Bad libel

Singh, Goldacre and Cohen enjoying a pint at the Westminster Skeptics meeting.

Readers will know that I have been following the case of missing Madeleine McCann. I've been perturbed by the actions of their lawyers, Carter Ruck, who menace with libel anybody who questions the parent's story. They have managed to ban Goncalo Amaral's book 'The Truth of the Lie' and sent threatening legal letters to various websites and discussion forums. I recently spoke to a Sky News journalist who told me

"Any news comes in, we are told to write it from the point of view of the McCanns. But you will notice, we never say 'abducted' Madeleine McCann, we always say 'missing' or 'disappeared'".

Whatever you think about this case, most people would agree that free speech is important. Particularly in Portugal which only recently became a democracy.

On the 12th of October, around 8.30pm, I saw a tweet from @guardianmedia. They were being gagged from reporting on Parliamentary proceedings in apparent contravention of the Bill of Rights. Checking the story it was clear that Carter Ruck were up to their tricks again. But this time they went too far. Myself and many other twitterers RTed and spread the word wide and far. One blogger found out the story was regarding toxic dumping by Trafigura. Soon the words #carterruck #trafigura and #guardiangagging were trending all over the world.

The night after I attended a talk at a new branch of Skeptics in Westminster, started by lawyer David Allen Green. Tonight's star speaker was Simon Singh, fighting a libel action brought by the British Association of Chiropractors; and guest speakers, journalist Nick Cohen, and science writer Ben Goldacre.

Newsnight were there too. In fact I could be seen on the news clip that night, taking pictures and jotting down notes.

David has an interesting history...when I met him over a year ago he was a Conservative. But it was clear when talking to him that he was no ordinary Conservative, in fact many of his opinions were as far left as mine. In contrast to Winston Churchill's (1) dictum that...

"If you're not a liberal when you're 20, you have no heart. If

you're not a conservative when you're 40, you have no head."

   
...many people I know, myself included, seem to venturing further left as they grow older. Perhaps this is the Thatcher generation growing up? Green wrote a brave blog post earlier this year, in which he describes how he is no longer a Tory. 
  
The mood in the meeting room that night was triumphant. Twitter had overturned the injunction by Carter Ruck on the Guardian, perhaps things were not as bleak for Simon Singh as previously thought?
  
David Allen Green thought that the court hearing could have been "the most important constitutional case of our generation". But Carter Ruck blinked first.  
  
Simon Singh was going to face a similar ordeal the day after. He's a science writer who wrote in the Guardian that chiropractors made false claims as to the efficacy of their treatments, specifically in relation to curing asthma in children. He used the word 'bogus'. Whereas the rest of his article may have been fair comment, the use of this word provoked the British Chiropractic Association to sue for libel. Unusually they did not sue The Guardian, the paper that published the article, but Simon Singh personally. 
  
Nick Cohen spoke to the meeting about how London has become the centre for libel tourism, where the international rich can seek redress in our courts, even if the supposed libel has not taken place in this country. He cited the example of Roman Polanski who sued the magazine Vanity Fair for libel, for they had suggested that he had made sexual advances to  a Norwegian woman on the way to the funeral of his murdered wife Sharon Tate. Cohen is scathing: 
"Polanski was a fugitive on the run from justice but he won against Vanity Fair. Polanski does not have a reputation to uphold, he's a self-confessed paedophile rapist." British justice bent over backwards for Polanski, enabling him to testify via video link form Paris, for if he came to Britain, he risked being extradited to the United States for his rape of a 13 year old girl thirty years ago.
  
The judge found for Polanski saying we must not judge him on morals.
  
Cohen finished by joking that since the Simon Singh case, he was staggered by the sight of geeks in arms. "The thing about scientists" he said to laughter from the room full of beards and specs "don't make an enemy of them. May the force be with you."
  
Ben Goldacre spoke next. He fought a libel battle not so long ago and knows exactly what Singh is going through. He said that health was a particularly important area for freedom of speech. Peer review, criticism from others in the profession, is an essential part of medicine. The most popular and referenced medical papers were generally critical of certain drugs.
  
Speaking frankly, Goldacre owned up that what Singh said may have been unfair. But that was not his intention, it was a "slip of the pen". But for this he is being persecuted through the courts. 
"It is ridiculous and dangerous for a discussion about the  pros and cons of a treatment to be held in an atmosphere of fear.
 
  
Simon is lucky, he isn't alone and  has fought the action. But with the libel laws at present, people are basically being told to 'shut up'. 'Shut up' is the argument of people with no arguments"
  
Simon Singh stood up to speak to a huge cheer. He talked of the expense of libel in Britain; it is a hundred times more expensive here than anywhere else in Europe, meaning only the rich can afford to sue for libel. Another worrying aspect of our libel laws is that the United States are having to change their laws to cope with our  libel laws.  The Americans reformed their libel laws in 1964, during the Civil Rights movement. 
  
One of the issues is that along with the fact that Singh is being sued personally, he is not being sued by an individual but an association with all the structure and support that bestows. It 's David versus Goliath. We saw this in the Mclibel trial, the longest ever in British courts, lasting two and a half years, which was a PR disaster for McDonalds,  backfiring badly.
  
As a lawyer from the city, David Allen Green explains, clients come with complaints. They don't know the technicalities, they just want someone to shut up. Some times it's copyright, sometimes it's contempt of court. It's ridiculously easy to sue for libel.
  
The Lords say that companies which have shareholders can sue. 
  
There are four degrees of libel, Green explains:
  
Being Sued
Articles being spiked
Articles heavily lawyered
and perhaps the most worrying, articles which are not written at all, the result of self-censorship.
           
'Just as politics cannot be separated from life, life cannot be separated from politics. People who consider themselves to be non-political are no different; they've already been assimilated by the dominant political culture--they just don't feel it any more.' Pramoedya Ananta Toer

The situation now, with bloggers, Facebook and Twitter, with everybody writing and reporting, harks back to the 17th century fashion for pamphleteering. As Cohen says
 "The net makes hacks of all of us. The law sees all of us as publishers."

The campaign for libel reform is not just about science. We are not getting good journalism as a result of libel law. It is a maxim that you can say what you like about politicians, mostly they are fair game. But The City, which has collapsed this economy, has been untouchable. In 2008, a Danish newspaper investigating Icelandic banks, received a writ, preventing them from reporting what they found. We all know what happened to the Icelandic banks.

Singh gets up and answers questions: 
"Is the Guardian supporting you?"

Singh: 
"The Guardian were helpful for the first six or seven weeks. They offered the right of reply or clarification to the BCA. But they wanted a full out apology. The Guardian agreed. However I can't apologize for something that I believe is true. I can't have my wiki page saying that I caved."

Ben Goldacre: 
"Three months my life was dominated by my libel case, sitting in the dock. It cost £535,000 for my defence. We won but still after costs we were £175, 000 out. It took a year and a half of my life altogether."

Singh:
"I've kept in touch with The Guardian. The problem for them was they were not actually being sued, I was. I understood their position: If they backed me, even if we won, they would lose at least £175k. They thought 'If we lose, we lose a million. This is during a time when we are laying off journalists.' How could they justify that? At that time they were being sued by Tesco, Elton John, Ben's case, too much going on at that time. If the Guardian helped with the defence, they could be implicated."

Local newspapers don't even bother writing about anything controversial anymore. They can't afford it. 

More news on the Simon Singh case and Superlibel can be read at the JackofKent blog. 

Personally I don't find it a particularly outrageous claim that chiropractors can help childhood asthma with manipulations of the body and massage. In France kinesitherapists do this all the time, paid for by the French National Health. I'd certainly rather that than an inhaler which is what British GPs hand out at the drop of a hat. But then I'm not a scientist, I'm just a mother, who relies on her own instincts, knowledge, observation and connection with her child to determine what is best for her health. In the past, I've found I am generally right and the doctor is generally wrong.

(1) Although looking further into this quote it appears it might be a mistake to attribute it to Churchill.

Battle of Hastings

The teen went to Hastings yesterday to do geography coursework on tourism. She got up early on her day off to get the train there.

"Did you have a nice time on the journey with your friends? "I ask

"Oh stop sounding so homosexual about it. Soooo gay. 'Did you have a nice time with your friends?' "she mimics in a smarmy mummy voice.

I continue: "Well how was it?"

"It was jokes. We had the two most liberal teachers come with us, they slept the whole journey but made sure they were in another carriage. In our carriage you could see how annoyed all the adults were. I swear every time my friend laughed I could see this guy sighing. She's got a really loud laugh.

"and Hastings? What did you think of it?" I asked.

"It's a shit hole. Nothing there, just some shops and the sea. We spent our whole time in Macdonalds then bought some beers for the journey back"

"Did you manage to ask the questions for your coursework?"

She'd spent days preparing a questionnaire. They were supposed to ask tourists what brought them there, where they stayed, what they did. I said she should ask whether tourists would appreciate a home restaurant in Hastings.

"No way!" she said, staring at me with incredulity

"NO way"

she repeated just in case I hadn't understood the first time.

"There were only residents, no tourists. And the couple of tourists we found when we asked 'could you spare 5 minutes to answer this questionnaire?' refused to talk to us"

I think about this. Of course, what tourist will visit Hastings in October? Really the teachers should have thought this through.

" It would have been better to do it in London, at least there are tourists here. But my teachers said it would be good for us to see another town. Hastings has got the highest suicide rate in Britain or something. The funniest bit was when someone's dog shit in the middle of the tourist office floor. When we went back a couple of hours later, they were still trying to clear it up"

Parent's evening

Tonight I have to go to the parent's evening at the school. My teen has given me strict instructions.

"What are you wearing?" She demands anxiously.

"Um, that black knitted dress I bought in Italy..." I reply

"Ok." Then "What shoes?"

I look down. I'm wearing comfortable black leather open toed sandals from M & S.

"NOT those" she says "something nice"

"Hair?" I continue, slightly sarcastically "Makeup?"

"Makeup. Wear some. But NOT lipstick" I am instructed.

"Then if you arrive early, do not speak to me"my teen commands "if you do see me, just do this..."

She juts her chin up in the air, a brief acknowledgement.

I splutter "So I'm supposed to act like I hardly know you?"

She continues "and DON'T talk to my friends. Don't ask them their names. Don't ask how they are. Don't tell them off for smoking or bunning"

"Bunning?"

Her eyes roll.

"You are sooo old. Bunning is smoking a joint. It comes from the word 'burning' said with a Jamaican accent" she explains patiently. "At the rond point(a small square outside the school), everybody is bunning. Even adults bun. You see them coming after work, sitting down on the wall and bunning up."

"That rond point seems to be the most popular meeting place in London" I remark archly.

"Yeah well our school is popular innit. Kids from other schools come to hang out, cos they finish earlier than us. Boys from local schools come to chat up girls"

It's the age old thing of boys trying to pull posh totty from the private schools.

"One boy, he's slept with like 50 girls from our school. But he is gorgeous, really buff"

('Buff' means good looking, readers. 'Butters' means ugly as in 'butt ugly')

She's not finished...

"When you are in the meeting with other parents, do not ask questions. I know you, you are always asking questions."

I look doubtful.

"Try to blend in mum" she says, softening a little.

Party

The teen had a bit of a party while I was away this weekend. It's the first time I've ever left her alone for any amount of time. I gave extra keys to the neighbours and asked them to keep an eye.

I knew she'd have a couple of mates over...but when I arrived home, she sighed and said

"I'm so tired"

"How come?"

"From all the tidying up..." She looks at me regretfully but continues bravely "they were really messy"

"Didn't your friends help you?"

"No. I had to clear up all the sick." She brightens "It was cool, we got three bottles of vodka for £15 down the road. They knew we were underage."

"Then my friend made out with one of the boys in the shed."

Internally I gulp.

"What exactly does 'making out' consist of?"I ask gingerly, imagining phone calls from the parents...my daughter lost her virginity in your shed...

She groans "Well first you have snogging, then making out, then fingering, then blowjob, then full sex, then licking out."

We've always been quite open about sex but even I was a bit taken aback by this hierarchy of sex territory gained. I'm also interested that fellatio is higher up the scale than cunnilingus.

"So making out is restricted to kissing and tits?" I pry, drawing an imaginary triangle between my mouth and breast area.

My teen rolls her eyes.

"Is this over the bra or under the bra?"

Now she's looking annoyed "Oh for god's sake mum... "

She won't tell me how 'far' she has gone but I don't think it's beyond the 'making out' stage.

But I feel uncomfortable at the idea of some spotty lank haired youth getting a grope of my baby daughter's intimate parts. It doesn't seem right somehow. Them getting that for free. I briefly wish I lived in a culture when I could lock her up in a tower, cover her in a veil and charge a king's ransom for the privilege of marrying her. I also start to feel unaccountably angry, I'm not even sure why. When I lost my virginity, quite late actually, I was almost 18, my mum and dad were horrible to me, calling me a 'slut' for weeks. I now understand that impulse. Your children having sex, even if it's just kissing or petting, feels like a betrayal, almost infidelity. It's like they are no longer your children. There is a raw feeling that they have been besmirched.

I guess you get used to it.

This was a warm up for the real party she is going to have in a couple of weeks.

Tropezien tarts

The famous 'tarte tropezienne'.

Some call them 16/61's , a friend of mine dubbed them 'Don't Look Now's' after the Nick Roeg movie in which a child's figure in red suddenly turned round and was in fact a wizened dwarf. I call them Tropezien tarts, in part a nod to the famous cake created in St. Tropez but also a tribute to the world centre for women who, from the back look young and from the front look, well, their age.
Femmes d'une certain age in France don't just settle, British style, into elasticated waist bands and comfy shoes. They write books like 'French women don't get fat', live on a mix of caffeine, slimming suppositories and steak tartare. They obsessively 'maintien leur ligne'.
The women of St Tropez all look like Brigitte Bardot. Now.
When you get pregnant in France, the doctor spends his whole time exhorting you not to put on weight, you must 'fait attention'. You are allowed to put on a kilo a month only. Most British women put on three stone, more than double.
French women may not get fat, but they aren't much of a laugh. There ain't no sistahood in French culture, despite boasting such luminary feminists and forward thinking women as Simone de Beauvoir, Colette and Chanel.
If your man is unfaithful to you in France, everyone will shrug 'et alors'. You will get scant sympathy.
I do admire the fierce determination not to age gracefully however. My favourites are the one's that dye their hair bright red, in the style of Edith Piaf or 70s nightclub owner Regine, as if to say "I'm not grey!"

Below: not before and after, but back and front.... Click on the photos to see close-ups

My 15 year old daughter has a dress like this...

Shoes from the lady above. Hmmm.

After 30 you have to be careful with frou frou skirts and lace.

Pushing that 'yummy mummy' look a little too far...

The top half Parisian chic, the bottom half, St Tropez bohemia!

She looks chic, this one.

You feel naked without a little doggy in St. Tropez.

Lovely sun hats only 15 euros

The world's poshest car park is in St Tropez

Piped music and a floor so clean you could eat off it...

Even the homeless in St. Tropez are tanned and happy! Oh yeah.

Sailors from the yachts that line the bay

The conversational

Neil Boorman on the right.

The conversational 'menu'

Michelle on the left

Thought provoking cards on the subject of luxury

I love talking but would I like an evening of 'guided' conversation? This is the aim of Michelle Newell, a young Australian woman who has started The Conversational, a monthly event in Soho.

The theme of the night that I attended was 'Luxury', particularly pertinent in today's recession. We were asked to write on a little card something we desire that we would consider a luxury. Answers were varied from 'an endless supply of cashmere', 'a private library with a view of the Welsh coastline' to 'a husband' (er, that was me).

The author Neil Boorman who wrote 'Bonfire of the Brands' attended, giving a little talk on why he burned all of his luxury branded goods in Trafalgar Square.

He described his addiction to brands, how a purchase made him feel good "little confidence pills", but this was a 'high' that didn't last.

We asked him "How do you shop now?"

"No Prada, that's for sure, just simple generic goods. Vintage, although of course that has it's own chic, it's own 'brand'"

"But what about quality? Don't good brands give you goods that last?"

"That's a myth, luxury brands are often made in the same Asian factory as Primark for instance. 'British' brands like Burberry aren't made in Britain. I once spent a fortune on some fashionable flip flops. After two weeks they broke. I took them back, they were replaced. After two more weeks, the new pair broke, again they were replaced. This happened again. In the end the shop staff said to me 'well they aren't really for wearing'. Brands form identity. If I wanted to feel confident for a business meeting I'd wear Christian Dior. I had different brands for different situations."

I think of Cath Kidston. Her designs are a nod towards the nostalgia of the 1950s housewife. In an era of 'juggling' and 'having it all' working women love the fantasy of a simple life in which all you had to do is keep yourself nice with a cocktail ready for hubby when he gets in from work. Cath Kidston plays on all of that 'surrendered wife' stuff, which is why it is so successful. Again sites like Etsy, which sells home-made goods by individuals, is an example of this backlash against branding. (In Neil's book, he points out that 'branding' has an older meaning, something that you did to slaves and animals).

Neil again: "My mother made her own clothes. You didn't need to rely on brands, people had the confidence to throw a look together. We need to return to craftmanship"

I ask Neil: "To what extent is it a class thing? The working class tend to ape upper class behaviour, as if by buying the same brand you will become acceptable in that class. That's why chavs buy Burberry"

Neil: "Absolutely. In London smokers tend to buy American brands of cigarettes like Marlborough. If someone in London buys Benson & Hedges you think, do you live on a council estate? Are you from up North? I come from working class background in the Thatcherite era. All the pikey kids had the best stuff: the Star Wars lunchbox, the Pringle sweaters..."

"It's a vicious circle: you spend more time at work to earn more to buy brands. Time is not a luxury, it's a neccessity because it's finite. Brands are the consolation prize for working."

Somebody says "there is no replacement for glamour though.."

Neil interrupts "Glamour is a cold, lonely place to be...look at Victoria Beckham, she never smiles, her skin is too tight."

I ask: "So warmth is the opposite of glamour?"

This is a subject worth thinking about. And that's the aim of The Conversational, to inspire, forge new pathways of thinking...

Next to me a man sums up class in a nutshell:

"My mum's butcher said if a woman bought streaky bacon, he called her 'love'. If she bought 'back' bacon, he called her Madam"

I wonder about class, branding and food.

Neil adds:

"The whole Fairtrade Organic trend is a middle class guilt trip. Being green is a status symbol. We don't have the luxury to grown our own food."

Epicurus, a philosopher who lived in 341 BC, who has become synonymous with excess, luxury, indulgence, actually recommended escaping the idea of status with a frugal 'self-sufficiency' life style.

The roots of the word luxury are discussed here. From the 13th to the 17th century luxury was a perjorative term. It changed when monarchical courts became public and everybody aspired to flat plates and salt.

"We all live in a civilisation of kings now. We don't eat in season, we are all fat" said Neil.

Another question:"Who would break the law to achieve their luxury?" A few hands up.

Andy Warhol once said "Nobody can buy a better coca cola" Modern brands can mean either democracy or homogenisation depending on your point of view. I once met a Coca cola executive who explained that the company aims to provide coke at affordable prices in every country of the world.

Then ensues a discussion on how Mexican coke is better for it uses real sugar cane.

Afterwards I ask Michelle why she set this up:

"I missed the sort of conversations you have when you are a student where you exchange ideas not just talk about mundane everyday things.

It's a salon des idées, but also an opportunity to come together and talk about meaningful things"

I say that it's very un-British. One of the things I liked about living in France is their lack of embarrassment in talking about philosophy and politics. British people are funnier, but any sort of intellectualism is frowned upon here.

"It's very un-Australian too" says Michelle "But I believe the time is right for this kind of thing, anything that promotes community spirit, like your underground restaurant"

Free: the talks will take place monthly at 23 Romilly Street in Soho. To attend contact Michelle for these stimulating evenings at www.theconversational.co.uk

Game

Another day, another TV researcher asking

"Do you think we could pick your brains? Come film? Find out everything you know?"

"Sure. What's the fee?"

"Oh I'm afraid we don't have a budget."

Why the fuck not? They are getting paid aren't they? To send people like me, people who actually know what they are talking about, begging emails.

Or maybe not. One I spoke to today said, when I suggested that he book for the restaurant if he really wanted to know what it's like, said

"Oh I can't afford it"

You work in TV and you haven't got 25 quid to book a place? What's that about?

At least four TV companies are doing a show...all of them variations on the theme 'Home dining'."We get couples to open a restaurant in their living room" the researchers announce gleefully, reinventing the wheel.

'Come dine with me' is a huge success. They want a different but similar concept. Really similar. Nothing too different. It's like a scene from The Player.

Nobody has actually done a show on (newly) established home restaurants. You know why? Because authenticity is not the name of the game here.

"haha I'm not a documentary maker" said the impoverished young 'producer' "I make entertainment. In fact you probably wouldn't be very good for our show. You are too professional. It's all about the journey you see. We want viewers to engage with the journey. You are further along the journey. We want tears, frustration, panic. 24 hours to turn your home into a restaurant. That kind of thing".

The journey? I inwardly groan. Do none of these people have an original thought in their heads?

You want a journey? I'll give you journey. I'm a single mum. A real one. No hidden bloke. No training. No money. This recession? Don't make me laugh. I've spent years without money. I've also spent years making my flat nice by picking up furniture off the street, crockery from flea markets. I learnt to cook because I couldn't afford to go to restaurants. A year ago I took out an extra mortgage to fulfill a long held dream...an Aga. I thought, how old do I have to be before I can have what I want? Just do it.Find the money somehow.

In 2000, the year I moved into this flat, fleeing my Camden studio flat for a larger space in which to bring up my child, I turned on the TV one night. I'd been clearing the jungle-like garden all day. My hands were like claws, dirt ingrained in them.

Exhausted, I numbly flipped channels. On Channel 4 there was this weird programme. A bunch of young people, some in bikinis, sitting about in a house.

One of them was coming out with this story about his wife dying in a car crash or something. He was sweating.

Cut to another scene. The young people go to a little room, in turns, sit on a big chair, talk to the camera. They are unselfconscious, natural. And even when they are unnatural, they are natural. They talk about their problems with the others, about boredom. It's sunny outside.

At first I was tempted to turn over. The pace was slow. It was all a bit dull. But it grew on you. Watching it was a Zen experience. You were watching nothing, minutiae. It was rather soothing. One of the guys had a guitar. One of the girls flirted. One woman, who turned out to be a lesbian nun, came across as thoughtful and intelligent, a rare thing on TV. Another of the boys was Northern, with an impenetrable Newcastle accent.

I found myself watching it every night. I started to feel sorry for the Northern boy. He was 'nominated' to leave every week by the housemates but always kept in when it came to the viewer's vote. He seemed nice but was obviously irritating to live with.

The sweaty guy continued to lie. He got caught. There was a confrontation. He said to the camera in the diary room, memorably "if you live by the sword you die by the sword". It was a bravura display of 'Je ne regrette rien'.

Along with me, the rest of the country had also gradually become interested. In fact, bit by bit, we were all watching these young people. And what was so delicious about it is, they clearly had no idea. At one point helicopters, paid for, I believe, by The Sun newspaper, flew over the house, trying to get a glimpse into what was happening inside. The 'housemates' inside, remarked upon the circulating helicopters, oblivious to the fact that they were the story.

This was great TV. It was never as good afterwards. These contestants were virgins. Every following series included inmates that had had their TV cherry popped, with all the knowing and degrading complicity that goes with that.

I stopped watching.

Last week another series started. We are now post-Jade, the ignorant girl who made a million, ruined her reputation in public and resussitated it by dying.

But they cranked it up again. My daughter turned it on for the opening episode in which the chosen housemates enter the house. Once assembled, Big Brother called a male contestant into the diary room.

"If you want to become a housemate you must find someone who is willing to have their eyebrows shaved off and have glasses and a moustache drawn on them with an indelible pen. You have three minutes."

He ran out of the diary room, breathless, explained. One girl, an attractive black girl, volunteered. He shaved her eyebrows, drew on the funny glasses and moustache. Except it wasn't funny. It was Abu Ghraib. Degradation. Exploitation. Removal of identity. In this era of economic difficulty, when young people are most likely nervous about their future, the dreadful prospect of working very very hard for very very little money in boring jobs, Big Brother was laughing at them for aspiring to be something more. And encouraging us to do the same.

Hahaha. Aren't you ridiculous? We are supposed to think. How desperate are you?

I don't feel that way. I feel cringing embarrassment, shame. These young people, some of them little older than my daughter, exposed and ridiculed. Forever known as 'that Big Brother contestant'.

It's 'They shoot horses don't they?' the book by Horace McCoy in which depression era couples, starving, must dance for days on end, the rules preventing them from proper sleep.

And now every TV programme is like that. Competance, grace, talent is not enough. TV wants "the journey". Ask Susan Boyle.

First day at 'Work Experience'

My teen was a nervous wreck this weekend. She wanted to 'practice' the journey to the record shop where she will work this week. I'm quite proud of her actually. She got this work experience all by herself. Just went into the shop and asked. Her best mate is doing her work experience with Sir Paul McCartney but then the best mate's mum works for Stella.

Before going, my daughter was worried...

"They are going to expect me to know everything about music. Mum. Tell me everything you know about music."

"Of course they aren't going to expect that. They know you are only 15".

This morning though I gave her a lift.

"You are NOT coming in" she commanded.

"Of course not".

I know the score. She's got to look grown up in front of them.

At the end of the day...

"How was it?"

She looks tired.

"It took me until 3pm to get up the courage to ask if I could go for lunch. I was told I could have an hour. Of course I was back in five minutes. I got a sandwich but my hands were so dirty I couldn't eat it. So I'm starving."

"Why were your hands so dirty?"

"The job they gave me, in the back room, was to sort out a huge pile of Cd's, match the case to the Cd. They'd been laying around for a year. And I really wanted to go to the toilet but I was too nervous to ask if they had one. When I found it, the sink had no soap".

"How were the people?"

"Well I was expecting 'Hi-fidelity'. I got 'Hi-fidelity'.(1) They are all men and they are quite fat. One of them asked me who Ernest Hemingway was. I thought he was joking but said 'he's a writer isn't he?". Turned out he really didn't know. They only know about music."

"Today a customer came in and asked for a record by the Rolling Stones before they were the Rolling Stones. The assistant didn't know what they were called. The manager said he should be sacked. But I think it was a joke." She pauses "He was surprised I like Morrissey."

"What did they expect you to like? S Club 7?" I ask.

Then she sighed "I'm sick of listening to music. Had to listen to it for ten hours".

She continued:"Groups send in their Cd's hoping to get stocked. The manager spends every day listening to these Cd's. He is always screaming. All day. Saying stuff like 'These groups are shit. Why don't they give up?'. He chucks their Cd's in the bin after half a song. Then I hear him phone the group and say "I'm afraid your work isn't right for us'."

More..."but one group I liked, so he gave me the Cd and said he would stock them. That was the best bit of the day."

She thinks again "I bet my friend doesn't have to do this for Sir Paul McCartney".

(1) The book by Nick Hornby revolving around men working in a record shop.

tongue piercing

I haven't been spending much time with my daughter recently. I've been busy. One night, when I was going out, I'd been out several nights that week already, she said to me:

"I feel like I live alone".

Last night, I catered a gig. It was work. Badly paid. But work. I got home at midnight and, as usual, went into my daughter's bedroom. I saw her sleeping form, the soft pale skin, her little head of tumbled blonde hair, the slender hands ...I kissed her, breathing in her still child-like smell. I love her I thought. This is all that counts. I must spend more time with her. And more importantly, be present when I'm with her. Because even when I'm home, I'm not. My mind is elsewhere or I'm on the computer. Or I'm worrying. Or thinking. Or planning.

She asks me questions nowadays, interesting questions...

"Explain proportional representation."

We go through it. At first sight it looks like a good idea.

"Der" she announces, in her teenage way "of course it's better. Der. Why don't we just do it?"

And then I explain further. That with PR you also get the BNP...and the Greens and lots of little parties. They then have to form coalitions to be able to wield any power. So you end up with a big messy compromising party anyway.

Then, switching subjects rapidly she asks:

"Can I have my tongue pierced?"

I look at her. I feel stupidly anxious. I don't want her to have her tongue pierced. I want her to have brown long hair again, untouched by hair dye. I want to see her in her ballet outfit again. I want her to curl up in my arms at night. I want her to think I am the bestest most important fantastic loveable human being in the world again. Like she used to. I want to be called 'mummy' rather than 'muuuuum' or when she's annoyed, 'mother'. 

I say lightly, a little cruelly: "If you let your hair go back to it's natural colour, you can have your tongue pierced."

It was a joke. I then attempt a weak excuse like:

"Isn't it dangerous? Can't you get an infection?"

And even more weakly, grasping at straws...

"What if you get in a fight? They could, like, rip your tongue out".

She laughs:

"You said that about my pierced ears mum. And I've never been in a fight".

This morning she was leaving for school.

"Right Saturday afternoon my mate and I are dying my hair brown."

I'm still only half awake.

"Is it a good idea to keep dying it?" I ask gently "it will end up frizzy".

"Well I'm doing what you said."

I look non-plussed.

"I'm dying my hair brown so I can have my tongue pierced".

I gasp. "What? That was a joke".

Her expression changes. She mutters something. It sounds like 'bitch'. 

"What did you say?"

I'm thinking I've got to put a stop to this. The disrespectful way she talks to me. 

She explodes:

"You are TOTALLY evil. Oh my god you are a LIAR. You said I could have my tongue pierced. LIAR"

"It was a joke. You knew it was a joke!" 

She slams out of the front door, cursing, upset. She's got GSCE tests today. I'm worried. I don't want her to be upset. I'm also thinking, why do I want to control her appearance? You are only young once. Let her experiment. 

Brown bottom

In 1999, just as the solar eclipse was about to hit Britain, the first eclipse visible in this country for years, Gordon Brown, two years into being Chancellor of the Exchequer of the New Labour administration, decided to flog Britain's gold reserves. The announcement was made on 7/5/99. 

Nobody in the treasury could understand it. World leaders advised him not to do it. Still he pressed on.

This Times article, written in 2007, describes the efforts the journalist has made to have the details of this decision made public, with no result.

Brown sold the gold at public auctions, driving down the price of gold. Perhaps he wanted to buy euros. Some rumours say that he was bailing out friends at Goldman Sachs.

Astrologer Maggie Hyde, talking at The Company of Astrologers, puts up Gordon Brown's chart on the overhead projector. We also look at the chart of the Bank of England. 

Gordon Brown, I think it is now evident, is not leadership material. His chart backs this up. Nor, it emerges more and more plainly, was he Chancellor of the Exchequer material. His chart has no Earth in it. Earth is the element that rules material, earthly goods, such as money. Brown has most of his planets, a stellium, in the 12th house, the house of confinement, hospitals, prisons, spirituality and self-undoing. Brown's view of himself as a leader comes from his Moon in Leo. I am the king! His many years in waiting must have been very hurtful. His failure to cope with the leadership position must be even more so. Be careful of what you wish for...

Tony Blair actually would have made a better chancellor being a Taurus, the sign most associated with money. Coincidentally most of the major stock markets in the world were set up while the Sun was in Taurus.

The Bank of England chart is interesting. There are contacts between it, Gordon Brown's chart and the 1066 UK chart.

In one sense it's an ideal chart. Fit for purpose. On the other hand this institution is based on fiction and fantasy. It's worth remembering that usury is a sin in the bible and remains so in Islam.

Transits coming up to hit sensitive points in the Bank of England chart will bust this illusion wide open. Times they are a changin'

Our Madeleine

“We want a big event to raise awareness that she is still missing (...) It wouldn’t be a one-year anniversary, it will be sooner than that” (Gerry McCann on June 3, 2007, one month after Madeleine's disappearance.)

It is two years since Madeleine McCann went missing. From the very first interview with her parents, something struck me as peculiar about the official story. Generally I avoid news stories of missing and abused children. It's too painful. I don't want to know.

This time however, my antennae went up. Kate McCann did not act...sincerely... Some of her early comments regarding her 'missing' daughter were inappropriate "Whoever's got her, Madeleine will be giving them a piece of her mind". Asked to talk to Madeleine, after all, if abducted, she and the kidnapper could be watching TV, Kate looked down and said "she knows we love her". Not the behaviour of a mother seeking her child, more like the behaviour of a grieving frightened mother.

I have lots of theories about why the press have not properly reported on this 'abduction', why the McCanns have been treated with kid gloves. Several female TV presenters supported the McCanns. I believe this is down to working mother guilt; they saw themselves in Kate McCann, a professional woman who found it hard to cope with the loss of status entailed with becoming a stay-at-home mother. They wouldn't want to criticize another middle-class mother who relies heavily on nannies and paid help to bring up children. These exhausted mothers may also have had occasion to play fast and loose with the rules of wise parenting in the interests of having a break. It is little known but the McCanns left their children alone not just that fateful night, but every single night of their holiday. This is unheard of.

Two years ago I travelled around Mexico and Guatemala with my then 13 year old daughter. One night she had fallen asleep in the hotel room. I was hungry, I wanted to go out to find something to eat. But I didn't. There is no way that I would leave my 13 year old daughter alone in a hotel room in a foreign country. Some may call that over-protective.

I made mistakes when I was bringing up my daughter. I was alone. Unlike Kate McCann, I did not have a husband, several friends, the money to pay for creches when I went on holiday with my child. Once I fell asleep on a beach while my child, only three, played on the edge of the sea. She was wearing one of those swimming costumes stuffed with polystyrene, so she wouldn't have drowned. But I still feel guilty about that lapse to this day.

Bringing up children is a series of near-misses. Most of us get lucky.

I don't hate the McCanns. I feel sorry for them. I believe there was some kind of accident which they couldn't admit to, especially being abroad. I do wish they would put everybody out of their misery, themselves even, and especially the Portuguese, by telling the truth.

There are rumours of political pressure applied by Gordon Brown on the Portuguese government to drop the investigation into what happened to Madeleine McCann. Another black mark for Gordon.

Goncalo Amaral was the detective in charge of the case. He believes that Madeleine McCann died in the flat on the 3rd of May and her body was hidden. He was pulled off the case after he made the McCanns into 'arguidos', a Portuguese legal term which implies that they are not exactly suspects but hold sensitive information regarding the case. Here is the film he has made: he may be wrong, but it is certainly of interest:

>

A clearer case of child neglect, this time from the 'underclass', and this time gloves off from the press...The killer of baby P, it turns out, has also raped a two year old girl, most likely baby P's sister. Appalling though this is, I yearn to read a more nuanced report on the truth of this situation. Why did the mother, from some accounts a perfectly loving mother before she met her boyfriend, the killer, put up with his abuse of her children? What's the background of the killer? Was he abused as a child? Or is he just evil?

I came across a website in the last few days which talked about Baby P's mother in the most abusive terms. I've seen Facebook groups that want to form a lynch mob to kill Baby P's mother and the social workers. Do they think this is helpful?

I know social workers who will not work with children because of the pressure and the flak they will receive if they make a mistake. Social workers do not get enough funding. They are handling too many cases. Some of them are ham-strung by political correctness it seems. But whatever they do, they get criticized. In the Cleveland scandal of a few years back, social workers and hospital doctors were hounded for putting children into care, as suspected victims of sexual abuse. The young inexperienced social worker, Lisa Arthurworrey, from the Anna/Victoria Climbie case has been suicidal and house-bound for years since her mistake was exposed.

Now social workers are scorned for not removing children from families soon enough.

We feel frustrated and upset when we hear that young children are tortured and abused. We want to take it out on someone.

Bad things will always happen. Ultimately, if someone is determined to commit a crime, there's not much anybody can do about it.

Sohemians:Old Gay Soho

The Sohemian Society in its own words "exists to promote greater awareness of the characters and events associated with the history of Soho covering areas such as the arts, crime, sex, and politics.
A space free of kill-joy and culture-death pre-occupations such as anti-smoking campaigns, obsessive risk avoidance, concerns about diet, pubs with sofas and fear of 'offensive' statements."
The Sohemians regularly hold talks in the top room of the Wheatsheaf pub in Fitzrovia, or North Soho. Dylan Thomas and George Orwell used to hang out here in the 30s. In fact the Fitzrovia area was stuffed with bohemian types such as Aleister Crowley and Quentin Crisp.

Last night David Thompson gave a talk entitled 'Old gay Soho', one of the best delivered and most interesting talks I have ever attended.
The area in the 17th century: Oxford St. then known as Oxford Road was open land, full of highwaymen. Covent Garden, its arcaded piazza influenced by Roman architecture, perfect for cruising, was a well known red light district, full of brothels and mollyhouses.
Soho as a name was first used in the 17th century. It became a centre for Huguenots, French protestants. But it was never as rich as the surrounding areas. Soho was a destination for poor working class men from the East End going up for 'trade' and transvestitism. Straight prostitutes lived next to gay men, a strange coalition. Some of the famous streets are named after grand families: the Wardour family, the Frith family, the Comptons, all of whom were landowners of the area.
Michel Foucault in his 'History of Sexuality' noted that up until the 19th century people weren't defined by their sexuality. They weren't called homosexual, a term invented in the 19th century. Rather, you'd say he's a man who likes sex with other men. In semiotics and semantics words become things, concepts become a labels: common terms of the era included 'buggeranti', 'catamites', pederasts (still used today in the French 'pedé' for homosexual).
Thompson talked about how homosexuality was often blamed on foreign influences...in the 18th century gay men, dandified men, were called 'macaronis' part of The Macaroni Club (in Italian 'macaron' is slang for 'buffoon', in Spanish 'maricon' means 'queer'). Sodomy was seen as a crime imported from Italy.
In France, interestingly, homosexuality is known as 'the English disease'. Prime Minister Edith Cresson controversially suggested that English men were all homosexual for they barely looked at her when she visited.
Horace Walpole, the writer and art historian, wrote about the goings on of young men on the grand tour 'which is composed of all the travelled young men who wear long curls and spying-glasses'
There was a general fear of sensitivity, a quality regarded as feminine and Italian. The 'Penny dreadfuls', the tabloids of the day, said all homosexuality was all down to immigrants,
In 1772 Captain Jones was convicted of sodomy, penalty death, but he received a royal pardon. It's unproven but David Garrick, the theatre impressario, was having an affair with the dramatist Isaac Bickerstaff a 'powdered fop'.
Mrs Connelly from Vienna was a courtesan who rented Carlisle house, the scene of much cruising and bawdy behaviour. Entrance was a shilling and it was classless in that duchesses would be squashed next to paupers.
D'Eon de Beaumont, the chevalier d'Eon was a transsexual who at the same time achieved political importance; he/she was a spy for Louis XV, sent to Russia as an envoy to the Empress Elisabeth. When he/she arrived in London, there was a French edict that he must be addressed as 'Madame'. De Beaumont concocted a fanciful story that he was born as a girl but disguised as a boy by his parents in order to inherit some money, but on his death in 1810 doctors confirmed that his genital organs were masculine, at least on the outside.
Today the transsexual society of Britain is named the Beaumont Society.
Another man that managed to evade some of the predujice against homosexuals was William Beckford, one of the richest men in England. Stridently gay, he was extremely learned and cultured. He wrote a gothic novel 'Vathek' a thinly disguised autobiography.
It cannot be underestimated the danger of being homosexual. In 1533 Henry VIII introduced a sodomy law punishable by death. But proof was not easy: evidence was needed that the man had ejaculated into another man.
Beckford built Fonthill Abbey where it was rumoured that orgies took place. Few people got in, but Nelson and Lady Hamilton spent three days there (the 'Posh and Becks' of the day quipped David Thompson).
Richard Payne Knight who started the Society of Dilettantes, and wrote a book about ancient phallic cults 'The Worship of Priapus', had a house in Soho square. Ironically, his house is now the British Board of Censors.
In the Victorian period there were two characters: Frederick 'Fanny' Park and Ernest 'Stella' Boulton who used to cruise the Burlington Arcade and the Alhambra music hall dressed as women. 'Stella' even married Lord Arthur Pelham-Clinton MP (son of Lord Newcastle) and was known as Lady Clinton. These 'ladies' were arrested at the theatre. Full and amusing details of their trial are here. Their defence was that they were dressing as women for a laugh, but the report dryly notes: "if they were merely acting in this way for "a lark", it must be said that the lark was one of a very long duration".
Simeon Solomon was one of the greatest pre-raphaelite painters. One of his private works is entitled 'The bridegroom and sad love' which tells you everything you might need to know about a homosexual man being forced to marry. In 1873 he was arrested with a stable hand in a urinal off Oxford St. Simeon left, like Wilde, for Paris. He was arrested again in a Paris urinal. Returning to Britain, he spent 20 years in the St. Giles workhouse and died a penniless drug addict and alcoholic in 1903.
Probably the most famous homosexual of the era was Oscar Wilde. When he met Bosey, the young man that led to his downfall, who was in his 20s, Wilde was in his 40s. The Portrait of Dorian Grey had been published, and the gay sub-plot was the subject of debate. In 1895 Wilde dined with Bosey at Kettners in Soho, a private dining room. He was convicted after two trials, but sodomy was commuted to gross indecency.
Wilde was not an aristocrat and therefore did not have the protection of some of the other well known homosexuals. For instance in 1889, the police busted a male brothel in Cleveland St. and arrested the Prince of Wales. Charges were dropped.
The Criterion bar in Piccadilly by the evening was exclusively male. One can guess what went on...
The Victorian era also saw female to male drag artists such as Vesta Tilley whose most famous song was 'Burlington Bertie from Bow', a song which talks about the East End boy coming to cruise the West End.
Radclyffe Hall lived an open lesbian life, dressed in male attire. She called herself a 'congenital invert', a term coined by sexologist Havelock Ellis. Hall wrote the lesbian classic novel 'The Well of Loneliness'. Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West who were in a lesbian relationship disliked her. It has been suggested that this was because they lived behind the facade of marriage and objected to her upfront lesbianism. The Well of Loneliness was banned in England but sold very well at Calais. By the time of her death in 1957 Radclyffe Hall had sold nine million copies.
Hannah Gluckstein, the Lyons Corner House heiress, was a successful painter, living at Studio House in Hampstead. Lyons Corner House, now Planet Hollywood in Leicester square, was a gay cruising joint on Sunday afternoons, where 'nippies' the black and white attired waitresses would put gay men in adjacent tables.
Quentin Crisp was, in the 1930s, a Soho rent boy hanging out at the Black Cat café.
David Thompson actually got the opportunity to draw Quentin Crisp, who often worked as a life model, while he was at art college in 1973. It was still unusual in those days to have a male nude model. Thompson was taken aback by the sight of this nude man in his 70s with a violet bouffant hairdo wearing a monocle and carrying a copy of The Times.
The Caravan club in the 1930s attracted a huge gay clientele. Within six weeks it had 445 members, over 2000 visitors. It was raided by the police. Other clubs included the 'Careless Stalk' 'The Sphinx' 'The A&B', run by Jeffrey, who acted as a matchmaker and wore a bizarre selection of hats.
'Fag Hags' and lesbians: Talullah Bankhead was a member of the Gargoyle Club. Muriel Belcher ran the The Colony rooms. Elsa Lanchester was Charles Laughton's 'beard', that is a wife married to a gay man. Francis Bacon was kept on a retainer by Belcher at the Colony Rooms to attract drinkers. He was surrounded by young boys.
The word 'bohemian' was a euphemism for gay.
In the 1950s Kenneth Williams of Carry On fame used 'polari' the gay slang in mainstream comedy...it was very risqué.
In 1976 the Astoria opened the first gay disco 'Bang'.
Today Soho is still a refuge for gay men. It's a place where they can walk down the street hand-in-hand with no fear of reprisals.
The pub 'Admiral Duncan' is about to have the 10th anniversary of the bombing which killed three people, ironically none of whom were gay. There will be two minutes silence at 18.37 on the 30th of April at St. Anne's churchyard.
Thompson finished on a sad note. The serial killer Dennis Nilsen picked up young homeless homosexual men at The Golden Lion, Dean St., Soho. These vulnerable men, often runaways, must have felt they were coming to a place of safety, an area which accepted them, but met a horrible fate at Nilsen's hand. 
Talks and walks around Soho are given by David Thompson every Sunday at 2pm meeting outside the Admiral Duncan pub on Old Compton st. Highly recommended.

Less than zero

My teen delights in provoking her teachers with her unconventional views. On Thursday one of her teachers asked if she had been at the G20 protests. My teen couldn't come, partly because we had the French exchange student staying. Not sure what this student thought when I texted:

"Probably won't be home in time to make dinner, held in kettle by police, might be arrested".

Shockingly some of her classmates, many of whom are incredibly straight and have views straight out of the Daily Telegraph... straight out of their parents mouths...were against any protest. We call them 'Abercrombies' because they all wear the same Abercrombie & Fitch clothes. One said that

"protesting should be banned!"

How very democratic. My teen went mad.

My daughter tells me that she manages to slip anti-capitalism into almost every subject, even biology. 

"Biology?" I exclaim "how did you do that?"

"There was this test question on the necessary elements for plants to grow. I answered it correctly, sunlight, water, etc but then I put 'This is not scientifically proven but another component helping plants to grow is love'. The teacher gave me zero even though I had everything right."

"Zero!"

"I told him I thought it was unfair. He said that it irritated him so he gave me zero".

April Fools

 

No comment neccessary.

  

Vics telling 'em how it is.

The street kitchen.

 

Trying to reason with the riot cops. Things kicking off.  

A sea of tents.

The entrance to the Climate Camp

 

Tentage decorated with slogans. Bicycle powered sound systems.

  

 Workers above, looking down. 'Why do we have to pay' sign in front of line of riot cops.

Climbing on buildings. 

Trying to reason with the riot police.

This kid was hit by truncheons, has bloody face.

Good vibes at the Climate Camp early on.

Grime artist 'Riddum'.

Wheelchair protestors were everywhere.

Yesterday I went down late to the G20 protests, missing the action at the Royal Bank of Scotland, to the Climate Camp pitched on Bishopsgate street near Liverpool Street Station. I've done one of these before a few years ago, when we all pitched tents in Trafalgar Square, to protest against the Iraq invasion. I remember it being very cold and noisy with local drunks constantly harassing us.

Coming out of Liverpool St. station I noticed several very clean-cut looking men with suspiciously casual clothes. Bankers were advised to dress down for the day in case they got set upon by protestors. At the same time protestors were told to 'dress like a banker for a day'. All very Saturnalia, the Roman festival where the masters dressed as slaves and served them for a day.

Climate Camp had taken over a whole block, with maybe a hundred pop-up tents, each spray-painted with slogans. There was a kitchen, baked potatoes with baked beans for a suggested donation of £1.50p, and a compost toilet.

My friend Chris Knight, University of East London professor and Radical Anthropologists guru (see link in sidebar) had already left, hoping to galvanise people to descend upon the university campus to protest his suspension. He'd made a few inflammatory remarks on radio "hanging bankers from lamposts". I'm amazed that they suspended him. He's been fermenting revolution in his classes for years. It's not exactly news. An alternative summit was supposed to happen at UEL but the university was shut down for two days. I'm also surprised that Barking Bateria, the UEL samba band has not protested more strongly at this. 

Chris' colleague Steve, just back from studying chimps in the Congo, was at Climate Camp.

"What's going to happen about Chris?" I asked.

"I think the university will quietly drop the whole thing once this protest is over. Chris is a chapel leader. They won't want the hassle. But it must be said that anthropology (Chris' dept) has only nine students this year. There used to be a hundred. It's become too expensive to study any 'non-essential' subjects now. All the students want to study business."(1)

I found the samba band, RoR, decked in their usual colours of pink and silver. Ms Canal Explorer had been outside the Royal Bank of Scotland when it was smashed and admitted that the samba band was in some way a catalyst for the protestors at that point. Ms CE and myself are both Space Hijackers (myself less frequently). They'd all been arrested outside News International with their tank 'disguised' as a riot squad van. (Facebook group: Free the SPA)

They are now bailed away from the Westminster/City/Newham area for a week as they refused to take a caution. 

The camp was peaceful with a party atmosphere. Student types were sitting around drinking beer. Some workers were looking down from the tall buildings surrounding us. (There were reports of bankers waving tenners at protestors). A bicycle powered sound system was cranked up. Rythms of Resistance were backing a 'grime' vocalist called riddum when the call went out to strengthen the southern perimeter of the camp. Riot police vans were parked all down the side of the camp and they had been picking off protestors (probably ones they recognised from the earlier fracas at RBS) and arresting them. We stopped playing and moved down the other end. I could see hundreds of protestors with their hands up chanting

'shame on you, shame on you'. 

A young man had blood down his face.

 "What happened?" 

"I was just standing there when a policeman started hitting me with his baton".

 Film by Rikki Blue, friend of mine. Don't believe the mainstream press.

Suddenly a row of riot police were closing in all around the camp. Somebody texted that fires were being started around the City, that sporadic rioting was occurring elsewhere. Protestors were standing eye to eye with the riot police, hands up in a peaceful gesture, asking for explanations of their behaviour. The samba band started to play again. This strengthened the mood. I've said it before but I'll repeat it. The drumming is a powerful weapon. The samba band is key to controlling the crowd. We can push it forward, rile it up, calm it down. (I'm not always sure that the samba band are aware of their own power, that at times the fact that they keep playing can prolong a situation such as outside the Israeli embassy (link to story) which would have fizzled out naturally.)

Excellent video reportage by SuperSan, a member of Barking and RoR.

I twittered everything  best as I could. There was another twitterer@climatecamp, but whose tweets seemed to be all about how happy/organised the camp was. 

One guy started fitting on the ground. Later a man was reported to have died, stopped breathing in a police van. I wondered if it was the same guy. In a Guardian report police claimed that protestors prevented medics from helping him. There is no way this could be true. Who do people think protestors are? One twitterer whose husband works in the city was worried that he might get beaten up. Protestors are generally incredibly idealistic and peace-loving. Who else would spend hours of free time trying to make a statement, most likely with no result? 

Around 9pm I went to the North perimeter to try to get out. A line of riot police were resolute. Nobody was leaving. Which is odd because the police were happy to let people walk into the Climate Camp in the first place. I talked to a Scottish policeman who explained that it was kicking off elsewhere. So we were 'kettled' in a Section 41 because the police were afraid the protestors here would link up with other protests. Eventually I sweet talked him into letting me out. Ms CE tried to get out a little later by saying she had her period. It didn't work. As I walked towards the tube I saw tattered news stand posters moving in the breeze "Obama's big day ruined by violence". I spoke to the news stand guy.

"It's pointless all this. The MP's can claim 40 grand expenses for second homes. The government can do what they want. We can't. Nothing is going to change".

And there we have it. Frustration and impotence. Anger and disgust. One set of rules for them, another for us. 

(1) I have since heard that Chris Knight did go to UEL, with Tony Benn MP and continue the alternative summit.

NB: As we all know, the MP's expenses story blew up in their faces in May '09. This is a seismic change. I get the feeling that the British, for once, feel revolutionary. It won't take much more to spark them off.

Also Chris Knight is now fighting to keep his job at the University of East London. 

Exchange student

It's not going too well. She thinks we are weird. My teen saw on an entry on facebook that she wondered why there were so many tables and chairs in the living room.

The girl doesn't say anything, skulks in her bedroom. I have to force her out.

My teen took her shopping to Topshop on Saturday. She sat looking miserable.

"It's too expensive" she eventually pouted

"So let's go to Primark" says my teen helpfully. But she didn't want to go.

There was a party in Harlesden Saturday night. I was worried. Harlesden is murder mile. Another mum dropped them off and picked them up. I was doing the Underground Restaurant so this was really helpful. Although my teen was annoyed that they were picked up at a quarter to midnight.

"The party went on till two am" she complained "only losers leave before midnight".

Personally I think that midnight is fine for just 15. At the party the French exchange student sat in a corner the whole time. 

My friend 'Kurt Cubain' came over Sunday. Blonde, dreadlocked, he's just back from six months in India. He was lighting up joints and strumming the guitar. God knows what the French exchange student thought. When he left I tried to bring her out of herself.

"He's just back from India!" I announced cheerily

She nods.

"Would you like to travel?"

More nodding.

"Are you going to stay in Epinal?"

She shakes her head vigorously. A bit of animation there.

"Where would you like to go? "

A word, muffled "London?"

"Would you like to go to India?"

Enthusiastic nodding. That's the longest conversation I have managed with her.

(I think her mind is a little blown by us, London, the UK. It certainly has not been comfortable. But possibly she'll go home with her horizons broadened. This is real education, which is not always comfortable.)

Our lot are exchanging with the year above from Epinal. Have to. The Epinal kids are so unsophisticated.

We must speak English to her. But it's hard to estimate how much she understands. Because she won't ask. 

The school seem to have a policy of mismatching the kids. Therefore the 'year slut' from the French school was paired with the 'year geek' from the Lycée. This was such a disaster in France that the 'year slut' refused to stay with him on the London leg, and went to stay with our 'year slut'.

The French 'year slut' brought over £350 and spent every penny. At least she has a lust for life.

I guess my teen is the year outcast and they've matched her with the French year 'straight'.