tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76947962561687845432024-02-20T04:39:44.141+02:00THE ANGLO BALKAN BLOG PATRICK BRIGHAM -
Author and Journalist
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-416789246240150642020-08-18T12:41:00.006+03:002021-04-09T17:34:33.169+03:00Something for A Quiet Time- by Patrick Brigham<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVG6geKUJSAIn1EyBZaryyO4pC7puSAxyzTndS9RPgsfHW55wLwEtwvh0Agaah60tY1KAX_urIYND1mQRiUBBzGeCb4Roq58mVqn2Itp-yb0lX1cqzFciQGllRMwEW2dtbYX1YaGI0Xhg/s791/CapturePCLB.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="791" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVG6geKUJSAIn1EyBZaryyO4pC7puSAxyzTndS9RPgsfHW55wLwEtwvh0Agaah60tY1KAX_urIYND1mQRiUBBzGeCb4Roq58mVqn2Itp-yb0lX1cqzFciQGllRMwEW2dtbYX1YaGI0Xhg/s640/CapturePCLB.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Amazon UK - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BGZTKFE">https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00BGZTKFE</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Amazon US - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BGZTKFE">https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BGZTKFE</a></div><gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; 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position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-61585155187082684222020-08-18T12:28:00.002+03:002020-11-26T20:35:55.150+02:00Mystery Books for Dark Nights - by Patrick Brigham<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbQ418p7su3wxMEllAjon34bM8UFevOt4grynHz0nOQX9DzZ-BktjuVjvzjf_-NyPBoHrDuZsvhP6E2Bl_Xrkxnqgl7AHlTDyh4kqo4rDZr4mRzYm3ylBivkvsdMfpRJuWWsdOv36AwI/s704/CaptureMysteryAdd.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="704" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbQ418p7su3wxMEllAjon34bM8UFevOt4grynHz0nOQX9DzZ-BktjuVjvzjf_-NyPBoHrDuZsvhP6E2Bl_Xrkxnqgl7AHlTDyh4kqo4rDZr4mRzYm3ylBivkvsdMfpRJuWWsdOv36AwI/s640/CaptureMysteryAdd.PNG" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p>AMAZON UK - <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00BGZTKFE">https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00BGZTKFE</a></p><p>AMAZON US - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BGZTKFE">https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BGZTKFE</a></p><gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-47155440517376616722019-12-02T14:33:00.003+02:002020-11-26T23:23:46.444+02:00The London Property Boy - By Patrick Brigham<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNgWh-hUfNN2NDw7UKtsfYzQqPsHImYdByFeids3GG18MG0j6D0AbWDvjAMnuOirSp0MI87AL0_9YjwoShOImDATy-5tH_t_JU7G-8rAnrq9tSm0fjvsabx2DMWz86LofpFf4WD7PEgY/s2048/LondonPropertyBoy_Cover_Good+JPG.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="619" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNgWh-hUfNN2NDw7UKtsfYzQqPsHImYdByFeids3GG18MG0j6D0AbWDvjAMnuOirSp0MI87AL0_9YjwoShOImDATy-5tH_t_JU7G-8rAnrq9tSm0fjvsabx2DMWz86LofpFf4WD7PEgY/w417-h619/LondonPropertyBoy_Cover_Good+JPG.1.jpg" width="417" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: medium; text-align: start;"><b>With a national property crash and the breakdown of his marriage</b> to Lavender, property developer Michael Mostyn has hit rock bottom. With legal battles, a court appearance over his son Mark, followed by an acrimonious divorce, Mike is forced to leave his provincial home, desert his much loved elderly mother, and move to London. Starting again as a West London estate agent, and in order to reinstate his lost fortunes, Mike moves into the murky and the intriguing world of property dealing. Tangling with the Irish Republican Army en route, he reluctantly finds himself in the hands of MI5, who see him as a possible recruit. In this rite of passage tale, Mike discovers a variety of available women, but in his quest to find happiness, he meets and marries the mysterious Communist academic, Nadezhda Antova, and once again finds himself embroiled with the British secret service.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07ZXHKVMF/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i2" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="768" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TBFF6xH-bEfm5SBKFwC14hk6aSB2sPPRvukNx2qSprFINhqEU7xHHIkD7cbP86tO4UvmWsL7Zg9CToe-eLmw7P1Mzf099vo8sfGm2ue4UIA0iln5KvSzWXjfSA7g_q6efsLcYGVd9TA/s320/BuyNow-56a62a183df78cf7728ba82c.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-2318008840817587252019-03-10T17:05:00.002+02:002021-02-19T21:54:52.840+02:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-22021744179331673132018-11-17T00:52:00.004+02:002021-02-19T21:47:57.235+02:00HOW TO BURY THE BREXIT – by Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9-6devSPYrXTJnzG3jLlM3cz3Omd68XXDJOQQysq7uVJuPMkGsdPYlMy2URcOXpJCs5p02cGYLEonbcQZhezUPnP9xSxRnVB34Zkeeu0wG5HKl4o8-FwI6FCfwGnab7wYKbaoTKF5yk/s1600/CaptureBrex.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="602" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9-6devSPYrXTJnzG3jLlM3cz3Omd68XXDJOQQysq7uVJuPMkGsdPYlMy2URcOXpJCs5p02cGYLEonbcQZhezUPnP9xSxRnVB34Zkeeu0wG5HKl4o8-FwI6FCfwGnab7wYKbaoTKF5yk/s640/CaptureBrex.PNG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-16366495860902131292018-11-13T14:50:00.002+02:002021-02-19T21:51:56.283+02:00On To The Next Book - by Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Autumn is over in Northern Greece, the signs of winter are approaching, and I now have to light my pellet stove in the evening, to keep warm. But that is not the only change, because once again as an author, I am moving away from my usual murder mystery genre with another stand-alone novel, and into the realms of literary fiction. Why the change, I should explain? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I had a life before moving to South-Eastern Europe, and I had a life before I moved to London in the 70s. In fact, when I seriously started writing in the late 80s, I believed that the past was all there was. My then <i>warts and all</i> novel was to be about my early life, a rather haphazard marriage, the tragedy of an early divorce, the consequence of near bankruptcy, and my ultimate comeback. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As a young man, it was hard enough for me to deal with all these problems then, but later on it became even harder for me to write about it; I was still far too close. This all happened nearly forty years ago, well before my first attempted at this cathartic novel, which I fondly imagined was going to knock the world of publishing dead. But then I put it away, filed it under the past, and then promptly forgot about it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Recently opening a bulging box file, having first removed the dust and cobwebs, I rediscovered the early attempt of <i>my great novel</i>, only to find that – far from being cathartic and serious – it was rather funny. From the typed <i>foxed </i>pages, there seemed to be a very little tragedy in my early life, just change. Through the consoling prism of maturity, it now transpires that things that once hurt me, now only amuse me. ‘Did that really happen? What a fool I must have been?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What was good, was to rediscover strong characterization, and even a good plot. After all, it was my fictionalized history, so there must have an element of truth in it, although, my <i>warts and all</i> prospectus seemed very little like the new me. Perhaps, after all, the book is about misplaced ambition, youthful endeavour, romantic fantasy, jealousy, rage and intrigue? Or maybe, it is a book that explains how we all feel when we are young, fall in love and make mistakes. I will ask you again in a few months time when it is finished!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<gdiv id="ginger-floatingG-container" style="left: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG ginger-floatingG-closed" style="display: none;"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-disabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Enable Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-offline-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip"><em>Cannot connect to Ginger</em> Check your internet connection<br /> or reload the browser</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-enabled-main"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-disable"><ga></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Disable in this text field</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-edit">Edit</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes"><ga><span class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-mistakes-count"></span></ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-bar-tool-tooltip">Edit in Ginger</gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup"><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-wrap"><ga class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-close">×</ga><gdiv class="ginger-floatingG-contentPopup-frame"><iframe scrolling="no"></iframe></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv></gdiv>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-57809033694027822492018-08-29T12:30:00.000+03:002018-08-30T11:18:56.214+03:00What If I Change My Genre?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPgIIGSYlpkdhVJdMFygjkfpnIwKQHRYZma3he3WfcahS7D7QAEzEHtSghF2uMDfcSoLj0gDTvnkFqBf65MYRRMr02DAG6eKLdNCj4pKf5ejcCCzDPNOSESheXInAXwIbP-QKRrZIBR8/s1600/Capture1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="653" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPgIIGSYlpkdhVJdMFygjkfpnIwKQHRYZma3he3WfcahS7D7QAEzEHtSghF2uMDfcSoLj0gDTvnkFqBf65MYRRMr02DAG6eKLdNCj4pKf5ejcCCzDPNOSESheXInAXwIbP-QKRrZIBR8/s320/Capture1.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Suddenly, it was not so important. Having spent twenty five years in Eastern Europe, describing the political changes, and analyzing the people behind the throne, it was clear to me that the public was becoming a little tired of Communism. Mr. Putin was doing his best to revamp the past, but the Cold War was now over, and with just the slightest taint of intrigue remaining, it seemed to be time for me to move on. Even the Oligarchs were becoming old hat, and few readers could care less if another Knightsbridge mansion was bought at an inflated price by some Moscow gangster. It also seemed that DCI Michael Lambert - my ever present police detective - might also have chased his last miscreant halfway across Europe.<br />
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Happily tucked up in bed with Countess Beatrix, Lambert - who had recently become the Honorary British Consul in Acona - finally seemed content to simply smell the roses. And me? I am just the author, so it has always been clear that one day, I might easily become the victim of my own fictional characters, and that - if they wanted to put their feet up and do nothing for a bit - there was very little I could do about it. Or was there? There was always the possibility of a change of genre for me, and perhaps DCI Lambert was not the only person due for a well deserved rest? <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1rIDyVQeKSx3jNq6dDDO_RIFNEPzuF85BQ6dUpIvl8rfet27Igf2aIF-Qd87A9BgWOMbAOTeF9txn4YhpYW3wwgOZuYFdeCpP-dI_iZ_KcbgBKVGnMVDyYWzstizajuTBT8yhOTMUjI/s1600/Bookcover+-+FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1164" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH1rIDyVQeKSx3jNq6dDDO_RIFNEPzuF85BQ6dUpIvl8rfet27Igf2aIF-Qd87A9BgWOMbAOTeF9txn4YhpYW3wwgOZuYFdeCpP-dI_iZ_KcbgBKVGnMVDyYWzstizajuTBT8yhOTMUjI/s320/Bookcover+-+FINAL.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
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I live in a very provincial and isolated community of farmers and artisans in the very north of Greece, and while I got on and wrote about Lamberts trials and tribulations, they remained largely ignored. A great place to live in peace and quiet, as well as for fresh fruit & veg, it never occurred to me then that underneath all their peaceful toil, was a tribe of people who together had survived not only the wrath of Atturturk; and the great migration, but the horrors of two World Wars. Decent, hardworking and uncondescending, what would they be like if there was a disaster, what would happen if there was a terible flood, and how would I cope with writing in a new genre?<br />
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Rather like Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekhov - permanently receiving tragic news from the village or through a third party - Goddess of The Rainbow was my tribute to the largely forgotten and neglected part of Greece in which I live. An area which had sustained more grief than most parts of the Balkans during the 20th Century, what was it that made the people of Evros so resilient, and able to maintain their pride? In sixteen chapters of intertwined short stories, ranging from love to hatred, greed, kindness, selflessness, goodness and an unwavering hope for the future - I try to explain what it is that makes these people so special. Even the Greek Orthodox priest - who is experiencing a crisis of faith - when the floods come and the rain never stops, he too is influenced by the courage of ordinary people as they face the trauma of flooding, their lives fractured by disaster, as he has been by his own doubts. And, murder mystery? That seems to be taking a sabbatical too.</div>
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-37956566721385524752018-06-05T15:33:00.000+03:002018-06-09T12:19:02.268+03:00Blogs and Book Reviews<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QI_2qNoSfs8p4QkP-fXAHt2Xqx9Bsq1T7NT8QOJjU7Z9JsrV-MAm6fwrCcrS8ygmlNYeT57uZ3puZMvYvW2DJ_AqG_XQmstTzdpK8aHiE49xYZBB0RAxHx8HFOOWZzrfDcENJZK-ueo/s1600/Capture2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QI_2qNoSfs8p4QkP-fXAHt2Xqx9Bsq1T7NT8QOJjU7Z9JsrV-MAm6fwrCcrS8ygmlNYeT57uZ3puZMvYvW2DJ_AqG_XQmstTzdpK8aHiE49xYZBB0RAxHx8HFOOWZzrfDcENJZK-ueo/s640/Capture2.PNG" width="640" height="639" data-original-width="653" data-original-height="652" /></a></div>Murder Mystery <br />
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At some point, readers become so used to seeing your blog, that they hardly notice it anymore. Usually an advert straight from the pages of Amazon, Goodreads, or some other, for a writer this is very convenient. But, does it work? There are so many books on the internet these days, written by hardworking authors, that the average person is spoiled for choice. <br />
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Varying in quality from unreadable, to 'this should be entered for the Booker Prize,' without the support of book reviewers, nobody would know if a book was good or bad. Gone are the days when an habitual reader followed certain writers of distinction, because these days their choice is greatly influenced by the review system. And, it is how this works in practice, that I am addressing readers and reviewers today.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioThmG7hOc54oUCrr3pbbD6HZVCUgdQSHiWK6P2XsShLrUj54Rt6iF8hyvbqoiSBXxRyJ_sh_uY839GD-ZPbkFuBsVz4ZX_5STb17V9jzU8JeSD9x3FIpS6MTOUkonr0xzQtqiVyELiWY/s1600/Capture1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioThmG7hOc54oUCrr3pbbD6HZVCUgdQSHiWK6P2XsShLrUj54Rt6iF8hyvbqoiSBXxRyJ_sh_uY839GD-ZPbkFuBsVz4ZX_5STb17V9jzU8JeSD9x3FIpS6MTOUkonr0xzQtqiVyELiWY/s640/Capture1.PNG" width="640" height="635" data-original-width="653" data-original-height="648" /></a></div>Literary Fiction <br />
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Recently the megalith Amazon has decided two things. Firstly, that a review only qualifies for publication within their book sales blurb, if it has been purchased from Amazon or Kindle directly. Secondly, they have also made it a rule, that any person wishing to publish their review on Amazon, must have spent a minimum of 40 Pounds - in the case of Amazon.co.uk - or a similar amount in the various Amazon web outlets.<br />
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Many reviewers are not that wealthy, and cannot keep buying books to review, any more than impoverished writers can send them paid for freebies. Many of the foregoing are pensioners, people who out of necessity have to stay at home, and even some I know of, with disabilities. <br />
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Added to this somewhat arbitrary ruling by Amazon, there is the problem of finding people who might wish, during the normal course of events, to provide honest book reviews for writers, but who are inundated with great piles of books to read. Considering the restrictive conditions which are ever present with Amazon - or does the expression tyrannical better fit my blog- then perhaps they might loosen the reigns a bit, and make it easier for those on fixed incomes, or retirees, to contribute to the world of literature. <br />
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We need more reviewers, who make honest observations in their remarks, and don't treat the famed art of book reviewing, like a sausage factory. This would improve sales for authors, and probably for Amazon too, but this leaves me with the question, does Amazon care about books, or is it only money?<br />
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Patrick Brigham is a long term self published author, who like many other writers, would like to lift his head out of the water, and smell the fresh air!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ2_2QNVbMmhn87jHgsekz7qQIq_LWQyFT-aa-mgpE1yZBUgtdsMImnsI_57P_-bcyz1n_A4lc_lFqio5Us971CJw5e4W6gkLM_2LIuK4t2frk_NR6tvUmoIpWEZetp0t6YkEsAse5u8w/s1600/C-fNFDiW0AAt4Ry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ2_2QNVbMmhn87jHgsekz7qQIq_LWQyFT-aa-mgpE1yZBUgtdsMImnsI_57P_-bcyz1n_A4lc_lFqio5Us971CJw5e4W6gkLM_2LIuK4t2frk_NR6tvUmoIpWEZetp0t6YkEsAse5u8w/s640/C-fNFDiW0AAt4Ry.jpg" width="640" height="480" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a></div><b>Buy Author Patrick Brighams Books from Amazon <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Patrick-Brigham/e/B00BGZTKFE/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">here</a><br />
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Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-5071265624300478702018-05-12T21:14:00.000+03:002018-05-13T08:58:30.884+03:00PRESS RELEASE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx69oeX03oJ8qMzvG6gO64ossDcFDtllCSd-sbAnjaqacKHsca3kijeBSRJWhj13qBMlWsnideQ3TD6Por5Hzkxb7nuWid4F2xBdNTxK1JJ3lZFKFuJGXem6IeDXPquIkiKlLviuED8VM/s1600/CapturePat.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx69oeX03oJ8qMzvG6gO64ossDcFDtllCSd-sbAnjaqacKHsca3kijeBSRJWhj13qBMlWsnideQ3TD6Por5Hzkxb7nuWid4F2xBdNTxK1JJ3lZFKFuJGXem6IeDXPquIkiKlLviuED8VM/s400/CapturePat.PNG" width="344" height="400" data-original-width="122" data-original-height="142" /></a></div><b><i>Author Patrick Brigham</i></b><br />
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Goddess of The Rainbow, is unlike most of Patrick Brigham’s famed fiction, because – for the time being at least – he has deserted his usual Murder Mystery genre. Even though there are possible signs of murder, and the occasional hint of international intrigue, this time his tale takes place in peaceful Greece. And this time, his story is about the rain.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIphvJPBbAWiGiDGWPFg3I-wT9wz6TUr4HR-tGYFpm_xhmpS0c_eGx8Pprl-icNEUFOSmBt0jB66fsz4bn6DT0O1iBhNgd-FjiGDhF8xDA6Zs55lX3wa9j3vwmrJNgu_fDbOWthNEbxkc/s1600/Bookcover+-+FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIphvJPBbAWiGiDGWPFg3I-wT9wz6TUr4HR-tGYFpm_xhmpS0c_eGx8Pprl-icNEUFOSmBt0jB66fsz4bn6DT0O1iBhNgd-FjiGDhF8xDA6Zs55lX3wa9j3vwmrJNgu_fDbOWthNEbxkc/s640/Bookcover+-+FINAL.jpg" width="466" height="640" data-original-width="1164" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
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Greece, a largely tranquil country, is not usually given to ostentatious bouts of indignation, and has recently been experiencing considerable austerity, which has left most people confused, as well as short of cash. Patrick Explains –<br />
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<b>“When the heavens open up and swamp the town of Orestiada with incessant rain, it causes everyone to somehow change. Feelings and reactions, which have long remained dormant within the largely provincial Greek community, come to the surface.” <i></i></b><br />
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In Goddess of The Rainbow, and obscured by years of prejudice, the entrenched views of this generally unsophisticated community are challenged, as the river waters rise, and the fields become flooded; peoples’ future looking bleaker by the day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXUDUwdSrMTQHN7ytxi3EBBYlzK2wySO6lA10q5dpQQJ4qQobCrtskg9wLbbTeJVo0yY2M0YXUf-KVOMQRYvwCRlV5nfDxuapzPb2716U9aFC_GCfQvnGhPhuRdymKxHKczU-RkasOB0/s1600/Capture.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXUDUwdSrMTQHN7ytxi3EBBYlzK2wySO6lA10q5dpQQJ4qQobCrtskg9wLbbTeJVo0yY2M0YXUf-KVOMQRYvwCRlV5nfDxuapzPb2716U9aFC_GCfQvnGhPhuRdymKxHKczU-RkasOB0/s400/Capture.PNG" width="400" height="297" data-original-width="306" data-original-height="227" /></a></div><br />
A series of short stories, they all occur in the Greek town of Orestiada. Stories, which simultaneously interlink and become a part of the whole, centre around Iris – the local DHL courier – who in Greek mythology is not only Goddess of The Rainbow, but also the Messenger of The Gods, thereby connecting the individual tales of this sixteen chapter book.<br />
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In it there is a murderous estate agent, and his equally murderous wife, an aspiring artist looking for recognition in Athens, an estranged couple separated by time who rekindle their love, a Greek- Australian from Melbourne, and a visiting bus load of Russian women from Moscow. They have been invited by Thanos the mayor, in order that some of the winging local bachelors might find a suitable wife.<br />
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There is an illegal Syrian immigrant, a disgruntled typically Greek mother who doesn’t want her son to marry at all, and a Greek Orthodox Priest who has lost his faith. All that and more; stories which come together so beautifully in the last chapter, and both fascinating and enchanting, they can be read and enjoyed individually. But put together, they serve to make the whole novel greater than its component parts.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkHIe5HPpB7Aw7dDJ2S0s3ORV-JGs_jR7j_yMCjtRKjDE3jrVLtz2R8w22BU0gTW4flDKKvPI5eguo3rbqM7_uu8pXqeQHxYFXbpZIMePu57B8Xigp53Ugh6lHbpEilLDCTFYloXNkbI/s1600/23-rainbow-photography.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkHIe5HPpB7Aw7dDJ2S0s3ORV-JGs_jR7j_yMCjtRKjDE3jrVLtz2R8w22BU0gTW4flDKKvPI5eguo3rbqM7_uu8pXqeQHxYFXbpZIMePu57B8Xigp53Ugh6lHbpEilLDCTFYloXNkbI/s400/23-rainbow-photography.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="640" data-original-height="480" /></a></div><br />
With change comes romance, and although we see this tale through the prism of devastation, we can also see hope, love, and finally laughter. Patrick Brigham is an Englishman who has lived in the Balkans for twenty five years, and knows and understands the people well –<br />
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<i><i><b>“Each country is very different, but Greece has its own dignity, and a special place in my heart.”<br />
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Living for the last ten years in Evros, which is also the name of the river delta, which separates Greece from Turkey, Patrick is only too clear about the character of the Greeks who live in this part of Eastern Macedonia.<br />
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<i><b>“Having been forced out of Turkey by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk in 1923, and experiencing the ravages of World War Two, this was then followed by the revolution of 1948. Afterwards most people from this part of Greece had a strong will to survive, and I admire them for this, their hard work, their resolve, and cheerfulness.”<i></i></b></i><br />
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All Patricks books are available from Amazon.<br />
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Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-29530749463699583072018-05-09T10:38:00.000+03:002018-05-10T00:53:46.256+03:00Goddess of the Rainbow by Patrick Brigham<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPTYKoaJBXeO6VkvM32swLT5aEHjT-A870kgrSY3E89kvs60OKg0QXDpREZQGxNZQsfoUajF4kteop3s-HByalEnUrk8Q-B4iXXJl1C-veZjjA0V3Teh8g6bLiPKNUTyQPYh8zBY6D8Q/s1600/Capture1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPTYKoaJBXeO6VkvM32swLT5aEHjT-A870kgrSY3E89kvs60OKg0QXDpREZQGxNZQsfoUajF4kteop3s-HByalEnUrk8Q-B4iXXJl1C-veZjjA0V3Teh8g6bLiPKNUTyQPYh8zBY6D8Q/s400/Capture1.PNG" width="400" height="274" data-original-width="830" data-original-height="569" /></a></div><br />
Because this is a very Greek story involving the rain, and how flooding changes us, moves the finger of fate, and causes us to reflect on our lives. A series of short stories, they all happen in the Greek town of Orestiada. Stories which simultaneously interlink and become a part of the whole, center around Iris – the local DHL courier – who in Greek mythology is not only Goddess of The Rainbow, but also the Messenger of The Gods, thereby connecting the individual tales of this sixteen chapter book.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6E1geLA6TWlPI2PQZOxidJXZHoNu2EEWsxPboGhLzgchJ6FCnGG2e_DJsuqPZQLd7RThNia7EmBdx4Vb0J-Z5B8HzubsU7gnt0YQH8LSVRK8hyphenhyphen2-OYAD_VQhdui0dQ_3Vb-wCjqTxk7Y/s1600/Capture5.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6E1geLA6TWlPI2PQZOxidJXZHoNu2EEWsxPboGhLzgchJ6FCnGG2e_DJsuqPZQLd7RThNia7EmBdx4Vb0J-Z5B8HzubsU7gnt0YQH8LSVRK8hyphenhyphen2-OYAD_VQhdui0dQ_3Vb-wCjqTxk7Y/s400/Capture5.PNG" width="400" height="224" data-original-width="761" data-original-height="427" /></a></div><br />
In it there is a murderous estate agent, and his equally murderous wife, an aspiring artist looking for recognition in Athens, an estranged couple separated by time who rekindle their love, a Greek- Australian who is from Melbourne, and a visiting bus load of Russian women from Moscow. They have been invited by the mayor, in order that some of the winging local bachelors might find a suitable wife. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0zXIZ0ZtMD7vQ9JIULJVOeWLANZdPzrEy1DKZSj4s43yMN8qlE1CaBgc2MaKyl4Jf5-wlUFgoUobJ4_4_mQNy1Md4XDmRRbaECwNCvvajTnNrRFLtGNvYYdjJ0Kfente8xonQ0me4es/s1600/Capture6.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0zXIZ0ZtMD7vQ9JIULJVOeWLANZdPzrEy1DKZSj4s43yMN8qlE1CaBgc2MaKyl4Jf5-wlUFgoUobJ4_4_mQNy1Md4XDmRRbaECwNCvvajTnNrRFLtGNvYYdjJ0Kfente8xonQ0me4es/s400/Capture6.PNG" width="400" height="224" data-original-width="833" data-original-height="467" /></a></div><br />
There is an illegal Syrian immigrant, a disgruntled typically Greek mother who doesn’t want her son to marry at all, and a Greek Orthodox Priest who has lost his faith. All that and more; stories which come so beautifully together in the last chapter –fascinating and enchanting – which can be read and enjoyed individually, but put together, serve to make the whole novel greater than its component parts.<br />
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Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-21066073771615180132018-03-30T15:25:00.000+03:002018-05-12T20:53:08.162+03:00With My Little Eye - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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In the beginning it was fun. The Balkans still had all the trappings of Communism, and although dull and dreary for most ordinary citizens, I was having a great time. It was just before the changes, and I was having drinks in the Sobranie in Sofia. Some members were laughing at the poor state of the Bulgarian economy, and along with various apparatchik’s; together with my chum Villie, who ran Balkan Holidays in London, we all agreed it was very nearly over.<br />
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People who had reached the top of the greasy pole never complained, because they had it all, and the rest of the population were regarded as irrelevant. The mantra then was “The state pretends to pay us, we pretend to work, and we all steal the rest,” and for a while the system worked well, because that was what everyone believed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3jvVnrAEbhpE-sLxz0dyqLckNkFpFlpRbZt-DH6gzNMnLrRCU9Y1ONY7zEMAOyj0Iiy-IfJhVjHPTzldn4wL8kgw1O1PyZcZfDkpCcvfyqla74dQ3i9Gd9c8iTMlQhXh6utDMe6L3jo/s1600/website-7-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3jvVnrAEbhpE-sLxz0dyqLckNkFpFlpRbZt-DH6gzNMnLrRCU9Y1ONY7zEMAOyj0Iiy-IfJhVjHPTzldn4wL8kgw1O1PyZcZfDkpCcvfyqla74dQ3i9Gd9c8iTMlQhXh6utDMe6L3jo/s400/website-7-001.jpg" width="291" height="400" data-original-width="218" data-original-height="300" /></a></div><i>THOSE WERE THE DAYS</i>!<br />
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Now, Sofia has changed, looks like any other part of the EU, is bright and inviting, but for me it is no longer where I want to be. I liked the greyness and the intrigue, it was like a mini Russia, full of delightful conspiracies, and totally unpredictable. But, after twenty years living in an Eastern European circus, Greece became an easy and comfortable alternative. So, here I am.<br />
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Who needs excitement, when you can look out of your window and gaze in wonder at the little patchwork of fields, the chats with the locals about…… err, tomatoes. Okay, it’s not exciting, but it is quiet, as cheap as chips, and I can write in total peace; something I have been happily doing for the last ten years, in this charming and hospitable country.<br />
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I started writing seriously in the 80s in London, on a blinding black screened Amstrad analog computer. I still have all the floppy disks, if only I knew how to open them, but they were probably destined for the rubbish bin anyway. In the early 90s came Microsoft, the Internet and email, and in 1995, I started to write seriously; firstly as editor of the Sofia Western News magazine, an English language monthly, and then my first novel.<br />
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Most of my material comes from that time, because by then much of the old brigade were long gone, and replaced by their condescending money grabbing and thuggish first lieutenants, overnight I became an item of interest! This meant police interviews, tax-checks, heavy fines, and as many humiliating encounters as they could conjure up; which continued until EU accession in 2008. I still wonder why?<br />
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My first novel was a satire, and titled Horoditus: The Gnome of Sofia, it was reminiscent of Tom Sharp’s work. It centred round a ceramic garden gnome, which had been tampered with by MI6.<br />
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Remember that rock outside the British Embassy in Moscow, which MI6 turned into a telephone base station in order to receive information? <b>http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4638136.stm</b><br />
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Suddenly, Moscow Rules were no longer required, and in my book, spying in Sofia was entirely left up to a grinning garden gnome called Herodotus. In the background was a warring ambassador, his dubious wife – the daughter of the infamous Jim Kilbey – and of course, utter chaos as arrests were made, with a body discovered in a deep freeze.<br />
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My second novel was a murder mystery involving arms dealing, and this is when DCI Mike Lambert appears on the scene. Having discovered a dead man on a narrow boat moored on the Kennet and Avon canal, it opens a can of worms which takes Lambert well out of his comfort zone, ending with the assassination of a Chinese Banker on the streets of London. Based on real events in Peru – and the then President Fujimori infamous arms purchases – this book reflects a true course of events. Called, Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery, it explains the duplicity of many countries, in the obnoxious arms trade.<br />
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Abduction: An Angel over Rimini, brings Lambert into the world of child trafficking, and as in the little Madi case – which I studied very carefully – he goes on the trail of a missing child abducted from a campsite in Italy. A journey which takes him through Greece, where he meets police officer Electra Boulos, and in Bulgaria, where he comes across a corrupt children’s court judge; but there is still a lighter side. Tracking the smuggling group to a house in Greece, Electra saves the day in a shootout, and due to the resulting trauma she experiences, Lambert consoles her perhaps a little too much.<br />
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The Dance of Dimitrios takes place in Greece, Bulgaria and London, and brings DCI Mike Lambert and Electra Boulos back together again, but this time it is strictly business. A woman’s body has been found floating in the River Ardas, and assuming that she is Islamic, and an innocent victim of illegal trafficking, she is buried in a communal grave; name unknown. When Sergeant Boulos discovers through fingerprint analysis that it is the body is of an Englishwoman, Europol is informed, and DCI Mike Lambert is dispatched to Greece as a Europol liaison officer. Rather too close to Al Quaeda, Daish, and even MI6, Lambert has to navigate his way through countless obstacles and practiced lie’s, in order to get to the truth and to find the murderer.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6t7iSwf6Rdxf73sMWKb0Gd2KjZfyHKUI6ppBnD6ciA-oSRFp9_cz3-Lzj-7ZL3KyFsCoDWo34L0QEk8JroONC3RGzGZ4nSrH-R_IfCNDcEPPrjJMf6mdApc55Vu3tVW-JaM6iXO73MWY/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6t7iSwf6Rdxf73sMWKb0Gd2KjZfyHKUI6ppBnD6ciA-oSRFp9_cz3-Lzj-7ZL3KyFsCoDWo34L0QEk8JroONC3RGzGZ4nSrH-R_IfCNDcEPPrjJMf6mdApc55Vu3tVW-JaM6iXO73MWY/s640/DSC_0050.JPG" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1065" /></a></div><i>AUTHOR PATRICK BRIGHAM</i><br />
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<b>What am I writing now?</b><br />
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I have just finished the second edit of a new novel called Goddess of The Rainbow.<br />
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In it I am stepping away from murder mystery, because this is a very Greek story involving the rain, and how flooding changes us, moves the finger of fate, and causes us to reflect on our lives. A series of short stories, they all happen in the Greek town of Orestiada. Stories which simultaneously interlink and become a part of the whole, centre around Iris – the local DHL courier – who in Greek mythology is not only Goddess of The Rainbow, but also the Messenger of The Gods, thereby connecting the individual tales of this 16 Chapter book.<br />
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In it there is a murderous estate agent, and his equally murderous wife, an aspiring artist looking for recognition in Athens, an estranged couple separated by time who rekindle their love, a Greek- Australian who is from Melbourne, and a visiting bus load of Russian women from Moscow. They have been invited by the mayor, in order that some of the winging local bachelors might find a suitable wife. There is an illegal Syrian immigrant, a disgruntled typically Greek mother who doesn’t want her son to marry at all, and a Greek Orthodox Priest who has lost his faith. All that and more; stories which come so beautifully together in the last chapter –fascinating and enchanting – which can be read and enjoyed individually, but put together, serve to make the whole novel greater than its component parts.<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-19454110273987972332018-03-06T12:16:00.001+02:002018-03-17T13:39:05.987+02:00THE DANCE OF DIMITRIOS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCDX2GUi3HuJUJ3S3Uo5VMkfR0ISsYKIUPGO1VbKyuWLMFvINTOSvJpMwkj3Ij5r1Oh1o2d0AWSZjFBM0BxMrjpc3ZZSwmMrFbi9AyX4ArAHndqnhudydSf9rBmlD4OXcZYXyWZWpSHs/s1600/C-fNFDiW0AAt4Ry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCDX2GUi3HuJUJ3S3Uo5VMkfR0ISsYKIUPGO1VbKyuWLMFvINTOSvJpMwkj3Ij5r1Oh1o2d0AWSZjFBM0BxMrjpc3ZZSwmMrFbi9AyX4ArAHndqnhudydSf9rBmlD4OXcZYXyWZWpSHs/s640/C-fNFDiW0AAt4Ry.jpg" width="640" height="480" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a></div><i><b>Author Patrick Brigham</b></i><br />
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I seem to have been around in the Balkans for some time now. My first visit was in 1985, during Communism, and before the political changes. As an Englishman, it all seemed so unusual to me, that little whiff of intrigue, the unfamiliar faces, and the suspicious eyes which followed me, as I found my way around some very unknown territory. But that was then-<br />
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This is partly why I set my books in the Balkans, and most recently Greece, where I now live. To me South Eastern Europe has always held a fascination; the way that – on the surface at least – it all seems so different these days, whilst underneath the mentality, and predilections, remain much the same.<br />
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My main fictional character is the modern jazz loving, classic car enthusiast, and police murder detective, Chief Inspector Michael Lambert. Late of the Thames Valley Police Force, in the UK, he now works for Europol as a liaison officer – the European Union police force in The Hague – although he finds it hard to let go of the reins as a front line murder detective. This is especially so in my most recent novel, <i>The Dance of Dimitrios</i>, which takes place in Greece, Bulgaria, and also in London.<br />
<br />
Set once more at the end of the Cold War and Communism, and faced with political intrigue, murder, Al Qaeda and illicit money laundering, DCI Lambert also somehow finds himself embroiled with MI6. But now, free from his carping English wife, Lambert also finds new love, and goes to live with Countess Beatrix in Italy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyaEfA11G8iNzez7iylijUwXnr8aeMSV5jehSNyFjk2ZjVBey8EWWfCoA7ryl0mYpktBqaytZufNmTqNMe_aiPycUQFsGJsbzty2jHXY9EE5Ak-G6RczjVA8Hf_H0DwYjC9ehCdhJYKkk/s1600/DSC_0042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyaEfA11G8iNzez7iylijUwXnr8aeMSV5jehSNyFjk2ZjVBey8EWWfCoA7ryl0mYpktBqaytZufNmTqNMe_aiPycUQFsGJsbzty2jHXY9EE5Ak-G6RczjVA8Hf_H0DwYjC9ehCdhJYKkk/s400/DSC_0042.JPG" width="400" height="266" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1065" /></a></div><br />
<b><i>Writer & Journalist Patrick Brigham</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>THE DANCE OF DIMITRIOS SYNOPSIS</b><br />
<br />
"A woman's body has been discovered floating in the River Ardas in Northern Greece. Thought to be of Middle-Eastern origin, she is buried in a communal grave along with other Islamic victims of drowning.<br />
<br />
"Later it is revealed that she is actually an Englishwoman who has been living locally. The British government becomes suspicious, turns to Europol for help, and DCI Lambert is dispatched to Greece.<br />
<br />
"Once again Lambert meets up with Electra Boulos - now a Greek police detective sergeant in Orestiada and an old flame from the past - the official cause why Lambert is on this case, because it was she who discovered the identity of the dead woman.<br />
<br />
"People trafficking is a dirty business, and is often organized by Daesh and Al Qaeda themselves. Not only for money, but as a way into Europe for terrorists.<br />
<br />
"The dead woman has a history of journalism in the Middle East, and whilst currently a writer of murder mystery novels, she also turns out to have been involved with MI6 in the past. But Lambert is not impressed, and reveals the murky truth behind her murder, despite official obstacles, and practiced lies."Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-53899812643621687462018-02-14T13:36:00.001+02:002018-02-14T13:36:54.152+02:00The Dance of Dimitrios by Patrick Brigham<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YaxFH-PfxkM" width="480"></iframe>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-55300561050192350582018-01-14T14:43:00.002+02:002018-01-14T14:43:27.405+02:00The Invisible Bank Manager - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiix2lX9DFFiKWy65sHfdImdGsr7aoHtEQe6Oe6UG0hiZ7feQsAwDMatfgWpraGlxf0ryT654zkFdbHW6I2vy0TtmlwqkgdUKwNj9uTwDI0_-smZjW4Kf1peAoX7ei_HRMeQXvzJXWsmHo/s1600/capture-blobhead.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiix2lX9DFFiKWy65sHfdImdGsr7aoHtEQe6Oe6UG0hiZ7feQsAwDMatfgWpraGlxf0ryT654zkFdbHW6I2vy0TtmlwqkgdUKwNj9uTwDI0_-smZjW4Kf1peAoX7ei_HRMeQXvzJXWsmHo/s640/capture-blobhead.png" width="537" height="640" data-original-width="542" data-original-height="646" /></a></div>Gerald Thwaites – The Invisible Bank Manager<br />
<br />
It was 1999, and Gerald Thwaites was in his mid forties, when he started to become invisible. Running a small high street branch of Barclays Bank in Potters Bar, it was his secretary Fiona, who first spotted that his left arm was missing. Although the process was gradual, after six months there was very little left of him to recognize, and he found it increasingly more difficult to discuss business with his customers.<br />
<br />
At first he decided to wrap himself in a clean bandage every morning to disguise his physical absence, but he had terrible problems in travelling from his home by train – where he lived in Colchester – and suffered ribald remarks like “Here comes Fred the Faro” and questions like “Which pyramid do you live in mate,” and “How’s mummy today?” This caused his general depression to increase, and his normal self esteem to almost leave him, but he was not a man to give up that easily.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, he was difficult to find, but he continued to go to his office, although by now he had taken to sitting in a cupboard, and shouting to his customers through the keyhole. But soon his bosses at head office came to hear about his bizarre condition. Having worked for the bank for many years, they were reluctant to let him go, but suggested that he took some leave and some medical tests.<br />
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However, these tests were difficult to perform, because every time a doctor told him to take his clothes off, he immediately disappeared, leaving hospital staff extremely bewildered. His wife, Mildred, was of course very concerned, although to her he had been invisible for many years, and she only noticed him at all when she needed some more housekeeping money, a holiday, or a new car. Finally, his bosses suggested the use of a hologram.<br />
<br />
Although technically successful, in the end this experiment did not work at all well. While ‘techno’ Gerald Thwaites would beam from the manager’s desk, as the real Gerald Thwaites shouted from the office cupboard, customers took to poking their fingers into the ethereal manager sitting before them, and laughing.<br />
<br />
It was a complete failure. In the end, it was suggested by the management that he took early retirement, or look for a job where his absence would not be noticed at all. In the end, it was generally agreed that the best place for him to work was Bulgaria.<br />
<br />
As it turned out, it was a wise choice. But he was not to know that at the time, as he invisibly stumbled naked onto a British Airways flight at Gatwick airport – which he was advised to do, in order to save the fare – nor was he particularly pleased when he arrived in Sofia Airport, in the cold light of a winter’s day.<br />
<br />
In the absence of any difficulties with passport control and customs, within minutes of arriving, Gerald Thwaites found himself standing outside the airport. Wrapping himself in some old copies of the Sofia Independent he found, and hugging the rear end of a number 84 bus, he finally made his way to Sofia, and a new career in Banking.<br />
<br />
Gerald Thwaites discovered the keys to his new apartment, under a stone in the garden, and a supply of fresh bandages in the bathroom cabinet. Finally, he had reached his destination. Being invisible had created certain logistical problems, but when he opened the wardrobe in the bedroom and discovered his clothes hanging there waiting for him, he realized that all was well. On the dining room table there were two unopened letters, so he sat down and slowly read them.<br />
<br />
The first letter was from the First Reich Bank, confirming his appointment as administration manager. It was warming, and welcoming, and in it the managing director gave him two weeks to settle in, before starting his job. It was also pointed out with great amusement, that the whole point of his employer’s presence in Bulgaria, was to do as little as possible. According to Giles Hawthorn, his new boss, the current ‘in’ word in Sofia banking was ‘no!’<br />
<br />
The second letter was from his wife, Mildred, which he opened with some concern, because she had not spoken to him, nor seen him for months. Uninspired and passionless she told him to wrap up warm, and not to drink too much alcohol. In her letter, she said – “I will personally take care of the family drinking, and I have already made arrangements with an off license in Colchester, for weekly consignments of gin.” At least this was one problem he didn’t have to face!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86mBCLPGeJ9xyQ9hrC639mlny22iko1IfGYFrAsDpqqNV-U5LABzd7JwTbVCR-2-6PYQgeOAXJEX4fSN6mNhXZwU9M2C9fII5pPnFeBYC9xlQWT_pc8R5F6BKEXpPt4OxwMN18RLwp70/s1600/capture-invbank1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86mBCLPGeJ9xyQ9hrC639mlny22iko1IfGYFrAsDpqqNV-U5LABzd7JwTbVCR-2-6PYQgeOAXJEX4fSN6mNhXZwU9M2C9fII5pPnFeBYC9xlQWT_pc8R5F6BKEXpPt4OxwMN18RLwp70/s640/capture-invbank1.png" width="640" height="514" data-original-width="640" data-original-height="514" /></a></div>Mildred Thwaites<br />
<br />
The bank was new, situated away from the town centre, from attendant prying eyes, and gossip. It was also easy for him to come and go from his office, without much attention being paid to him. During working hours, and being a man of determination – despite being invisible – he tried to improve his appearance by wearing a variety of fashionable glasses, and different coloured gloves, to compensate for his obvious absence.<br />
<br />
One day Vera his secretary – who came from Slivin – told him that she found him very attractive, more so than previous boyfriends, whom she generally met at the International Club, where she went regularly. And, due to his wife’s protracted absence, they started a heated love affair.<br />
<br />
Vera was known to like bankers, because she was deluded in the belief that they actually had some money. But she also found this new relationship very challenging, and at times somewhat confusing. Not knowing what Gerald looked like, it was not easy for her, to fake an orgasm, especially if all she could see was a bobbing white bandaged head, or occasionally nothing at all. This surreal aspect of their romance was often hard for her to cope with, especially when faced with unrelated gasps and expletives, which seemed to be unleashed from nowhere.<br />
<br />
Professionally, Gerald Thaites was doing well, and after a few weeks he had mastered the art of confusion. He discovered that by finding different things wrong with a feasibility study, he could elongate his discussions with customers for up to six months, before saying “Yes, you cannot have a loan, or no, you can have a loan, but it’s got to be more than $3 billion USD., so we will have to organize another feasibility study!” It was all good for a laugh, and well within the bank’s policy strategy.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, his wife, Mildred, continued to write – often incoherently – informing him that she would not move to Sofia, unless they opened a Marks and Spencer store. But, by now, Gerald found this all rather reassuring, especially since Vera announced that she had become mysteriously pregnant.<br />
<br />
She insisted that Gerald got a divorce from Mildred, and that they should get married – despite his somewhat unusual appearance – although, from time to time, she did express some anxiety about giving birth to a number of bandages, or even, giving birth to an invisible offspring which would keep getting lost. It was not easy for her to comprehend, but nevertheless in her own heart, she believed that she had Gerald Thwaites completely ‘nailed.’<br />
<br />
He of course thought differently, knowing that he could escape at any time, by simply ripping off his cloths, and flying back to England. After all, it would be difficult to prove the true culprit, as it would be to identify him by a DNA test. He could simply disappear again, but this time, for good! All this would have been easy, but then suddenly, something rather odd happened.<br />
<br />
One day, when he was attending a meeting at the ministry of finance, when Gerald Thwaites shook hands with the Prime Minister, and the Minister of Finance, a remarkable thing started to happen. Gazing at the empty sleeve of his jacket, during the ensuing heated discussion, he noticed that his right hand was slowly becoming visible once more. This made him very concerned, and not a little confused.<br />
<br />
Whereas Gerald Thwaites had reached a new hiatus with the re-emergence of his right hand, and his somewhat fawning relationship with Vera his secretary – who came from Sliven – now that the days had rolled into weeks, and the weeks into months, his bandaged and shambling form, had become a part of the Sofia scenery.<br />
<br />
In the warmth of an early spring, Gerald now found a peculiar freedom, and was often seen in public – occasionally wearing a loud Caribbean shirt – with Vera at his side; shy reticent, and inclined to use the side streets. But then things took a turn for the worse. Because Mildred, his wife, suddenly changed her mind.<br />
<br />
In the past, she had clearly stated that she would not move to Sofia until there was a Marks and Spencer’s store, but she now found herself motivated by greater events. In a rather incoherent and rambling letter, Mildred declared that she would now be coming to live once again with Gerald.<br />
<br />
In her letter she wrote – “ I have been assured by the manager of Threshers my off-license in Colchester, that gin is cheaper in Bulgaria, and since it is incumbent on me to be responsible for the family drinking, I shall be arriving shortly, as soon as I have consumed, my last crate of Gordons.” The facts were made abundantly clear to him.<br />
<br />
The letter then stumbled on, into lesser details, where questions arose about the wholesale price of lemons, and tonic water, together with a strangely unconnected question about Marmite! But nevertheless, Gerald felt in his bones that the game was up, when she asked for detailed information about what sort of social life she could expect? What was the ex-pat community in Sofia like? Where could she safely go and drink gin and tonic? Who would be her friends? And finally, was there an International Women’s Club? Gerald did not know what to reply.<br />
<br />
As previously explained, in England, Gerald Thwaites had been invisible to his wife Mildred for years, even before he had actually become invisible, so he found it quite difficult to give a clear answer.<br />
<br />
Luckily, as spring progressed, by the time the heat of the summer had arrived, his passion had begun to cool for Vera, who was now curiously courting another without any mention of her pregnancy, now obviously forgotten. They had met one quite night at the International Club, where she had found Geralds replacement. A rather large and ancient American bank manager, he was given to reading feasibility studies to Vera in bed, as a small part of her new, arduous and tiring duties.<br />
<br />
But, Gerald was not broken hearted, on the contrary, he felt relieved, because he had become cogently aware of the many wagging tongues which could quite easily find their way to Mildred. The International Club was like a leaky sieve, when it came to protecting ones private life, and keeping secrets! But, this was a chance he had to take.<br />
<br />
Mildred finally arrived one hot and sultry day, and having been badgered and messed about at the airport, she was not in a very good mood when she met Gerald at the reception point. He was surprised how much she had changed, and for her part – despite his bizarre appearance – she was similarly surprised by his obvious popularity amongst visitors to Sofia Airport; due no doubt to his occasional interviews in the Sofia Echo. Now, despite his anonymous demeanour, she saw him differently. Looking at the motionless white bandaged blob before her, she thought ‘Perhaps they were right? Perhaps Bulgaria was the right place for him?’<br />
<br />
Trying hard to forget all those sultry nights spent with Vera, Gerald now attempted to look upon his wife Mildred with greater interest. Dressed for a garden party at the palace, she had brought her ‘aspiring middle class’ fashion to Sofia. Mainly purchased through a somewhat outdated Freeman’s Catalogue, and looking like some incongruous ‘Aunt Sally,’ she stood out against the backdrop of black frocked Bulgarian women, who all seemed by contrast, to be more suited to certain activities of the night. Gerald was a man who now knew about such things, and as Mildred took the tiller of Gerald’s life once more, she placed cold fear into his heart.<br />
<br />
On the journey by taxi to Sofia, Mildred was very curious about Gerald’s six months of freedom. How much money was he making? What sort of car did he have? How much was the rent on his flat? What sort of expenses did the First Reich Bank give him, and finally, how much would he give her? Once more – in her mind – he had relapsed into this pathetic money-box she had always perceived him as.<br />
<br />
“And, which clubs do you belong to, here in Sofia, Gerald” – she demanded to know, and Geralds mind raced, as the questions dug deep into his private world? Perhaps in a former life, Mildred had worked for the Gestapo, because as he stuttered and prevaricated, in his mind’s eye, he somehow saw Mildred dressed in a black SS nazi uniform! But realizing that his long nights of passion would now be replaced by cups of Horlicks, and hours of mental repression, inspiration suddenly struck!<br />
<br />
“Why don’t you join the diplomatic club, there are lots of people like you there. I am sure you will find a lot in common.” It was the answer to his prayers, and then, in order to placate her even further, he said – “Oh, and downstairs where we live, I forgot to tell you Mildred, there is a garage shop which sells Gordon’s gin at a special discounted price.” Finally, he falteringly said – “I am sure you will get on very well here, Mildred.”<br />
<br />
But not even Mildred – who had very little imagination – could doubt the look of cold fear, hidden behind Gerald Thwaites bandaged head, as he made these amiable remarks in an attempt to appease the situation.<br />
<br />
Mildred for some reason found her feet quite quickly at the Diplomatic Club, as she fondly referred to it. Meeting diplomats and their wives, the leaders of business, and the experts which surrounded them, her mind was soon opened to the rich history of Bulgaria as she listened to the profound opinions of those whose job it was to to know, and understand.<br />
<br />
“We live in momentous times,” she would fondly say, as she often recounted little gems of history, she had managed to glean between gin and tonics. “Did you know Gerald,” – her accent had recently become singularly reminiscent of Margaret Thatcher – “That Todor Zhivkov is a member of the currency board, and that his late daughter, Lyudmila, built the town hall in Cricklewood? ” It was then that Gerald Thwaites started to plan his escape.<br />
<br />
Although just a daydream at the time, unfortunately, there were two major things missing in his plan. Firstly, he needed lots of money, and secondly somewhere to go, and although the fact that he was almost invisible, was part of his envisioned plan, one day – as he inspected the drawings of the bank and the codes to the safe – he realized that his plan was very real. After a few more weeks of Mildreds humiliation and bullying, he put his plan into action.<br />
<br />
It was four o’clock in the morning, and Gerald Thwaites sat gloomily in the broom-closet on the first floor of the bank. Agonizing over his decision to evaporate from Bulgaria, and with the seemingly static passing of time, it was a moment of painful self-analysis and heart searching for him. This was because, he was not only escaping from his ghastly lawful wife, but he was propelling himself into the murky world of criminality, and that of the eternally pursued. Like some sort of invisible Ronald Biggs, he would now have to travel the world as an outsider, waiting to be trapped in some South American hellhole, by a latter day ‘Slipper of New Scotland Yard;’ or some humourless German equivalent.<br />
<br />
However, the Bulgarian police would not be after him, a matter he had skillfully arranged by the handing over of a brown paper envelope to the First Secretary of the Ministery of The Interior. Gerald knew where this government ministers girlfriend lived, and the number of his safe deposit box at the bank. There were ‘no flies on Gerald Thwaites.’<br />
<br />
The only trouble was that there actually were a few flies on him! As he thrashed about in the cupboard in pursuit of an elusive and irritating insect which was attacking his naked private parts, it seemed that his entire world was deteriorating in total confusion, if not into Bedlam. The sound of a mop leaving its resting place in a tin bucket, the sight of a seemingly detached and whirling luminous watch, the smell of sweat, together with the cold sense of fear, made Gerald picture his grotesque wife, and the options left open to him. Anything was better than a life of utter despondency and servitude.<br />
<br />
Finally, the combined smell of gin and Horlicks suddenly pervaded his tortured memory, and instantly put paid to any lingering doubts about his leaving. The constraints imposed on him by this great wobbly tyrannical wife, totally ended any passing feelings of guilt.<br />
<br />
Repressed in every conceivable way, it was Bulgaria that had opened his eyes to the realities of life. Thinking back to the day he had arrived on the back of the number 84 bus, the discovery of cheap and good quality bandages to disguise his invisibility, the sudden passion inspired by Vera from Slivin; all this had turned him into what he perceived as the glorious menopausal Renaissance man he was today.<br />
<br />
In common with the many other foreigners who inhabited the four ale bars of Sofia, he had finally realized that there was life after the age of fifty, and that sex and Rock ‘n Roll still existed as an option, even though the record had become a little scratched over time.<br />
<br />
From now on life would be better – moreover, even exciting – and his duty towards his awful lawful wife, was at an end. There would be no more early morning tea, unending washing up, and embarrassing bleary breakfast explanations. In fact, no more anything!<br />
<br />
The thought of his depressing perennial morning journey to his wife’s bedroom – tripping over, over-laden ashtrays, and half empty glasses of gin – his slavish apologies for the sloppy milky tea, and her constant bleating demands for sex; this would now come to an end.<br />
<br />
A fly which had catapulted itself up Gerald’s nether regions, simultaneously catapulted him through the cupboard door, causing him to crash into a fire extinguisher, injuring his already irritated private parts. Sitting on the floor of the carpeted corridor, Gerald took a few minutes to recover, before making for the stairs, and down to the basement. This was where he confronted the massively intricate safe. He now knew all the codes, and full full instructions on how it operated, but the greatest challenge was to get his timing right.<br />
<br />
He knew that the automatic clock would allow the tumblers to disengage at exactly eight o’clock in the morning. In the past, he would be the first to arrive at the bank at this time, having been delivered to the front door, by the banks limo. But at four in the morning, there was little hope for him opening this German monolith, without the assistance of a quantity of Semtex B. He had acquired half a kilo from a dodgy Bulgarian, soldier who used the bank, and some jetex fuse. He had bought it from the local model shop, together with a balsa wood model of a Hawker Hunter Mark III jet aircraft.<br />
<br />
Having spent two weeks assembling this model, in what little spare time Mildred had allowed, he at last had the final alibi necessary to create the required explosion. This would disassemble the door to the safe, which he had timed for six o’clock sharp, leaving him ample opportunity to inhibit all the security devices. A piece of cake, because he was used to this procedure as a part of his daily routine, all that remained was how to assure his escape. That was the question?<br />
<br />
Situated in Doctors Gardens, the bank had been built in a mainly residential area, so a loud bang at six in the morning had no fears for Gerald, knowing the great majority of local residents were foreigners, who would have been drinking heavily until all hours of the morning. A massive explosion of Semtex would not arouse them from their slumbers, nor their incumbent girlfriends, who seldom if ever emerged from their beds until well past midday. In that part of Sofia, few people were about at that time of the morning, including street cleaners, criminals or even policemen. But how would Gerald get away with a cool five million euros, which was his firm intention?<br />
<br />
In the past, his determined analysis has precluded the use of a mountain bike or a car, as the sight of a riderless bicycle or a driver less car, might have provoked some interest from a casual observer, as he propelled himself towards his final destination, and freedom. Even in Sofia this would have been considered an unusual sight, so other means for his final exit had to be sought!<br />
<br />
Five million Euros in 500 Euro notes is not a very bulky item in itself, and it fits neatly into a large military sized rucksack. Having discounted cars and bicycles; in order to make his final escape, Gerald had simply planned to casually jog through town to Sofia Airport, with the money strapped to his back. Ever considering the vast weight that the five million would represent – and the mental determination required in order to carry it – he had trained diligently to raise his physical status, by running up and down stairs at the bank, for the preceding three months, and not using the elevator.<br />
<br />
His final plan was simple. For his final escape, he would wear a pair of inconspicuous red Nike trainers, together with a pink jockstrap for his own personal comfort. Whilst carefully painting his Hawker Hunter Mark III bright red, he had also painted Pizza Express on the rucksack that was ultimately intended for his final departure, which he knew it would work, and wouldn’t look out of place in Sofia; it was a cinch!<br />
<br />
Promptly at six an almighty explosion rent the air in Doctors Gardens. As expected, there was no reaction, except by some nervous pigeons which took flight at the sight of some shattering glass, and falling slates. A dog barked, and a car alarm went off, but other than that, with quite a lot of dust and debris, nothing else happened.<br />
<br />
Gerald was gleeful as the great steel door swung open, to reveal a cloud of fluttering banknotes, having used a tad more Semtex than was necessary. Most of the damaged cash was in the local currency, which was of no interest to our now successful bank robber, as he clambered into the gaping vault to retrieve the stash of Euros he had carefully earmarked the day before. Carefully stacked in a secluded corner, and neatly packed for transit, the flat bundles easily fitted into the Pizza Express rucksack, which he had kept hidden in his office. Gerald was delighted. Donning his red Nike trainers, and putting on his recently laundered colour coordinated jock strap, he was ready to set out on the journey of a lifetime.<br />
<br />
Finally away from his appalling wife, Mildred, the ghastly bank, his broken hearted relationship with Vera, and the incredibly boring fellow members of the International Club for Foreigners, Sofia was shortly to become history! Gerald Thwaites never looked back, and reappearing bit by bit, is now a respected ex-pat, happily living in Havana. Now his legs have become visible once more, Gerald is now learning to dance The Tango!<br />
<br />
Patrick Brigham<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-10807692931025586532017-11-05T13:50:00.001+02:002017-11-05T13:50:58.818+02:00The Rolf Harris Care Home for Political Perverts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncXdITJft9h2j7Z1y7S9Qn34O1Ax2tStcgU6-VY2uKgR2tJQkGSPej2X-k7bvlZM-h-72shxMOunAXn0MB5AO6OtMyHcImtzTIPbYuV36yCbvwmhJ374Hd7X2pTySrkIj2ocn4qsRtag/s1600/572f37c573d93_Scrubs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncXdITJft9h2j7Z1y7S9Qn34O1Ax2tStcgU6-VY2uKgR2tJQkGSPej2X-k7bvlZM-h-72shxMOunAXn0MB5AO6OtMyHcImtzTIPbYuV36yCbvwmhJ374Hd7X2pTySrkIj2ocn4qsRtag/s640/572f37c573d93_Scrubs1.jpg" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="620" data-original-height="413" /></a></div><i>No longer a subject for political debate, Brexit has now been replaced by Sexit.</i><br />
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Gone are those mind numbing references to getting a ‘Good Deal For Britain, ‘ now replaced by Billy Bunter style remarks like, ‘I never touched her bottom, and when I did, you never saw me!’ What is revealing is how the British Government might be brought to its knees, due to a bit of hanky-panky in the corridors of power.<br />
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The definition of unwanted physical contact, and even intrusion into people’s private lives, has changed a lot over the last fifty years. So has the definition of a sexual assault. Depending on their libido, and in their defense, it is hardly surprising that some older men and women are occasionally tempted by a mild flirtatious look, as most young people often are in in bars and clubs. What is important, is to realize that one persons sexual assault, is another’s passionate liaison. It is also important to recognize that one politicians sexual assault, is a journalist or cynical MPs political opportunity.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0taUyUqUncZ7vAGL0WgVkq0t1BxA2nF90UWmXVupsBbKjgPVYPtKx-BYE-uKGx78mO2SuYaj6B9eI4t9fSnbfTXKDMIFvKqE_oiV_e8rl3LjrGLPsIXI4n0bEw5yxhWKu1f3eVT0HPg/s1600/PROD-MAIN-ROLF-HARRIS-SAVILE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0taUyUqUncZ7vAGL0WgVkq0t1BxA2nF90UWmXVupsBbKjgPVYPtKx-BYE-uKGx78mO2SuYaj6B9eI4t9fSnbfTXKDMIFvKqE_oiV_e8rl3LjrGLPsIXI4n0bEw5yxhWKu1f3eVT0HPg/s640/PROD-MAIN-ROLF-HARRIS-SAVILE.jpg" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="615" data-original-height="409" /></a></div><i>The Terrible Twins</i><br />
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It has often been said that politics is, ‘Hollywood for ugly people.’ Despite the media’s valiant attempt at glamorizing politics in general, most of the MPs who attend the House of Commons are not swans – as some might imagine themselves to be – but ugly ducklings. When Robert Kilroy Silk left politics, and the aging Dr. David Owen repaired to the other place – together with the speaker TV Topper Betty Boothroyd – most of the remaining chattering and wittering MPs became candidates, for Madam Tussauds Chamber of Horrors.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4VgVCrtvoEa-IatEoaf6wnCDYs0VTYx1khD79D9LtMgY-Kji4zKso7oOK2pAUBWH1M76GFExk4cffWOgVz10nbDf6FRZRelQjzm8plvZPUxkcaZT_qpIXXxkrLrCWDMbLCuEpIqVGNo/s1600/hugh-grant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4VgVCrtvoEa-IatEoaf6wnCDYs0VTYx1khD79D9LtMgY-Kji4zKso7oOK2pAUBWH1M76GFExk4cffWOgVz10nbDf6FRZRelQjzm8plvZPUxkcaZT_qpIXXxkrLrCWDMbLCuEpIqVGNo/s640/hugh-grant.jpg" width="640" height="480" data-original-width="620" data-original-height="465" /></a></div><i>The Beautiful People</i><br />
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When I was a young man, I used to put my male chums into three categories, in terms of their prowess in chatting up women. Firstly, there were the beautiful people – they just had to stand there, in order to be surrounded by girls – which included pop stars, and footballers. Secondly, there was the ‘chat up merchant,’ or those fortunate enough to come from the Nigel Havers Charm School, who relied on humor and a well practiced repartee.<br />
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But finally, there was a breed of Lothario who came from ancient times, who were known as knee fumblers. A pathetic bunch – who acted like half witted schoolboys, or girls most of the time – they simply couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.<br />
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Knee fumblers could always be heard – secreted away in deserted barns or stables, at country dances – due to excessive squealing, and noisy remonstrations emanating from some darkened enclave. With expletives and noisy remonstrations like –<br />
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‘Get your hands off, Tristian, you really are a pervert,’ they were often overheard with amusement, by fellow dancers and revelers alike.<br />
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Later the two lovers would immerge, with beaming smiles and red faces, to declare their engagement to all those present. This was how love and marriage, was fostered in the countryside, and almost like a page from a Thomas Hardy novel, was the prospect that most lads had who came from the provinces. But,what about us townees?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDIKLBw17WBQC44Mwjb2_ViPAJKvMsDdgqLT3k0YcZ05iBAPQmL7DePzZ1K19DqvixI3zL_QZ_LmKVOj42nhpxqAj2d3Syn1mFoHFarFRHauwfqUgW_QFYirk2R-O0ilCDC3AZ5S6-eU/s1600/billy-bunter-gerald-campion-K361NJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDIKLBw17WBQC44Mwjb2_ViPAJKvMsDdgqLT3k0YcZ05iBAPQmL7DePzZ1K19DqvixI3zL_QZ_LmKVOj42nhpxqAj2d3Syn1mFoHFarFRHauwfqUgW_QFYirk2R-O0ilCDC3AZ5S6-eU/s640/billy-bunter-gerald-campion-K361NJ.jpg" width="461" height="640" data-original-width="1001" data-original-height="1390" /></a></div><i>Billie Bunter</i> <br />
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Well, we were different; more sophisticated for a start – no haystacks in Kensington – and relied on cool moves on the dance floor, and when you could hear someone speak due to the noise, a great line in chat-<br />
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“Your teeth are like the stars, do they come out at night?”<br />
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I feel sorry for knee fumblers, for that is what most of these political and celebrity alleged felons are, not just because they seem pretty unsophisticated to me, but because they might also be lonely, isolated and unhappy. Rather like many policemen are in crime fiction novels, always away from home and family for most of their time, there must be moments when they misread other peoples intentions, but not exclusively.<br />
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What passed for normal sexual behavior in the sixties, does not pass muster today. We all know that, and although some of us don’t care anymore, nevertheless there are those who have never got past the knee fumbling stage in their romantic quests. But, conversely, there are also those who are experts in the old ‘come on!’ Perhaps it would be wise for all of us all to sing-<br />
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“Keep your mind on the driving, keep your hands on the wheel, and keep your snoopy eyes on the road up ahead?”<br />
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Rather than singing, “God Save the Queen,” because, at least, Her Majesty won’t have to send you to prison!<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-75435667843404136312017-10-31T21:56:00.000+02:002017-11-01T10:13:08.765+02:00Brinkmanship & Boredom - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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JrYI_Q2zE/WfjT43QKrHI/AAAAAAAAJR4/jCxynbEd9Kc3ieuGMfsVXGAPe6XyYFNGQCLcBGAs/s640/90c6c918eaa264efade8a10e0457701e--goldfish-bowl-fishbowl.jpg" width="640" height="631" data-original-width="678" data-original-height="668" /></a></div><br />
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The Immortal words of Norman Throades – known fondly as the ‘Bard of Berkshire’ – will forever ring in the ears of present day, and often bewildered Brexiteers. As we patriotically watch the BBC Parliament Channel, at Prime Ministers Question Time, and in order to absorb the reassuring words of dear Theresa. But, how close to reality is it really?<br />
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So much like the ‘Theater of The Absurd,’ and in particular ‘Waiting for Godot,’ by Irish playwright Samuel Beckett, one wonders if anything will finally turn up, or are the representatives of our noble nation in fact a bunch of ham actors, and out of work film extras.<br />
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Sticking religiously to the script, the familier mantra about ‘getting a good deal,’ still echo’s around the Houses of Parliament, to a crescendo of patriotic and Tory avowal. Almost as though Parliament is trapped in Dr Who’s Tardis, one wonders if the House of Commons is presently floating around in some distant galaxy, or trapped in a deceptive political time warp?<br />
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But does the question which Norman Throades quite rightly asks – in his scintillating 19th Century poem – simply relate to political perspectives? Or, to put it in layman’s terms, do our worthy UK political representative actually know what is going on in the real world? Because, having recently watched this program for a whole afternoon, for me at least, the British Parliament can only be described as an entertaining, inward looking mutual admiration society.<br />
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Mainly comprising elegant and amusing accusations – followed of course by often inaccurate, but confident rebuttals – the real question is, is the present cabinet running out of dialogue, or are we all running out of patience?<br />
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There was a time when the general public was quite rightly regarded as gullible, ignorant if not foolish, and that – for want of any outside propaganda seeping through – what was reported in the British newspapers or announced on TV by pompous cabinet ministers, was both truthful and reassuring. But not so today.<br />
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Ever since the referendum, that bloody man Trump, Farage and ‘The Fat Boy of Peckham,’ Boris Johnson, have littered the media with their contempt for the truth. These days we are becoming familier with expressions like alternative facts, fake news, and out of date – or hidden true government statistics – all of which is calculated to disguise the truth.<br />
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I often imagine that, somewhere in the middle of the English Channel, there is a giant invisible filter, its sole purpose being to distort, and to turn almost any legitimate EU reportage on its head. Or, an enormous cracked mirror, which only shows the British voter, a warped, and back to front reflection of the truth, where ministers even accuse their opponents of being traitors, if they stand against them in any way. This is hardly democratic, is it?<br />
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In a normal society, lies are tolerated, but never truly accepted. And so, I can’t help believing that the present British cabinet, either wants you to believe it’s questionable Brexit propaganda, or may actually believe in it themselves. These days there now seem to be two truths: carefully reported Brussels truth, or heavily filtered and often corrupted Brexit truth. So, perhaps it is high time for a change, and rather like anything which is split, the present UK government obviously needs to be replaced.<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-46304068045192902822017-10-10T17:09:00.002+03:002017-10-10T17:09:52.144+03:00Who Owns Your Body? - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOrINP6Io-HebeauFp026bsCf94jDq2TJn1OEjRHh3K__GznJLO2EIRiHe-QtYculYCGMh8TIDjBXQdMfbNDwf11PMwDK1otgtOrsqkeFn2EozGfbw2Dd18quJ1D0PxWIjb9-UOXJiAg/s1600/_98231034_clinic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOrINP6Io-HebeauFp026bsCf94jDq2TJn1OEjRHh3K__GznJLO2EIRiHe-QtYculYCGMh8TIDjBXQdMfbNDwf11PMwDK1otgtOrsqkeFn2EozGfbw2Dd18quJ1D0PxWIjb9-UOXJiAg/s640/_98231034_clinic.jpg" width="640" height="360" data-original-width="660" data-original-height="371" /></a></div><b>Ealing council is considering legal action against anti-abortion protesters accused of “harassing” women attending a clinic.<br />
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There are many people who think that abortion is wrong. They come from all backgrounds, either quoting the scriptures – from whichever religion, church, cult, ethnic group they belong – and the many different statistics, which are currently in favour, or available from government sources.<br />
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Everyone has a right to their opinion, to be motivated by whichever group they belong, and to protest in public if need be. This is called democracy, but when they cross the line, and actually prevent young women from receiving a safe and professional medical abortion – in an attempt to turn back the clock – then one must ask oneself if they are inspired by ignorance, prejudice, or simply contempt.<br />
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There’s a group of people in this world, who see themselves as establishment figures, which they are not and never will be. They claim the right to direct the ethics and mores of society, as if they are viewing us all from a great height. To them, the hoipolloi, grockels, numpty’s, misfits, or never will be’s of society, are a lesser order. Self proclaimed, they consider themselves to be a part of some kind of Messianic class, which somehow keeps them on their morel high ground.<br />
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It isn’t that they are bad people, or that they don’t mean well – they may be people who have brought up children, and who experience revulsion at the thought of an abortion taking place in their own family – but they also seem to be blind to the realities of modern day living, and the many pressures brought by todays society, on a young single mother.<br />
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Many of the arguments used by these zealots were around in the 60s, when post war Britain was still trying to emerge from an unimaginable black hole. As America was pouring its largess into a blighted Europe, via the Marshall Plan, the UK had to go it alone, with no handouts, a mountain of debt, and a bleak future.<br />
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But then what should come along? Suddenly we were all confronted with the beautiful people, stylish clothes, sex, drugs, rock & roll, and a feeling of release. As the song goes by Josh Dunson, there was definitely ‘Freedom in The Air,’ and believe me, we all knew what to do with it!<br />
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Incidentally, while this was all happening, a somewhat dusty and austere British Government remained blithely unaware of the implications all this euphoria would bring about. Rather like a line of pedantic plodding ducks, they simply went about their coal exports, food rationing, and bored us silly, with rather glib and simplistic speeches. Usually in a rather funny accent – reminiscent of Harry Enfield – informing us about our rosy future, what they forgot to mention was venereal disease, and unwanted pregnancies. This was because, in the past, it had always been traditionally left to the private sector!<br />
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If you consider that the 60s was about the mixing of previously well defined social classes, those young women who saw the UK as a new, classless, multi-cultured, benign country – full of adventure, and the spice of life – were very often left holding the baby. Many, who had experienced an enjoyable respite in a lay-by off the A4, often faced angry parents who had not foreseen this blight occurring, in their otherwise drab but bearable live’s. Not that many of them were always aware of their daughter’s dilemma, but they would most certainly have been aware of the catastrophe which often followed.<br />
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In those days there were many court cases, in which some ex nurse or ‘Knitting Needle Nell,’ was prosecuted for performing an illegal abortion. This was usually because their victim had ended up in the local emergency hospital, had blabbed to the duty doctor, and an arrest had subsequently been made. In mitigation the accused would always say that they were helping some poor unfortunate out, whose life would otherwise have been burdened with an unwanted child. But what we will never know, is how many young women they had managed to kill, prior to their arrest.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2gU4rKM-ZCeuxRT9jH0eA82BMzA2qT0ZZhEre8VRQOCAZxHfQgg4F2UAkGAyMjvzcMetNAeUbbDCS_rnZU8B9eWMoafazmIAyKgSv5rMSV8MhWrWepgEdQAQEMi8Fa-PXG9r0JBuefo/s1600/1ADA60C2000005DC-0-image-a-119_1507509851072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2gU4rKM-ZCeuxRT9jH0eA82BMzA2qT0ZZhEre8VRQOCAZxHfQgg4F2UAkGAyMjvzcMetNAeUbbDCS_rnZU8B9eWMoafazmIAyKgSv5rMSV8MhWrWepgEdQAQEMi8Fa-PXG9r0JBuefo/s640/1ADA60C2000005DC-0-image-a-119_1507509851072.jpg" width="640" height="586" data-original-width="634" data-original-height="581" /></a></div><b>Dr Marie Stopes was a pioneer in the field of birth control, but one of the centers named after her in west London has become a target for protesters<i></i></b><br />
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Considering the stigma which an unwanted pregnancy might have caused, in the 60s, there were far more pressing matters for a young and vulnerable woman to face. Finding accommodation, adoption, getting support from the social security system, and finally – if they decided to keep their offspring – dealing with personal relationships, and eventual marriage. Men are the same the world over, when it comes to accepting someone else’s child, and so it was often the case that children were secreted away, and introduced at the last moment.<br />
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I am sure that if one was to interview some of the protesters, we would discover good people. But although todays society is no longer quite so bigoted as it was in the 60s, and obsessed with children born out of wedlock, abortion is very often the best option.<br />
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*** The result of rape is another matter, and I think it should be treated quite separately, because of the criminal aspects concerned. ***<br />
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Finally, children can be simply inconvenient – not due to some trivial whim – but due to the terrible pressures experienced by those looking for public housing, or controlled rents, and the money to pay for it. Single mothers need help, and not always available from family members, child care is also an issue if they have to go to work, or to navigate the now floored Universal Credit.<br />
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They look very angry, those ladies outside the Marie Stopes clinic, although from the photographs, I cannot see any priests, from any religious group, or men for that matter. So, my inclination is to know more about these ladies themselves, and not the unborn children they claim to represent.<br />
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Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-49221724229274628932017-09-12T15:18:00.000+03:002017-09-12T15:18:46.104+03:00A Day In The Life Of a Writer – By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JzJp8V-VqG9h07UZo2cmXzKhGIIY_tvuWcdHY4fNUPghEsobzCPp5Uj-yJYVvup2VvShiOXHmKUJUTyAXgO1aytyEcMrX050E_iIqLHn7DQWqmoRdKmrE4Zacm_pcT3TBLpTgb6wFCo/s1600/501_wielkich_pisarzy___IMAGE1_180632_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JzJp8V-VqG9h07UZo2cmXzKhGIIY_tvuWcdHY4fNUPghEsobzCPp5Uj-yJYVvup2VvShiOXHmKUJUTyAXgO1aytyEcMrX050E_iIqLHn7DQWqmoRdKmrE4Zacm_pcT3TBLpTgb6wFCo/s640/501_wielkich_pisarzy___IMAGE1_180632_5.jpg" width="485" height="640" data-original-width="1212" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Many writers are self indulgent, but there is a difference between living the writer's life, and actually writing. The real work is done by modest hard working, and imaginative people, who seldom receive just payment for their dedication to literature. Their work, which is often judged by total Philistines - who think that books are a commodity, rather like a bar of chocolate, that can be consumed and forgotten about – often seems lost in the fog of commercialism, and the ever crowded publishing marketplace. <br />
When you consider the number of books any one writer can publish during their lifetime, it is hard to accept that level of disdain, especially from those who seem to have little value for art or literature, and are only interested in its price tag. Because, to be a writer, is to expect very little, - other than occasional recognition - a modest income, and frequent misinterpretation. Should you choose to be a writer, unless you are John Le Carre or J.K.Rowling, you had better get used to the idea that your life will be one long struggle, unless you are very fortunate indeed.<br />
When I wake up in the morning, I sometimes lay in bed for half an hour or so, to decide what I am going to write. In a kind of subconscious state, my mind seems to be able to conjure up all sorts of incidents and ideas, which can fit into a story that I am writing, or a magazine article I will publish. This routine somehow puts so called writer’s block into limbo, the choice between journalism or a book being a very good elixir; the practical versus the improbable. But, that’s just the beginning.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp3Xu36RP6fShNp_oBtaadKu4UNsaRcqcwd6Y0D40x23s3cICSNFTyNGbyCcN6euyILrtqzVDE44yOBsAsEfB3sOygXDeg4MYU9DuKvfVIi_dZu8_Dz-23ocmylb6ZGAyteQiupAp19tM/s1600/americanwritersonwriting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp3Xu36RP6fShNp_oBtaadKu4UNsaRcqcwd6Y0D40x23s3cICSNFTyNGbyCcN6euyILrtqzVDE44yOBsAsEfB3sOygXDeg4MYU9DuKvfVIi_dZu8_Dz-23ocmylb6ZGAyteQiupAp19tM/s640/americanwritersonwriting.jpg" width="640" height="410" data-original-width="923" data-original-height="592" /></a></div>These days, unless one is financially independent, one cannot lock oneself away in a garret, and just write. It sounds good, but now we are going back to thoughts of self indulgence. The reality is different, because - like it or not - people do not just buy books these days, they follow genres. <br />
There are more books on the internet written by so called experts, telling you what and how to write, and more rules on how to describe your writing, than you can shake a stick at. Maybe we should all write a ‘How To Write’ book or two, it might fill the coffers more easily. But the simple truth is, no matter how we might dislike the idea, Amazon has taken over our lives, and tells us what and how to write. So, when I sit at my desktop computer of a morning, I am no longer in control of my story line, the characters I portray, nor my vocabulary, because, I now have to write with the consumer in mind, and of course, those ever necessary reviewers. <br />
Most recently, concerning my current murder mystery, a reviewer stated that I used archaic or out of date English. Another confused me with a different writer altogether – whose protagonist rushes around hitting and shooting people – saying that my book was slow and unreadable. Placed within a catalogue of five star reviews, I wasn’t sure if these remarks either reflected me, or even the critic themselves. But, in the end, it was clearly Amazon who was at fault, and one more example of their tinkering with the world of literature. You see, for some reason they put this other writer on the same page as all my books, for their own commercial reasons, and they have no intention of altering their marketing strategy for me. I know, they said so!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyF0gNm-SvLxgdIsstueg9qiyxSJRKYmArZQkHSeMfL4xmIYSG7O2Xa-cgcLZ3oycH5lpBtXRXouDWRi9fjrltfFlwIKyvla_byjrvC0PfZ53V5TE03LPZ4G2cl6oRna1ZCcdpnbvgP8/s1600/love-quotes-by-writers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyF0gNm-SvLxgdIsstueg9qiyxSJRKYmArZQkHSeMfL4xmIYSG7O2Xa-cgcLZ3oycH5lpBtXRXouDWRi9fjrltfFlwIKyvla_byjrvC0PfZ53V5TE03LPZ4G2cl6oRna1ZCcdpnbvgP8/s640/love-quotes-by-writers.jpg" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1065" /></a></div>In my most recent novel, I have steered away from murder mystery, and following a thread from Chekov, I have decided to write about the rain, and how it alters our lives, especially when it leads to flooding. People act differently in these circumstances, as many Americans well know from the recent Texas tragedy. <br />
But my story is about Greece, where I now live, and the Greeks - their mores and prejudices - their values, and often their loneliness. The rain can change all that, but how can I explain this to Amazon. In fact, how would Anton Chekov have explained his writing to an Amazon audience, had he been alive today? But then again, he is so famous his name alone would be enough.<br />
I suppose it is coffee which keeps me going. The sun may shine all day for me in Greece, and I have to find good reason to stay indoors and write. So I have become addicted to this awakening and essential brew, which keeps my mind alert, my imagination in full flight, and somehow stops all the clocks in the house. Even so, the world still goes on outside, debts have to be paid, friendships nurtured, and conversations need to occur where we speak of nothing in particular, and everything in general. This is called life, I suppose?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvaF7NT-VxeY4L1GLZt67TAevUvHw_u7LnZtun3LNlk9tNd04G5kbYBhl21ycklxBduWg2mKtc20iAm6xGFh2LyaN81eAwThFUj4a_xXfDdJFTIsuRFrn1qojPAcIgcL4htJaOkT8FxbM/s1600/good-writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvaF7NT-VxeY4L1GLZt67TAevUvHw_u7LnZtun3LNlk9tNd04G5kbYBhl21ycklxBduWg2mKtc20iAm6xGFh2LyaN81eAwThFUj4a_xXfDdJFTIsuRFrn1qojPAcIgcL4htJaOkT8FxbM/s640/good-writing.jpg" width="471" height="640" data-original-width="471" data-original-height="640" /></a></div>I get up from my desk, and look through the window. It is late Summer, and the pollen is choking the villagers. They sneeze and stumble past in the heat, to get their days' supplies from the air conditioned supermarket. As I watch them pass my house, I wonder why it is I write at all, considering what I have just written? But I know the answer. It is the answer we all give, the one which causes so much embarrassment and confusion, when we are casually asked why we write. <br />
”I just have to write. If I don’t I become edgy and neurotic; anyway, I have to finish this story, I can’t just leave it, it won’t write itself!”<br />
But in actual fact, it often does write itself. It is as though someones hand is guiding our fingers, as they rattle away on the computer keyboard, or the pen, as it scrawls across a school notebook. Perhaps it is Micky Spillane calling , or even Anton Chekov - who knows? <br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-57377995897526707472017-09-02T10:59:00.000+03:002017-09-19T14:44:08.034+03:00Princess Diana: Death by Popularity? - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAknw1rJ9pcCeDtrWityv8etmK59o5bZTnlnKdPqYHScUnbqIKjI1pZkn9g4gbV6lT52b2HJo6zKJyS50RuSuCS8LdYsb0n5vLssV5Od5qsDNk8vfizyrR3_-ermQ11XcuHx1e5fkpXnI/s1600/Prince-Charles-and-Diana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAknw1rJ9pcCeDtrWityv8etmK59o5bZTnlnKdPqYHScUnbqIKjI1pZkn9g4gbV6lT52b2HJo6zKJyS50RuSuCS8LdYsb0n5vLssV5Od5qsDNk8vfizyrR3_-ermQ11XcuHx1e5fkpXnI/s640/Prince-Charles-and-Diana.jpg" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="615" data-original-height="409" /></a></div><br />
I am trying not to jump on the bandwagon, I know it is twenty years since Princess Diana’s death, and I am fully aware of the general emotion that people feel. But, questions do remain, and misunderstandings should be put to the test, despite the needs of the Royal Family, or the somewhat diminished British establishment.<br />
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Charles and Diana were both mutually exclusive, despite certain past traditions, which most people hoped had become obsolete when King Edward abdicated in 1936. That marriage is nobodies business – except for the two parties involved – is inviolate, and any moral ambiguities this might provoke in the minds of self opinionated onlookers, is totally irrelevant. The fact that both Diana and Prince Charles didn’t like each other, is not so unusual, nor divorce being the natural outcome.<br />
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What is clear, however, is how she was viewed by the general public, the unhealthy humiliation, and the constant intrusion by the gutter press. In the end, as Prince Harry recently said, it was the press itself – that may have caused the accident – and unquestionably profited by it, especially so, during the tradgic moments of her death. What kind of people are the press, and why do they still pursue public figures in this way, remains the main question? Why certain members of the press are not locked up in the Bastile, is another?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavO8oyDr4XJIirxwkkq1OrIRukj3LHbKcf-dYH86vplIRiVmgI-GiKeNUBk2xQBST_CxD-G-Duf3ulw3eRvAFVdgKK9vP_b_nmduVSiwOTEyJfwwd41wSQt9kg7Bak5e49R3KO6MGqCk/s1600/SUNDAYMIRROR-PROD-Diana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavO8oyDr4XJIirxwkkq1OrIRukj3LHbKcf-dYH86vplIRiVmgI-GiKeNUBk2xQBST_CxD-G-Duf3ulw3eRvAFVdgKK9vP_b_nmduVSiwOTEyJfwwd41wSQt9kg7Bak5e49R3KO6MGqCk/s640/SUNDAYMIRROR-PROD-Diana.jpg" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="615" data-original-height="409" /></a></div><br />
Even to this day, the British general public, and many in Europe too, look for people that they can connect with. Diana was one such person, and although she had a certain charisma and charm, I hardly think that a “Knightsbridge Nell” is a true reflection of British society, especially now or even then. But she was pretty, often witty, and added color to an inward looking and the somewhat androgynous British Royal Family.<br />
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Steeped in the past, managed by the government, silent and politically sterile, by the time of Charles’s wedding to Diana, they had become almost invisible. Diana placed them back into the limelight – in the then nascent Hello Magazine – and became a magnet, for an army of disreputable reporter’s and photographers from the gutter press.<br />
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You can’t have it both ways, can you? Well, there is such a thing as extent and degree. And it was this extent and degree which started to expose the intransigence in, not only the Blair administration, but the British establishment itself. What happened to having a quiet word with Rupert Murdock and the other Fleet Street tyrants in Canary Wharf – and the wild speculation which took place thereafter – is a matter for Mr. Blair to explain. But in my view, the answer has to be money. If you pay a photographer 30,000 GBP for one photo, what do you expect?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6YFxr2mjNW955kvj7BwKtrBksDvm8akWsNwC6_an49uFhXvcc9UiTvMsyt5ykw1IGbPVr_mhmSeu-Y9Dix5ZMpQ-hmaoXJ8Mbz2Ynq0CLWJIZ8AX3a472OwQlpU45FRHnsALXaXQjP0/s1600/Elton-John-and-Princess-Diana-638780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6YFxr2mjNW955kvj7BwKtrBksDvm8akWsNwC6_an49uFhXvcc9UiTvMsyt5ykw1IGbPVr_mhmSeu-Y9Dix5ZMpQ-hmaoXJ8Mbz2Ynq0CLWJIZ8AX3a472OwQlpU45FRHnsALXaXQjP0/s640/Elton-John-and-Princess-Diana-638780.jpg" width="640" height="426" data-original-width="620" data-original-height="413" /></a></div><br />
In a way, Diana had a love hate relationship with the British press, which she thought she could control. She used them when she felt the need to punish – not only HRH Charles, but others too – and also, to put herself in the forefront. Often seen in public with celebrities, she by then had gained a certain freedom – away from the protocols and the confines of the Royal Family – and used them to send messages; however innocently, to the press and others.<br />
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Clive James was one of her confidants, but he was also a kind of postman into the bargain. As were others, like Sir Elton John, who were so different from the “normal” chums of royalty, to be an embarrassment to them. The Royal Family had previously mixed with fossilized Aristo’s, and the usual brand of creepy royal watchers and sycophants, many of whom harbored a somewhat unhealthy and unrealistic view of royalty.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKdfbxvGVZ2alI0wUI4aq06HVmXgRVevTm9jO-Zw3Q-Gje07KPpNUWN8jAHkXZAWb6_vjxyrb6aAZqUA1rALjd_3dsQQ0tB1FAZ2NlhewEGzjvlaF9p8vjUSnpyJkWBAdRnhxZMqttWAQ/s1600/2013CharlesCamilla18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKdfbxvGVZ2alI0wUI4aq06HVmXgRVevTm9jO-Zw3Q-Gje07KPpNUWN8jAHkXZAWb6_vjxyrb6aAZqUA1rALjd_3dsQQ0tB1FAZ2NlhewEGzjvlaF9p8vjUSnpyJkWBAdRnhxZMqttWAQ/s640/2013CharlesCamilla18.jpg" width="640" height="427" data-original-width="615" data-original-height="410" /></a></div><br />
Sir Elton and friends, were just a step too far – certainly by then, for an aging Queen and Prince Philip – and were especially so, for the simple tastes of her husband. Prince Charles followed traditions – as most unimaginative people do when in need of inspiration – and was content to pursue the country life. One might also say that he enjoyed a life of self indulgence, which was particularly so concerning Camilla Parker-Bowles, whom he had adored for years. It was a bit like the story of Jack Sprat, except in reverse.<br />
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“Jack Sprat who could eat no fat,<br />
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His wife could eat no lean,<br />
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And so between them both, you see,<br />
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They licked the platter clean. ”<br />
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In the case of Charles and Diana, the marriage was not one of compatibility, and quite the opposite, because, she liked the bright city lights, and his entire interest lay in the countryside. Their marriage was probably doomed from day one – she the bright and witty party lover – and Charles; then becoming a prematurely aging old bore, they were by then permanently in conflict.<br />
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What is great, is that despite all the royal angst and their turbulent relationship, two great sons were born. By far eclipsing the other royals, they seem both to have inherited their mothers common touch. Easy to talk to, modern in their outlook, charitable, compassionate and concerned, they may be Diana’s true legacy to a Great Britain, which is presently looking extremely shaky in the shadow of Brexit, and an increasingly incompetent government.<br />
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Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-75494789921617446192017-08-15T09:48:00.000+03:002017-08-15T09:54:32.131+03:00The Jewel of India 70 Years On - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4WLBEyH00EsnA-BSCGZJvuh4ebsleiaqNYOfBBYLHqB_JZoz-gLj4UNesVWSWRmRS0ZZLSoPrJtpMu4xp-kE1uMb2eQeWxh7_Gold6lXN8Z8ybqSrmR3Aa-ILChCUXrUsGgVYx8fBcdU/s1600/India%252BDelhi-Amritsar%252B155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4WLBEyH00EsnA-BSCGZJvuh4ebsleiaqNYOfBBYLHqB_JZoz-gLj4UNesVWSWRmRS0ZZLSoPrJtpMu4xp-kE1uMb2eQeWxh7_Gold6lXN8Z8ybqSrmR3Aa-ILChCUXrUsGgVYx8fBcdU/s640/India%252BDelhi-Amritsar%252B155.jpg" width="640" height="427" data-original-width="1000" data-original-height="667" /></a></div><b><i>Beautiful Amritser</i></b><br />
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‘Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,<br />
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Till Earth and Sky stand presently, at God’s great Judgment Seat.’<br />
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Rudyard Kipling – The Ballad of East & West. <br />
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Seventy years on, and the great continent of India no longer has that taste of colonialism lingering on the palette, except for those very few who can still remember the events of August 15th 1947, and then most likely their palette is residing in a glass of water beside their bed.<br />
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When we recount the events of WW1; a bloodbath which involved far too many virtually ignored, un-remarked upon, and brave colonial soldiers, we forget that many came from the then Indian sub-continent. As the TV presenters serve up great swathes of nostalgia, much emphasis is put on the Western forces – Australians, South Africans, Canadians and New Zealanders – who died during the Great War. The hero’s of the Verdun and other horrific WW1 battle scenes, are always presented as being white and European, although this is far from the truth.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOaPUjHV7o3xCtfHeA0fePWpi-TSb3UhXXeyqmcl6GUQCVTgbb6mbED-g1KLSrYWSxfc0a4K9agxlpy8nSTHwKJwfJIJ6j7dMCIGBpIS0E8-9qAiMcIrxQB59zQu9sZpLHWDixWOujQA/s1600/2667188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOaPUjHV7o3xCtfHeA0fePWpi-TSb3UhXXeyqmcl6GUQCVTgbb6mbED-g1KLSrYWSxfc0a4K9agxlpy8nSTHwKJwfJIJ6j7dMCIGBpIS0E8-9qAiMcIrxQB59zQu9sZpLHWDixWOujQA/s400/2667188.jpg" width="400" height="247" data-original-width="940" data-original-height="580" /></a></div>Mountbatten with Ghandi <br />
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Moving forward in time to the 17th August 1947, and on this 70th anniversary, we now see sepia films showing the final salutes of men and women – often in enormously baggy and dated military uniforms – who are wondering if leaving India is the right thing to do, and worrying about what life might have in store for them back in a war damaged Britain. A country that is also trying to re-emerge into an equally uncertain future, together with the rest of poor decimated Europe.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_tiv5Nj-lWj8jeiE6A7o_vJB0a2Bn-sHmlVWxtlprPeZto0VHHhZy125wkqSP452Rag3oJvGY3F1aNbHsc27X9xVAgk6djL9MxaLPiakhJ1rgKjoDhyphenhyphenUH0iJzP-D1ooYVSONd_MN1w0/s1600/5189cd0a56f8350b945ee808e443ffac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_tiv5Nj-lWj8jeiE6A7o_vJB0a2Bn-sHmlVWxtlprPeZto0VHHhZy125wkqSP452Rag3oJvGY3F1aNbHsc27X9xVAgk6djL9MxaLPiakhJ1rgKjoDhyphenhyphenUH0iJzP-D1ooYVSONd_MN1w0/s400/5189cd0a56f8350b945ee808e443ffac.jpg" width="400" height="280" data-original-width="844" data-original-height="590" /></a></div><br />
For over three hundred years Britain had been the policeman of India, what was soon to become the State of Pakistan and ultimately, an emerging Bangladesh. Did the politicians of the day eulogize over these brave and ignominiously forgotten Indian soldiers, who fought for a foreign mother country, some thirty years before? We shall never know it was all too long ago, but I doubt it!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh70xzxCB1G6tB8uPsFo1V5IAO9n_VcMwpp46U6UEkI4qc3YL_d1CxOGrBdzAOCbtokGuvCNaE3D-6QBePUkdhJH7wAohUwU_UDbGwiEu6tDMpk6NGtYuMuXCBmD-9689azv9fC-jqPYXk/s1600/35-703x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh70xzxCB1G6tB8uPsFo1V5IAO9n_VcMwpp46U6UEkI4qc3YL_d1CxOGrBdzAOCbtokGuvCNaE3D-6QBePUkdhJH7wAohUwU_UDbGwiEu6tDMpk6NGtYuMuXCBmD-9689azv9fC-jqPYXk/s400/35-703x500.jpg" width="400" height="285" data-original-width="703" data-original-height="501" /></a></div><br />
Most of us see the post war years in rather theatrical terms, and in the shires and the home counties of England – especially in the 50s and 60s – one often came across slightly dotty relatives who talked incessantly about their time in India as being the best time of their life.<br />
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Surrounded in their new homes, by reminders of years spent on the equator – the pith helmets, the Indian swords and engraved matchlocks – the many sided tables with ivory, and mother of pearl marquetry, would often support a well brewed cup of Darjeeling tea. Then there were the photographs of ferocious looking Colonels – their foot on the head of an equally ferocious looking, but somewhat dead tiger – at a family get-together, where as a child I was introduced to the wonders of cold curry, tales of the Berkshire Regiment, and the redoubtable Uncle John.<br />
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Back then, in the sometimes jaded reality of back street Brighton, in a world of seaside boarding houses – the subject of plays by Terrence Rattigan or John Osborne – the fifties and sixties seemed to be populated by hopeless people; old majors or retired district commissioners, all of whom found it difficult to adapt to their new home environment. Dear old Col. Hillary Hook couldn’t even boil an egg boil a kettle, let alone switch on a light.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIZd-LIfPt8r9I7vtF2R1sONctrQZ8lo72MiDF18aEmQuESN_-TLsH8NQB9xwDsafIO8KDyf73uoF8WI2YtwCWgr7S18Xbmv0GxBzWb717ZdXbXLVTHmGCFZE-SR_e82yg8BUFhrP1-ks/s1600/f9fc8ca7977bac65615174ac4b441299.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIZd-LIfPt8r9I7vtF2R1sONctrQZ8lo72MiDF18aEmQuESN_-TLsH8NQB9xwDsafIO8KDyf73uoF8WI2YtwCWgr7S18Xbmv0GxBzWb717ZdXbXLVTHmGCFZE-SR_e82yg8BUFhrP1-ks/s400/f9fc8ca7977bac65615174ac4b441299.jpg" width="400" height="348" data-original-width="604" data-original-height="525" /></a></div><br />
Often born to parents who had lived all their lives in India, there were families who’d lived and survived there, for generations. Lives, occasionally interspersed with the odd visit to an English public school, the very occasional university, or generally to Sandhurst, it was then back to India to work in some colonial capacity.<br />
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In their minds eye, India came to be as much theirs as the indigenous population itself, because British blood had been spilt on the ground of this their chosen home, and as simple as that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4qqy_a0wPwmdN-8lF0Cc5Z_zxJX6EMUmq8ZEa0-Q2ent0yiz4Tn1OWSsDv2Cvdacwc-afoVLOi2AATkZ5xOZeg837GLQRbSwTb1XjwIi9uPygfxww1q-ZLxIw9gIcJXfgUQ11GcAPp0/s1600/1210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4qqy_a0wPwmdN-8lF0Cc5Z_zxJX6EMUmq8ZEa0-Q2ent0yiz4Tn1OWSsDv2Cvdacwc-afoVLOi2AATkZ5xOZeg837GLQRbSwTb1XjwIi9uPygfxww1q-ZLxIw9gIcJXfgUQ11GcAPp0/s400/1210.jpg" width="400" height="199" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="298" /></a></div><br />
But they were also obnoxious, they were snobs, they were xenophobic, and they were unquestionably spoilt by their Indian hosts, and nevertheless – even to this day – they remain severely misunderstood.<br />
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Emanating from the newly found and emerging middle classes of the early nineteenth century, the sons and daughters of successful traders and manufacturers, these newly found colonialists, had often been precluded from gentile society in their British homeland – trade was a nasty word up until the 1950’s – and India proved to be the perfect alternative.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiferTp1-30Hzc5mEqSIZyiVI6QUq7xTz54Gv-YRoha-yeaNQMTkFeTAoOFhC-gvC6ur1c7UeBdyTSapOpMgGC0RfQb46pjbVOEX0MnsBNbyrEmyokeK6tyOaC0Y72LNA1gPKs9ARLF8KY/s1600/picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiferTp1-30Hzc5mEqSIZyiVI6QUq7xTz54Gv-YRoha-yeaNQMTkFeTAoOFhC-gvC6ur1c7UeBdyTSapOpMgGC0RfQb46pjbVOEX0MnsBNbyrEmyokeK6tyOaC0Y72LNA1gPKs9ARLF8KY/s400/picture1.jpg" width="366" height="400" data-original-width="607" data-original-height="663" /></a></div><br />
Surrounded by the trappings of wealth, the Maharajas paid lip service to their so called protectors, but they too indulged in the imported social snobbery, and anglicised their views, often by adopting the public school, and elitist attitudes of their colonial cousins, into the bargain. Eton, Harrow, and smart Indian Regiments were all the rage, and a kind of effete Indian aristocracy emerged on the racecourses of Ascot and Epsom and the polo-grounds of Hurlingham and Windsor; but not for long. By going forward in time, once more, we now know why.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TzXkECtRZMvLKC44YqKU7dvyktLh6l_zXIiEDig5RrVUOODVUL54E-n09tj3wQofKFcNh4TAR0ygZozHXWALf1meqTsosS_wZscLzsYtiprSwrXM53T7ZmjiJ8upGhLPMbroZF2Hrao/s1600/1439576083-702_MPlan---ToI.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TzXkECtRZMvLKC44YqKU7dvyktLh6l_zXIiEDig5RrVUOODVUL54E-n09tj3wQofKFcNh4TAR0ygZozHXWALf1meqTsosS_wZscLzsYtiprSwrXM53T7ZmjiJ8upGhLPMbroZF2Hrao/s640/1439576083-702_MPlan---ToI.png" width="640" height="369" data-original-width="1100" data-original-height="635" /></a></div><br />
The scratched and distressed sepia films show the lines of people, but not their thoughts. Tears and smiles must have mingled with nostalgia, and although some were sorry that they were leaving, others were not. Gandhi’s salt march had done the trick, Mountbatten had handed India back with as much dignity as he could muster and India was left to denude its own reality, and make the railways run on time.<br />
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Back in the UK sports masters were called Major this, the school bursar was called Colonel that, and the grounds man was called Sergeant something or other too, which was certainly the case when I first went to school.<br />
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As I write in the present day, I can still recall my aging aunts and uncles, small carved ivory elephants in glass cases, the aroma and sounds of an India still lingering in a photograph album, and a nameless dog, obediently sitting on the veranda of some long forgotten bungalow. And, although the shadow of this much loved past still hides behind the glossy brochure of a new modern and thriving India, I am afraid, that what I remember really doesn’t matter anymore.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOhh9RM0eh3tEoV9lvclJ-tSfMzxpVFszfd0SvmSsQCvQTE5glfmBwMA2eDv8LOgQ9ysAr1m1-fe3TTSbxvEd8xCFCdH1hUdV2LKqwYHq6fDq2BJyOIhhS8dPwun6rAz7Wd7CqzkxzIk/s1600/Tagore_Gandhi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOhh9RM0eh3tEoV9lvclJ-tSfMzxpVFszfd0SvmSsQCvQTE5glfmBwMA2eDv8LOgQ9ysAr1m1-fe3TTSbxvEd8xCFCdH1hUdV2LKqwYHq6fDq2BJyOIhhS8dPwun6rAz7Wd7CqzkxzIk/s400/Tagore_Gandhi.jpg" width="400" height="356" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="912" /></a></div>Gandhi with Tagore <br />
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Today the talk is of computer technology, and India’s high profile nuclear tests, none of which are approved of by the great powers. Now medium range rockets wobble on their launching pads and die – with disappointed looks from ambitious Indian onlookers – and young Indians, once the scourge of immigration officers in the UK, are now the invited guests of a burgeoning electronics industry; short of manpower.<br />
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No longer destined for the sweat shops of Huddersfield or Leeds, nor selling assorted silks from a market stall in Brick Lane or Southall, these young Indians now represent a new well educated middle class, destined for the wine bars of Dover Street and trendy Covent Garden. Oh, how the world has changed.<br />
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We find the India of today simultaneously seething with the extremes of poverty and great wealth, with – one must admit – a strong European demeanour. Gone are the cliches of the past – the Star of India Restaurant and the Bombay Brasserie, are now in the Michelin Guide – and pandering to the spoilt, the overpaid, and the trenchermen of a high cholesterol multicultural London.<br />
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Most of us have completely forgotten how it all began, although during recent time spent in India, I met many who were happy to attest to an amicable colonial past. But how did young Indians feel about their most recent past? Well, they seemed to have forgotten about it too!<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-44591129046415956222017-06-28T09:21:00.001+03:002017-06-29T17:45:28.143+03:00Brexit and The Dreyfus Syndrome - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnewXDVXTQ0Q_IZvQO8UbuYY4YRwFODebtCIm4qPuWZhpGGfHHRJ3DxuT8qAItyuIvaFsutK1hkD-K4xWOsl3_b8fQlCBdquiUIkG-BXC52jNDGa0dJneEu2k_4McZqjVSaCyfsvtDBM/s1600/8245-004-7D3B7B97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnewXDVXTQ0Q_IZvQO8UbuYY4YRwFODebtCIm4qPuWZhpGGfHHRJ3DxuT8qAItyuIvaFsutK1hkD-K4xWOsl3_b8fQlCBdquiUIkG-BXC52jNDGa0dJneEu2k_4McZqjVSaCyfsvtDBM/s640/8245-004-7D3B7B97.jpg" width="486" height="640" data-original-width="342" data-original-height="450" /></a></div><br />
</div>At the turn of the 20th Century, much of France was in turmoil. In 1894, Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish French army officer, had been found guilty of treason, and sentenced to life imprisonment, on the notorious Devils Island. A well known story, which revealed rampant Anti-Semitism within both the ranks of the French army, and generally within French society, it was cause to divide whole families.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jGHqMDcikYuStH0qqjXktIzlgApA0pDcv6V4QQzFQk706UdROBwgiyUejggGbg5xUAkabtzUkEcwxoV15cbZT6MH3JZNfdm3UXiwXPTbJNNkBbWcfBMWzFQzSyHvgCLaBXkxlNAJABs/s1600/Dreyfus.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jGHqMDcikYuStH0qqjXktIzlgApA0pDcv6V4QQzFQk706UdROBwgiyUejggGbg5xUAkabtzUkEcwxoV15cbZT6MH3JZNfdm3UXiwXPTbJNNkBbWcfBMWzFQzSyHvgCLaBXkxlNAJABs/s640/Dreyfus.png" width="516" height="640" data-original-width="484" data-original-height="600" /></a></div><br />
Those for and against Dreyfus were often at loggerheads, as they took sides within their own family groups, and French society was split down the middle. Often provoking violence, and inevitably causing public angst, in the end Dreyfus was exonerated of all charges in 1906, and continued to serve in the French army, retiring with the rank of Colonel. But what has this got to do with Brexit?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTP9RK40AZULX8wowkYDT-1i7Ot0_9gljjIxO7VZaFtjREe0kJM8nWJ1kNhjb44RfJvGkrjvML5iLSMs-ojrsrbe1g9KhUm8794g-KgcbN1M2IIjJVDYK3EZKf_OEpU_dkeRPb4gpxGOo/s1600/19453085_10155892644574749_1660058323712828603_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTP9RK40AZULX8wowkYDT-1i7Ot0_9gljjIxO7VZaFtjREe0kJM8nWJ1kNhjb44RfJvGkrjvML5iLSMs-ojrsrbe1g9KhUm8794g-KgcbN1M2IIjJVDYK3EZKf_OEpU_dkeRPb4gpxGOo/s640/19453085_10155892644574749_1660058323712828603_o.jpg" width="640" height="421" data-original-width="1037" data-original-height="682" /></a></div><br />
Before the referendum, Great Britain was a fairly homogeneous country, although divided by the haves and have nots, most families followed traditional party lines. Especially the Tory shopkeepers and the professions, who would rather cut their ears off, than to take any political side roads, and vote against their tribal customs. Because, Brexit was not just a political choice as such, but more a question of ageism.<br />
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Whilst cotton top politicians espoused the wonders of leaving the EU, most of the younger generation disagreed with them. Described as promoting a better future for the UK and for future generations – by which time the majority of the Brexiteers would be dead in any case – the young people; who they claimed they represented, heartily disagreed with them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8h8nrSmyjMWuNieRoZWRdL8GZP4AwYKVVivSUQuzlpSd26wFO0mNaAdummMA_LFTsBZo5oF7FFCYPAmxhkLQhlC7aW8V6ev54h0VQ_f1WATjfChfj5GwbRncxvqTif-9h-0cnKAwpf6Q/s1600/132665-004-726FB2D5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8h8nrSmyjMWuNieRoZWRdL8GZP4AwYKVVivSUQuzlpSd26wFO0mNaAdummMA_LFTsBZo5oF7FFCYPAmxhkLQhlC7aW8V6ev54h0VQ_f1WATjfChfj5GwbRncxvqTif-9h-0cnKAwpf6Q/s640/132665-004-726FB2D5.jpg" width="448" height="640" data-original-width="315" data-original-height="450" /></a></div><br />
Although the referendum in its initial stages encouraged lively debate, many families became split down the middle, as the frequently unreliable, and wildly inaccurate rhetoric was bandied about. When the referendum was complete, and the 4% leave margin established, these family arguments continued. Especially during the most recent General Election, when the Tory mandate was finally declared. Because, despite May’s promise for a fairer society, there was little real evidence to support this proclamation, even in the Queens Speech.<br />
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Young people are not fools, quite the opposite, and with eons of political and economic information on the web, in the recent election, they very cleverly made up their own minds about how caring Mrs Mays team really was. Having practically lost the election, and with the Tory party in disarray, very few British youngsters believed that the tedious mantra, “The best possible deal,” meant anything at all.<br />
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And they are not the only ones who think that Mays team are a bunch of losers, because so do the Scottish Nationalists, UKIP, and New Labour – granted not all for the same reasons – and in particular, the European Union itself. But, why does this divide continue when we are told it is all so final? Well, you will have had to have gone to the Glastonbuty Festival 2017, to find out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz68SwdlWYVto5Xyt_ZFuoY1ReH8hTOBjyoz7yT-nXwfcbMFqLMIAifgq-YzrtRFvXbOx9IBqUjoO5dCdq6v6lQ7XYLIeXw4T2c0Bme__5KpN_1ng2-V_qnxgz7KtutywUG9efOTUOSt4/s1600/corbynblog-920x584.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz68SwdlWYVto5Xyt_ZFuoY1ReH8hTOBjyoz7yT-nXwfcbMFqLMIAifgq-YzrtRFvXbOx9IBqUjoO5dCdq6v6lQ7XYLIeXw4T2c0Bme__5KpN_1ng2-V_qnxgz7KtutywUG9efOTUOSt4/s640/corbynblog-920x584.jpg" width="640" height="406" data-original-width="920" data-original-height="584" /></a></div><br />
Is it that there are too many immigrants in the UK picking strawberries? No, it is about well educated EU professionals, taking skilled UK jobs, because there is no other commercial choice. In most of the EU, education at all levels, is free. So, is it any wonder that British youngsters view the student loan system as obnoxious, and unnecessary? How would you like to be lumbered with a 50,000 GBP debt, for the rest of your life – on top of a mortgage that is – and why on earth would any government wish that on today's eighteen year olds?<br />
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Any eighteen year old student, fortunate enough to be studying Economics and Politics, will tell you that both subjects are not an exact science. Clearly a matter of fact at the present time, and as Dreyfus was once pilloried by French society with families divided by prejudice, so the pendulum swings on the subject of Brexit, towards the middle ground and amicable consensus.<br />
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Will the neo-colonialists and traditionalists accept a compromise, or will they hark back to the 18th century and Great Britain's place in the world? And, will they stop telling everybody what is good for them, when it is clearly not! Will we see a change of direction, when the present team retires, and a new political group emerges from the scorched remains of David Camerons famous referendum, or can we rely on good old British common sense to find a way?<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-41179606352183037502017-06-17T11:55:00.001+03:002017-06-17T11:55:30.699+03:00A New Beginning for Brexit? - By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKq3SY81EeNfzIUM89GMxb2jF4RwQeTRbC0-2dAW4rgdzNCYuCUYGA6UwgfDfY28j8mvOrRxLhyn5ATGTNK9ljV8Ld5t7KOlPX0jsyWfPryzELH0MIMzlxw7B5Gvjnd1st4n7nfcGvAcY/s1600/makron-prizval-franciyu-ne-sblizhatsya-s-rossiey_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKq3SY81EeNfzIUM89GMxb2jF4RwQeTRbC0-2dAW4rgdzNCYuCUYGA6UwgfDfY28j8mvOrRxLhyn5ATGTNK9ljV8Ld5t7KOlPX0jsyWfPryzELH0MIMzlxw7B5Gvjnd1st4n7nfcGvAcY/s640/makron-prizval-franciyu-ne-sblizhatsya-s-rossiey_1.jpg" width="640" height="360" data-original-width="921" data-original-height="518" /></a></div><i><b>Emmanuel Macron President of France<i><i></i></i></b><b></b></i><br />
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France is not famous for having tall presidents – with the exception of General De Gaulle that is – but in terms of height, Emmanuel Macron certainly towers over the last three, particularly in popularity. As the result of beating Marin Du Pen by some two thirds majority, in the recent election, considering that he did so with an independent mandate, might well underline Europes fear of right wing extremism as well as its past oscillation, between the right and the left. By securing the middle ground, perhaps we are now seeing a Blairite reawakening in European politics?<br />
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By ignoring the boring and stale views of traditional political parties, stigma infested clichés, rampant popularism, bewildering and unworkable manifestos – presently being banded around by British politicians – is it any wonder that the EU itself, is now looking for a new view on Europe? Seeming to ally himself with free thinking politico’s, as well as good old common sense, perhaps we can now look to Macron, France and Germany, for some new ideas in the future?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqcOLdLKNjw76K9JxeTNSlS8Y96dLN0lNZxOJZIgTpfRzn45ZPROi4gtMWHmRvuyjJTGrxMXNgB3GHm_nftOBAbE5yAeVKrmM0smkAHqTQ3PuSn0hTxJhYxCF15Fz59g6Wexo9qhR8nc/s1600/cea93f24-e961-11e6-967b-c88452263daf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqcOLdLKNjw76K9JxeTNSlS8Y96dLN0lNZxOJZIgTpfRzn45ZPROi4gtMWHmRvuyjJTGrxMXNgB3GHm_nftOBAbE5yAeVKrmM0smkAHqTQ3PuSn0hTxJhYxCF15Fz59g6Wexo9qhR8nc/s640/cea93f24-e961-11e6-967b-c88452263daf.jpg" width="640" height="360" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a></div><br />
It is hard to imagine the UK; now looking across the Atlantic at its oft declared special relationship, seeking any new ideas from the US, since the Trump camp is now exclusively backing a closed economy, and which it can easily afford to do. Britain, on the other hand, might have big ideas about the wonders of Brexit and the Commonwealth, but it simply cannot exist without a strong position in Europe. That cannot be described as a win win situation, because, on the contrary, Mays – getting a good deal for the UK – can never be as good as the one it already has. Macron stated his position some months before the French election, indicating that he will not allow the British Government an easy Brexit passage, and he shows no signs of changing his views.<br />
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As an Englishman abroad, I find it easy to discern the difference between internal British propaganda, and the views of Europe, despite a dogged attempt by the British news media to bang the drum of nationalism. Because, that is how Brexit is now conceived in the UK press. The churlishness and deceit of the right wing press – discounting the 48% of voters who chose to remain in the EU – and the rotten means they used to sway the miniscule 2% of the British population in voting leave, defies all definitions of honesty and integrity.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUEJ7YgVW4EpTSiB56SkULJANkut0NMGuXSRfSBkqC2wtz6IMWIgxBP6J40IrN81xkFRDKzlP12oP-GNR9GR1RU6Rfr07X6wPkUFwQ7KnrJIdQngxtJJgRjr0hOvO30Q3i2aFLJUgODo/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUEJ7YgVW4EpTSiB56SkULJANkut0NMGuXSRfSBkqC2wtz6IMWIgxBP6J40IrN81xkFRDKzlP12oP-GNR9GR1RU6Rfr07X6wPkUFwQ7KnrJIdQngxtJJgRjr0hOvO30Q3i2aFLJUgODo/s640/03.jpg" width="640" height="436" data-original-width="765" data-original-height="521" /></a></div><b><i>Waffling Trump in Action</i></b><br />
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And now – if you have been unwise enough to admit voting to remain – certain groups will, unbelievably, brand you as a traitor. Well, George Orwell had this situation summed up in in his book 1984, and to some extent in Animal Farm! In the new era of ‘Alternative Facts,’ must we commend politicians for their bare faced lies? Is that all Donald Trump has done for the world?<br />
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According to the Observer newspaper, on the 25th January last – ‘People were already comparing the Trump era to George Orwell’s famed dystopian novel 1984, but all it took was one comment from Kellyanne Conway to send the books flying off the shelves. In the wake of her use of the phrase “alternative facts” to refer to White House press secretary Sean Spicer’s comments about Donald Trump’s inauguration attracting “the largest audience ever,” the book surged to #6 on Amazon’s Bestseller list, reached #2 Tuesday night and took the #1 spot by Wednesday morning.’<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIQa7hJmyGg6YbvHwmsBwEy-FH3Jodn97GtuJGku9jiJN4PgR0NHtfd-JKzXSr7oQaHgDDaUk-zRiCsS636xEAWR2G65Rfi5AZ7iGtCd1b1uFS74UtCocJGmlIEAMUmdcmGe-kII6K2M/s1600/Capture.Macron1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIQa7hJmyGg6YbvHwmsBwEy-FH3Jodn97GtuJGku9jiJN4PgR0NHtfd-JKzXSr7oQaHgDDaUk-zRiCsS636xEAWR2G65Rfi5AZ7iGtCd1b1uFS74UtCocJGmlIEAMUmdcmGe-kII6K2M/s640/Capture.Macron1.PNG" width="640" height="453" data-original-width="777" data-original-height="550" /></a></div><b>President Macron and First Lady Briggite Macron<br />
<i></i></b><br />
There is a certain air of superiority in Europe, which I admire greatly. They do not fall for the vulgar and brash, or the bone crunching handshakes of Donald Trump, nor do they appreciate the fool he has made of himself, at the G7 Conference?<br />
<br />
I suppose internally, the US either doesn’t see, or understand the amused contempt Europe has for America’s new jackass president. But then again, neither does Trump have much time for Europe. Why? Because he does not understand it, nor could he care less about it. Displaying a degree of ignorance, unprecedented in modern times, he reflects the post WW2 view of US servicemen in the UK, that – ‘They are overpaid, and over here!’<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-43721335425611864642017-05-31T14:17:00.001+03:002017-05-31T14:17:05.483+03:00Captain SKA - Liar Liar GE2017<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HxN1STgQXW8" width="480"></iframe>Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-11199242729047793762017-05-18T15:30:00.001+03:002017-05-19T08:57:28.441+03:00Food for Oil – By Patrick Brigham .<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47Va4Yoi3likDP8_q3PA5KwYq6EQUXfIHd2gSi-w2kpRNgB3Xj8MvHg7T6dvaqQBJkkVQ2dxThciaLjsSQ5fPSyBjbxDfu2IWz4SWAp3W19ZN5OaCNt6acLH8Dh3cse9B1GKGF3zMPSU/s1600/951159-saddam-hussein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47Va4Yoi3likDP8_q3PA5KwYq6EQUXfIHd2gSi-w2kpRNgB3Xj8MvHg7T6dvaqQBJkkVQ2dxThciaLjsSQ5fPSyBjbxDfu2IWz4SWAp3W19ZN5OaCNt6acLH8Dh3cse9B1GKGF3zMPSU/s640/951159-saddam-hussein.jpg" width="640" height="479" /></a></div><br />
It was 2004, and Kevin Irrawaddi Patel gazed despondently at the newspaper account of Saddam Hussein’s famous List of Largess, or Barrelgate as it had become known. Noticing how absurdly his name had been placed next to that of Mr. George Galloway - the ex New Labour MP – some Bulgarian professor, and half the government ministers of the Russian Federation, he was considerably baffled. <br />
<br />
As he stared at an account of the billions of barrels of crude oil Russia had received for the Iraqi Oil for Food Program, his own published score of one single barrel seemed woefully insignificant. Astonished at the vast amounts of crude oil given to these other individuals – and for enormously spurious reasons - he sat in his Peckham corner-shop, trying to make sense of this dramatic life changing event. For what was, after all, a seemingly casual event that had taken place two years previously, his somewhat dubious place in history, had now been assured. But what had actually happened? <br />
<br />
It had been a wet Wednesday, in the autumn of 2002, and he remembered it well. Accustomed as he was to visits by all the nutters in Avondale Rise, it was no surprise to him to see a burly Arab looking man entering his shop, lugging a large metal barrel. <br />
<br />
“What you got there mate,” said Kevin in his typical South London Bombay accent, whilst viewing the shiny barrel with some suspicion. <br />
<br />
The man glared at him as if Kevin was a total tosser - “I’ve brought you some oil,” said the windswept and dripping man, as he took off his beret, and shook off the rain. <br />
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“Do you mind,” said Kevin, “You will make the floor wet!” <br />
<br />
The dark haired man fixed him with an icy stare - “Well, where do you want it, then?” His gruff voice made it sound less like a question, and than an order. <br />
<br />
How odd, thought Kevin, he seems to be wearing some sort of uniform under his mackintosh - “If it is for the Greek chippy,” he said, pointing through the door, “It's in the next street, you should ask for Stavros.” <br />
<br />
But by now, the man's demeanour had become even more threatening - “It's not that kind of oil, you Indian git,” the stranger said. <br />
<br />
His penetrating eyes now seemed more familiar to Kevin, and he instinctively backed into the Mars Bar and Twix rack, which was immediately behind him, causing three boxes of Smarties to simultaneously hit the floor. Bursting open as he mistakenly trod on them, the contents scattered, leaving them to rattle around the shop like multi coloured ball bearings, as they went flying. <br />
<br />
“You look like that Iraqi bloke Saddam what’s-his-name,” Kevin’s face gleamed with nervous self-satisfaction, as he demonstrated his considerable knowledge of world events. <br />
<br />
But the man showed not signs of response - “This is Iraqi Heavy,” the man said stiffly, “I have brought it to Peckham on the UN Food for Oil Program. So, don’t mess me about, or I will get really annoyed.” <br />
<br />
Kevin searched his mind for some connection between the humdrum existence, he experienced, in the nether regions of Avonmore Rise, and this man's last remark. Finally, his face lit up. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqQ7Yis1SOy_SmVgfhCW6iljnu-6AQSoEpgrrXMiyv057Q-nWKylN0Acd4UgHCuEaZuPqDY5F0jz1ZT8inmHViDg3EVsVgxfJ_wzd2zl0GYYS_DqUBgqjvRGvZrht5cGKEifIR8nwFd4/s1600/2014-12-03-15.20.47-edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqQ7Yis1SOy_SmVgfhCW6iljnu-6AQSoEpgrrXMiyv057Q-nWKylN0Acd4UgHCuEaZuPqDY5F0jz1ZT8inmHViDg3EVsVgxfJ_wzd2zl0GYYS_DqUBgqjvRGvZrht5cGKEifIR8nwFd4/s640/2014-12-03-15.20.47-edited.jpg" width="640" height="426" /></a></div><br />
“Is that the cooking program on ITV with Marco Pierre White? You know, the chef who gets pissed in the kitchen, and finally thumps one of the waiters? Wicked.”<br />
<br />
At this Saddam – whose age was estimated at between 35 and 140 years – and shouting with consummate rage, banged his fist on the counter. <br />
<br />
“Listen to me, you Indian wally, I am extremely hungry. So stop pissing around will you, and give me some food, or I will go get some WMD, and give you a bit of really serious grief.” <br />
<br />
Not wishing to aggravate this newly discovered Middle-Eastern nutter more than absolutely necessary, Kevin wisely did not ask the question, which now lay dormant on his lips. <br />
<br />
Was WMD an acronym for something he had once heard on the news, or was it Magic Roundabout? Perhaps it stood for William Morris Designs, or even Waitrose Marketing Department; he was unsure. But, his silence probably saved his life.<br />
<br />
“What’s that barrel worth, then mate?” Kevin’s mind raced as finally the fear of the moment gripped him. Realizing his imminent danger, his only thought was how he might get rid of this obviously deranged and obnoxious man. The Police were no good, and would probably turn up the following week, and granny Patel was deaf, so there was no point in shouting up the stairs. So he decided he had better comply with the nutters demands.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBnAfvBIZLMja00g1faMjZi0A6uEo5_fnMf02IuYYJHeGXh1lTauHKIngV3CCjngNdQBaf_QECVtOh71dgURWeFV7Wrr1s7zDQ1AREsRGUo-O3f-NlXqtGMryZGET1LA5fuJjbKz_FEY/s1600/951171-saddam-hussein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBnAfvBIZLMja00g1faMjZi0A6uEo5_fnMf02IuYYJHeGXh1lTauHKIngV3CCjngNdQBaf_QECVtOh71dgURWeFV7Wrr1s7zDQ1AREsRGUo-O3f-NlXqtGMryZGET1LA5fuJjbKz_FEY/s640/951171-saddam-hussein.jpg" width="640" height="426" /></a></div><br />
“Twenty five dollars US,” was the curt reply “Which does not include delivery, because this week it is on a free offer. So make up your mind quickly!”<br />
<br />
Kevin didn’t know much about dollars, or even euros for that matter, and although the occasional rupee had passed hands in his shop, he doubted whether that nice Mr. Bush or any other American would ever visit Peckham. <br />
<br />
Anyway, according to the newspapers – of which he had hundreds for sale, but rarely read – Mr. Bush probably thought that Peckham was a suburb of Peking, and Iraq an island off the coast of Cuba. Nevertheless, it was obvious he would have to give this man something, or he would never go away.<br />
<br />
“Well,” said Kevin, “ I have thought about it very carefully, sir, and I am prepared to give you a bag of cheese and onion crisps, some frozen sausage rolls, a box of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers, and a bag of King Edwards. But, that's the best I can do for you I am afraid!”<br />
<br />
Saddam glared at him and spluttered “What? You bastard! Last night I got the full monty for my other barrel, from the Star on India in Westbourne Grove, and they gave me extra chutney as well. So you had better watch it, you insignificant Indian twat!”<br />
<br />
Furious, Saddam grabbed the cheese and onion crisps, the frozen sausage rolls, the spuds, and the box of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers, and stormed out of the shop. As he did so, he slammed the door so hard, that everything in the shop wobbled, leaving Kevin baffled and perplexed. Contemplating what to do with the shiny barrel of oil, which now stood next to the counter, his problem seemed insurmountable.<br />
<br />
It was February 2004, and the barrel continued to sit unmoved, in the corner of the shop, but it was now used to support a rack displaying assorted dog food. Fido, the Finest Food for your Pet, it announced, with a further big sign saying Special Offer. The sign on the barrel simply said Iraqi Oil for Sale, and nothing else. But, alas, nobody was much interested in either commodity, because, there were very few dogs living in Avonmore Road, and the nearest oil refinery was in Depford. After he reported the incident to the local community watch, a number of days passed, before the visits began. <br />
<br />
First to appear was a funny sort of policeman, with a red nose, a plumy accent, and wearing a scruffy green Barbour jacket. He demanded to know the whole story from Kevin, or else he would have to go down to the local Police Station for a thorough grilling. So Kevin blurted out the whole story, confirming even the most insignificant details.<br />
<br />
“Yes, I think that must have been him after all,” the red nosed man said, leaving a business card stating that he worked for the Ministry of Agriculture. After him, it was the press.<br />
<br />
Second to appear was a reporter from the Peckham Gazette, who entered the shop with some apprehension, knowing some of the basic truths behind the Food for Oil report. But his interest was of a local nature, and it was Kevin who was now in the limelight!<br />
<br />
“What did he look like Kev?” Sidney Nodes knew how to keep his reading public entertained.<br />
<br />
“He was some geezer, but a bit of a Muppet, really,” Kevins mind casually harped back to his strange encounter. “He kept going on about extra chutney at the Star of India, for some reason, and something about WMD, whatever that is?”<br />
<br />
Having heard the food for oil deal Kevin had been forced to comply with, Sidney Nodes asked for a bag of cheese and onion crisps, in order somehow to feel closer to this bizarre incident, and – foregoing the Cadbury’s chocolate fingers – a packet of Silk Cut cigarettes.<br />
<br />
Lighting his first smoke of the day, Sidney Nodes mused – “Evan that nice Mr. Bush and Tony Blair don’t seem to know much about WMD either, according to the telly!”<br />
<br />
The next day, the headlines in the Peckham Gazette announced – ‘Saddam Demands Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers.’<br />
<br />
Sidney Nodes knew that it was not very accurate, but that was the general condition of journalism at the time. The dailies didn’t say much either, being too busy Blair- bashing, so Kevin Irrawaddi Patel finally sank back once more, into obscurity.<br />
<br />
Sidney Nodes wrote one more follow up story, for the Peckham Gazette, when Kevin Patel decided to change his image a bit, by renaming his shop. The new sign now proclaimed that it was, The Patel Emporium – Purveyors of Fine Food & Wines to World Leaders. <br />
<br />
That weekend, Sidney Node's newspaper headlines announced – ‘Patel Emporium Peckham, runs out of cheese and onion crisps,’ and quite frankly, Kevin Patel has never really looked back!<br />
<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694796256168784543.post-63601935238028793602017-05-15T14:48:00.000+03:002017-05-15T14:48:11.233+03:00When Irish Eyes are Smiling – By Patrick Brigham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXSP2hd9UhxcJBjV9AWXH-fW_kdzPYLPvZiPpvKHoxNQ7ZuNoxGPp6_DyGVPlgSdcNNGi-psy0Y7rqoZmOiv8ev1OXM0_u71VarjTnlsZwARxDzO1wNBT0-voNfJopxzJA91h-XzvkWw/s1600/920x920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXSP2hd9UhxcJBjV9AWXH-fW_kdzPYLPvZiPpvKHoxNQ7ZuNoxGPp6_DyGVPlgSdcNNGi-psy0Y7rqoZmOiv8ev1OXM0_u71VarjTnlsZwARxDzO1wNBT0-voNfJopxzJA91h-XzvkWw/s640/920x920.jpg" width="640" height="434" /></a></div><b>Michel Barnier Chief EU Brexit Negociator & Guess Who?</b><br />
<br />
This is probably the most cogent and descriptive photograph taken during Michel Barnier’s epic address to the Dublin parliament. It makes it clear that, however well intentioned he may be, the ghosts from the recent past are ever present in the Irish Republic, and still mean business.<br />
<br />
To put himself in this position, was a remarkable piece of EU chutzpah, and by claiming that the EU would stand behind the Republic of Ireland, during these Brexit negotiations, was to hit the very weak spot that Theresa May and David Davis were hoping to sidestep. Putting the Irish position at the forefront of the proposed Brexit pull out, was not an idle threat, but a very real EU spanner in the works for the British Government to contend with.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijrn7gGGSH3H4drw3ACZRHOgBAZ7y8KWP6dQV7RVuuicexDe6-Z7sYgbY6v5Zt5Cxq6svUnTSZ-tU_p2o72jBKfp_dQOLgcw49IODzelg9c13cCvVEte2TeDcxBGFRK3zabDZAJvhJab4/s1600/20170302PHT64871_original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijrn7gGGSH3H4drw3ACZRHOgBAZ7y8KWP6dQV7RVuuicexDe6-Z7sYgbY6v5Zt5Cxq6svUnTSZ-tU_p2o72jBKfp_dQOLgcw49IODzelg9c13cCvVEte2TeDcxBGFRK3zabDZAJvhJab4/s640/20170302PHT64871_original.jpg" width="640" height="427" /></a></div><br />
Ireland, protected by the huge and powerful EU, sent a strong message to a waffling and incoherent British Government in London. With their absurd claims of getting a better deal, and hiding behind the usual smokescreen of establishment figures, political nonentities, and grinning Brexit opportunists, this has, once more, put the whole question of Irish reunification back on the table.<br />
<br />
While the Brexiteers were regaling the British public with their wild and flippant rhetoric – claiming all sorts of wonderful changes, most of which will fade away over the next two years or be denied altogether – did any of them actually consider the possibility of a breakup of the United Kingdom, and that it might encourage parts of the UK to take a positive step towards a federated Europe?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmIB4M7tzGDWdDsyKEkMkBb8lMnhC7Deu3qC17HM89ugl-B4cDMbU-hvuMPjxaZj5GOqApFm8mhQEX1WR-sy3l7xYLHr00M9VLO86vSqLn45VXOaTSs0AsZMPMBH9nerZ3JSVwevSGGI/s1600/802223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmIB4M7tzGDWdDsyKEkMkBb8lMnhC7Deu3qC17HM89ugl-B4cDMbU-hvuMPjxaZj5GOqApFm8mhQEX1WR-sy3l7xYLHr00M9VLO86vSqLn45VXOaTSs0AsZMPMBH9nerZ3JSVwevSGGI/s640/802223.jpg" width="640" height="380" /></a></div><b>Banksie in Action</b><br />
<br />
Did these entitled politico’s actually believe, that there would never be a downside to their vote inducing antics? And, did it ever occur to them that – prompted by purely economic reasons – that even the most disenfranchised in the North of Ireland might prefer Irish unification, rather than some half baked, unworkable, retrogressive customs and passport control checkpoint, on the border between the two – soon to be – separated parts of Ireland.<br />
<br />
One persons democracy, might well be another’s Bedlam. So, it follows that – other than Little England, and Wales – Britains immediate EU neighbour of EIRE, was also none too pleased. With English voters incipient madness, and Scotland and Northern Ireland not wanting out of the EU – by some a significant margin of votes – once more, the Brits completely misread the Irish position.<br />
<br />
Nor, in turn, did the EU itself, and for that matter, neither did other EU members – or even potential EU members – begin to understand the UK position. So, despite all the handshakes and photo opportunities, clearly Messers May and Davis, PLC, are in for a hard time. But what is happening from inside the UK itself, and how is the media coping with the withering storm?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPoMud7FBeAUbldo9iZh0RVsHicoQCJizJiPsLTaOUOrHfLffivtNnnbO3rkXyhjbkSOrWIy4vdSjlxE_rO8bzYDYCLrVuup__Ee5wZpBa6VNviKr2PIHXp7UxIMtT8c-3OHqn3iTdfw/s1600/803520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPoMud7FBeAUbldo9iZh0RVsHicoQCJizJiPsLTaOUOrHfLffivtNnnbO3rkXyhjbkSOrWIy4vdSjlxE_rO8bzYDYCLrVuup__Ee5wZpBa6VNviKr2PIHXp7UxIMtT8c-3OHqn3iTdfw/s640/803520.jpg" width="640" height="380" /></a></div><b>No love lost there</b><br />
<br />
I am so lucky to live in Greece, to view world events through a clear pane of glass, and not through the prism of the British press, because right wing views are beginning to distort the Brexit debate altogether. It now appears, that many of the right of centre groups are beginning to view any Brexit decent as a form of national betrayal. It further seems that a particular category of Middle English, middle class extremists, are attempting to motivate dissenters from the middle ground, to get behind the Tories in the forthcoming June 8th Election, by calling them traitors!<br />
<br />
Although there is little doubt that Theresa May will enjoy a landslide victory, as I sit this quiet Sunday in the birthplace of democracy, I do wonder how far right is right? As I cling to the arms of my front row seat, watching the boxers weigh up before the fight, I can’t help noticing how right wing politicians in Europe, have recently done rather badly in certain elections, and that the victors remain unashamedly pro Europe and the EU.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is time for these inward looking and self congratulating British right wing extremists, to stop thinking of Ireland as a vegetable patch, or a cheap labour market for navvy’s, and to wonder why it is that half the banks in the City of London are likely to relocate to Dublin, where the Celtic Tigre – with its legendary computer skills – is ready to pounce!<br />
Patrick Brigham Author and Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01210792627666414739noreply@blogger.com0