There have been some interesting moments which I considered appropriate for leaving this Planet, besides those when the going became tough.
To this moment, no publisher has rushed forward throwing hard currency at me for the rights . Not exactly a commercial proposition, no “ Love and Romance “ …the one exception.. no living “Happily ever After”. Politics creeping slowly onto the pages, initially my being unaware of this, the book deciding to write itself after about the first ten years, people looking at me as if a candidate for the funny farm when mentioning this, words coming out of my head which I know not the meaning of, having to look them up in the dictionary.. there has also been a touch of disbelief of content for the people who read it.
Without exception, other than for my sister and brother in law, who only managed to struggle through the first couple of pages.. and they not exactly hard, those who pick it up do not put it down.. always reminding me of people downing a pint.
The Tram
The faded Yellow trams of Bucharest, are very tired.
Slowly they rumble, clank, grind, meander their melancholy way along their curving cracked bands of dull steel which encircle, bisect and grip tight the City of Trees.
*********************************
As we had left the Registry Office it struck me the that it would necessary to take Cynthia somewhere for the "Honeymoon" ..at least one convention. After all, had never bought the poor cow a wedding cake, never occurred to me and she never said anything, as usual. Thought of Pattaya... only thought... Then decided could hardly be bothered with all the rigmarole. Had done enough travelling, unfortunate for Cynthia ..that she had not, but having me is all she ever wanted.. so she keeps saying.
Decided somehow that a ride about town on a tram would keep the lower decks amused... especially if it were full of Jerry Cans of wine (so it turned out, everyone, including the driver, falling about). A long line of trams shunted up behind our drunken progress.. Romanians stood, looked in some amazement, at this innovation from the "Rich World" West of the Mountains.
Cynthia ordered a tram ..on the Barclay Card. Amazing the things which can be done with that piece of plastic.
*********************************
Slowly they rumble, clank, grind, meander their melancholy way along their curving cracked bands of dull steel which encircle, bisect and grip tight the City of Trees.
*********************************
As we had left the Registry Office it struck me the that it would necessary to take Cynthia somewhere for the "Honeymoon" ..at least one convention. After all, had never bought the poor cow a wedding cake, never occurred to me and she never said anything, as usual. Thought of Pattaya... only thought... Then decided could hardly be bothered with all the rigmarole. Had done enough travelling, unfortunate for Cynthia ..that she had not, but having me is all she ever wanted.. so she keeps saying.
Decided somehow that a ride about town on a tram would keep the lower decks amused... especially if it were full of Jerry Cans of wine (so it turned out, everyone, including the driver, falling about). A long line of trams shunted up behind our drunken progress.. Romanians stood, looked in some amazement, at this innovation from the "Rich World" West of the Mountains.
Cynthia ordered a tram ..on the Barclay Card. Amazing the things which can be done with that piece of plastic.
*********************************
Land of the Werewolves and Vampires
Had returned here.. within two days of the marriage. Rapidly absorbed in scratching the streets for money. Cynthia had not said anything more.. knew she was doing quite a lot of connivering behind the scenes, by now had become aware of the way she looked, expressionless, without saying anything.. letting me make a idiot of myself... knew she was biding her time.. that the civil ceremony was only a foretaste of her real desire.
My sister asked, "If I really was going back for more" incredulous of my fall, finally into matrimony.
For reasons not fully able to explain, decided to take her to Bucharest with me. This met with some astonishment, the furthest ever taking her before being Southend. Besides she "Had no Passport" dubious about flying, not done it before.. she was throwing up a smoke screen, implying not really wanting to go to the Land of werewolves and Vampires.. to Transylvania.
Curiosity overcame her fears, naturally wanting to take her husband ..explained that my budget would not stretch to him.. gradually going quite broke, commuting to Bucharest. Another pause, more hesitation. The thought of travelling with me anywhere being fraught. Could, as she was fully aware, leave her without hesitation, if the mood so took me.. Saw her point, no doubt her imagination stretched to the limit regarding Romania, visualising a mountainous, tree covered, dark, snowy Country, being dumped there ...Still not too sure about the Vampires, whether they did exist. Were they simply just a Hollywood get up!?
Not dark at the gathering, Stanstead Airport, brilliant afternoon, saw her a long way off, down the high glass gallery, moving heavily towards me, waving.. her husband trailing behind with the trolley. She was impressed, stepping into the Twenty First Century.
Another life ago, other, more ominous airplanes. My carrying her to the Air Raid Shelters, mother up the pub, old man always at work, never have any recollection of him once taking us to the shelters, of being with us.
The Sirens, starting up, very low key. Far off, distant, heavy approaching drone stamped unforgettably for all time in our heads. The usual opening chorus from the Guns on the Marshes, all purely psychological, little chance of them ever hitting anything, but the cacophony and searchlights weaving through the flame tinted darkness were 'good for moral'.
Possibly more people killed by the guns, showering red hot shrapnel from the enraged skies, than those killed by bombs.
Barely a wave between my sister and her husband as we disappeared into the other world. A world of space, steel, glass, concrete, silence. Silent, driverless trains, mysteriously stopping at all the right places. The closer we were to take off the less she said .. only when we reached six miles high, flying straight and level, did she start talking again.
Dark.. Doris still peering out on the window.. nudged me "I can see snow down there". Obviously her imagination running at a low temperature...Snow! Cyn would have mentioned this on the phone.. or would she? She is so fucking devious.. afraid I may have turned my nose up at Marrying her or the so called "Princess Diana" if it meant getting cold.. leant over, looked down at Planet Earth.. what could be seen of it ..red remains of a fiery Sunset on the horizon, beneath us, faint white streaks which I dismissed as clouds.
All piled out of the Plane into the buses.. deep snow. The sudden intense cold reaching right into my body. Swore quite audibly, if I could just get my hand on Dear Mrs. Devious...
My sister asked, "If I really was going back for more" incredulous of my fall, finally into matrimony.
For reasons not fully able to explain, decided to take her to Bucharest with me. This met with some astonishment, the furthest ever taking her before being Southend. Besides she "Had no Passport" dubious about flying, not done it before.. she was throwing up a smoke screen, implying not really wanting to go to the Land of werewolves and Vampires.. to Transylvania.
Curiosity overcame her fears, naturally wanting to take her husband ..explained that my budget would not stretch to him.. gradually going quite broke, commuting to Bucharest. Another pause, more hesitation. The thought of travelling with me anywhere being fraught. Could, as she was fully aware, leave her without hesitation, if the mood so took me.. Saw her point, no doubt her imagination stretched to the limit regarding Romania, visualising a mountainous, tree covered, dark, snowy Country, being dumped there ...Still not too sure about the Vampires, whether they did exist. Were they simply just a Hollywood get up!?
Not dark at the gathering, Stanstead Airport, brilliant afternoon, saw her a long way off, down the high glass gallery, moving heavily towards me, waving.. her husband trailing behind with the trolley. She was impressed, stepping into the Twenty First Century.
Another life ago, other, more ominous airplanes. My carrying her to the Air Raid Shelters, mother up the pub, old man always at work, never have any recollection of him once taking us to the shelters, of being with us.
The Sirens, starting up, very low key. Far off, distant, heavy approaching drone stamped unforgettably for all time in our heads. The usual opening chorus from the Guns on the Marshes, all purely psychological, little chance of them ever hitting anything, but the cacophony and searchlights weaving through the flame tinted darkness were 'good for moral'.
Possibly more people killed by the guns, showering red hot shrapnel from the enraged skies, than those killed by bombs.
Barely a wave between my sister and her husband as we disappeared into the other world. A world of space, steel, glass, concrete, silence. Silent, driverless trains, mysteriously stopping at all the right places. The closer we were to take off the less she said .. only when we reached six miles high, flying straight and level, did she start talking again.
Dark.. Doris still peering out on the window.. nudged me "I can see snow down there". Obviously her imagination running at a low temperature...Snow! Cyn would have mentioned this on the phone.. or would she? She is so fucking devious.. afraid I may have turned my nose up at Marrying her or the so called "Princess Diana" if it meant getting cold.. leant over, looked down at Planet Earth.. what could be seen of it ..red remains of a fiery Sunset on the horizon, beneath us, faint white streaks which I dismissed as clouds.
All piled out of the Plane into the buses.. deep snow. The sudden intense cold reaching right into my body. Swore quite audibly, if I could just get my hand on Dear Mrs. Devious...
Caroline
Difficult (always a faint smile now at this word, after my man from Bucharest).. Difficult to pick up the thread of the past, my mind so engrossed in "now", Will never stop scheming, calculating, such is my desire for money and life.. not one without the other.. a hard fact for certain people to swallow. Surprised at myself using the word desire when it comes to living.. Maybe the latest twist to my existence, obvious to any one who has only simply skimmed over these pages.
Caroline said very little at my reappearance... my saunter across the Far East... propped up in Pancras Road alongside the Station.. My usual place, within two or three yards. Parking lights out, interior lights out, sat watching the activity, watching the faces from my blacked out seat in society
Saw her looking.. as if expecting me, saw her diminutive figure and mass of hair a long way down, almost at the traffic lights, hesitant by the paper stand, which was very busy.
Clock on the Cross poised, then struck two, St. Pancras, still languishing fifteen minutes behind..
Pulled along towards her, hardly stopping for her to jump quickly in.. felt pleased, relieved, a mixture of thoughts running through my head at our meeting. Pushed the partition window right back, she swung down the dicky seat sitting with her back directly to mine, her head twisted round towards me.
Watched the passing faces watching us. Yorky Bar making gestures with his fingers ..a knowing nod of his head.
All very much back to normal, as if I had never been so very far away... standing on the tranquil shore, standing staring in the direction where I thought Australia may be, a place aware I would never step foot in again.
Caroline, none committal.. maybe just another punter... in her head.. how was I to know? ..How is any man to know what any woman is thinking ultimately...? Caroline rarely spoke about the other side of her life.. perhaps when problems reared up, which was not often. Knew about the father of her child, the person she kept, the mother somewhere.. no mention of a father. Her child incredibly well built, beautiful and knew it.. so very precocious, a much older disposition.
Had received a frantic phone call just before going away.. Caroline locked up in some room, raped and beaten by the child's father after discovering her whereabouts with the child.
Without thinking what I was letting myself in for had gone over to Holloway, finding her standing, sobbing by a phone box. Somehow managed to climb out of a back window with her daughter and run, after he had fallen asleep, too terrified to go to the Police.. too terrified of the Police.
So far as she was concerned, no escape other than the anonymity of the endless, ragged streets and 69 Clapton Common where she and the child had stayed, not moving outside for weeks.
Trundled incontrovertibly back, towards Hackney.. She, quite relaxed, clutching a Harvey Nichol's bag, I considered what she had bought him this time.. never commented..
Momentarily she became intense, sweat pouring off her, swearing softly to herself with the effort... Twisted suddenly onto her elbows and knees, head pulled up facing the mirror, looking at me looking at her. Both my hands gripping her haunches as if she may suddenly run.. disappear .. In that moment wondered quite clearly why I had bothered to go so very far away when she was offering so very much... more.
Bright daylight, Brilliant Sun, Blackwall... hardly cared about the traffic.. that we were late, that it would take me a hour to battle my way through the Tunnel. Woolwich was out.. he had been seen hanging about there with a gun.. she had moved into Greenwich with the person who had a penchant for wearing silk socks and liked to receive presents from Harvey Nicks.
A huge house, very long garden which she ran up.. the front door mysteriously opening, then closing softly behind her.
Caroline said very little at my reappearance... my saunter across the Far East... propped up in Pancras Road alongside the Station.. My usual place, within two or three yards. Parking lights out, interior lights out, sat watching the activity, watching the faces from my blacked out seat in society
Saw her looking.. as if expecting me, saw her diminutive figure and mass of hair a long way down, almost at the traffic lights, hesitant by the paper stand, which was very busy.
Clock on the Cross poised, then struck two, St. Pancras, still languishing fifteen minutes behind..
Pulled along towards her, hardly stopping for her to jump quickly in.. felt pleased, relieved, a mixture of thoughts running through my head at our meeting. Pushed the partition window right back, she swung down the dicky seat sitting with her back directly to mine, her head twisted round towards me.
Watched the passing faces watching us. Yorky Bar making gestures with his fingers ..a knowing nod of his head.
All very much back to normal, as if I had never been so very far away... standing on the tranquil shore, standing staring in the direction where I thought Australia may be, a place aware I would never step foot in again.
Caroline, none committal.. maybe just another punter... in her head.. how was I to know? ..How is any man to know what any woman is thinking ultimately...? Caroline rarely spoke about the other side of her life.. perhaps when problems reared up, which was not often. Knew about the father of her child, the person she kept, the mother somewhere.. no mention of a father. Her child incredibly well built, beautiful and knew it.. so very precocious, a much older disposition.
Had received a frantic phone call just before going away.. Caroline locked up in some room, raped and beaten by the child's father after discovering her whereabouts with the child.
Without thinking what I was letting myself in for had gone over to Holloway, finding her standing, sobbing by a phone box. Somehow managed to climb out of a back window with her daughter and run, after he had fallen asleep, too terrified to go to the Police.. too terrified of the Police.
So far as she was concerned, no escape other than the anonymity of the endless, ragged streets and 69 Clapton Common where she and the child had stayed, not moving outside for weeks.
Trundled incontrovertibly back, towards Hackney.. She, quite relaxed, clutching a Harvey Nichol's bag, I considered what she had bought him this time.. never commented..
Momentarily she became intense, sweat pouring off her, swearing softly to herself with the effort... Twisted suddenly onto her elbows and knees, head pulled up facing the mirror, looking at me looking at her. Both my hands gripping her haunches as if she may suddenly run.. disappear .. In that moment wondered quite clearly why I had bothered to go so very far away when she was offering so very much... more.
Bright daylight, Brilliant Sun, Blackwall... hardly cared about the traffic.. that we were late, that it would take me a hour to battle my way through the Tunnel. Woolwich was out.. he had been seen hanging about there with a gun.. she had moved into Greenwich with the person who had a penchant for wearing silk socks and liked to receive presents from Harvey Nicks.
A huge house, very long garden which she ran up.. the front door mysteriously opening, then closing softly behind her.
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