No Man is An Island – By Patrick Brigham

>“ "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is, the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
― John Donne

During my childhood, Sir Antony Hurd MP - father of the more famous son; the formidable Lord Douglas Hurd - was the local Conservative MP for Newbury. During every successive election – 1945 to 1964 – he always visited our little farmhouse in Burghfield, asking if he could rely on my widowed mothers vote in the forthcoming election.The answer she gave was always the same.

‘Yes, Antony, I will vote for you, but as a lifelong Liberal, I only do so because there is no suitable Liberal candidate.’ At which point, sherry was usually served, local pleasantries exchanged – had we had a visit from the new local police constable – and of course, the weather.

How riveting – I am sure you are thinking right now – but I am using this as an illustration; not only of how things were in the past, but to underline the total indifference of the majority of British MPs today towards their voters, and in particular, the apathy displayed by the many mysterious MEPs who have inhabited the Brussels parliament, for the last 40 years.

Do you know the name of your MEP? Have they ever visited you in order to solicit your opinions on European Union matters, or are they as unconcerned towards their electorate, as the voters are in them. Presupposing that the answer is no, is it any surprise that the Brexit vote went the way that it did, submerged in gratuitous swathes of ignorance, and very clearly, total contempt.

More than 100 Tory MPs want to stop Brexit, says Ken Clarke

It may be too late to stop a 100% Brexit because as a democratic country the UK stands by its electorate, and their wishes. It is also easy to blame the shoddy way the referendum was organized – more like a public school lark, than a reasoned university debate, you might say – but that goes a long way in describing the present day media. The Brexit was regarded as light entertainment - and not the good old propaganda of yore - as was the case in most of post WW2 Europe, when crusty, pompous and austere politicians had their half hour on the TV.

Treated so lightly, and so flippantly, it is no wonder that the Brexit became a reality. Perhaps the viewing public thought they were watching a version of The Muppits or perhaps Spitting Image; imagining that the outcome was not very serious, and just a big joke. But, as Nigel Farage so inelegantly put it to the European Union Parliament – ‘You are not laughing at me now!’

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20 Years on, Michael Kapoustin and Life Choice - By Patrick Brigham

‘Letters to My Son,’ is an autobiographical account of Michael Kapoustins life in Bulgaria. In it, he describes his time spent in solitary confinement in a Bulgarian prison as brutal. He reveals how - although he was allowed to write letters – the letters he wrote to his son Nick, were somehow never sent. Kept on remand for five years, it was not until his trial that these letters were finally released to his family. Arrested in 1996, he did not appear in Sofia City Court, until 2001.

Michael Kapoustin with his son Nick

The reason for such a prolonged delay in his trial remains unexplained; even to this day. But he seems sanguine, and almost forgiving for the treatment he received at the hands of the Bulgarian authorities; the shortcomings of which, he puts down to a totally floored Bulgarian legal system, a catastrophic banking system, and clearly, to protracted xenophobia. Michael Kapoustin, born in Yugoslavia, is a Canadian national, and holds a Canadian passport.

That he should have been sentenced so harshly - for his misappropriation of some $4 million USD - to a term of 23 years in a primitive post communist Bulgarian jail, also seems absurd by todays standards. In the late 90s, when certain home grown Sofia bankers - having stolen vastly greater sums from their investors – freely walked the streets of the Bulgarian capital, with a smile on their face, it must have been extremely galling for Kapoustin, as he faced another day in prison. But, why did he become such a forgotten man?

The hypocrisy, double standards, and the resulting chaos in the Bulgarian banking world was the reason. The mid 90s banking crisis successfully served to mask the relatively minor appropriation of funds from Life Choice International - his pyramid organization - which for some time dominated Sofia life. Regarded by many as a magical way of saving and making money, like all pyramid schemes, it was doomed to fail.

Treating Life Choice International as a private finance house, proved to be Kapoustins undoing. Displaying signs of naivety, he began by investing in tropical pharmaceuticals and research - thus giving Life Choice International a sense of respectability – which was good. But, investing in a rather odd mobile crude oil waste petrochemical plant, designed to be used to dispose of huge black and grey water lagoons, proved to be a big mistake.

Although, it had obvious potential - like many of Kapoustins projects - it came up against serendipity, stupidity, and alas, the Bulgarian mentality itself. But, who knows if his investments would have succeeded, had he been given a little more time?

In the then virgin Bulgarian financial marketplace, he was regrettably bound to fail, and this and other unorthodox projects ultimately contributed to his downfall. But, why did people invest in Life Choice International in the first place? Clearly they simply did not trust the Bulgarian government, or their banks in particular. I lost my money on three occasions, with dodgy Bulgarian banks, so I will personally vouch for this fact!

In a report produced for The University of Michigan by the William Davidson Institute, they made the situation in Bulgaria quite clear -“Chronologically, the first wave of the crisis came from the banking system when at the end of May 1996 BNB [The Bulgarian Central Bank] took 5 commercial banks, 3 of which were private, under conservatorship. The attack on the banks was triggered by depositors’ expectations that their foreign deposits would be confiscated or frozen by the government in order to allow it to meet its interest payments on the external debt due in July (there were several indications that the government could do so). The fact that Bulgaria had no agreement with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) in 1996, reinforced this fear. The deposits from the bankrupt banks were transferred to the sound ones and at the same time a Law for Bank Deposit Guarantee passed the Parliament. According to this law, the government had to repay the full amount of individuals' deposits with bankrupt banks, and 50 percent of enterprises’ deposits. At first, individuals were allowed to draw their deposits in BGN [the domestic money] before the court declared its decision on closed banks (withdrawals of foreign currency deposits were in portions). The money withdrawn was quickly directed to the foreign currency market where BGN got under pressure. Later on, this permission was abolished and BGN deposits were also blocked. Altogether, throughout 1996 depositors lost more than 50 percent of their savings.”

In the end Michael Kapoustin was released, but not until a ransom was paid. After 12 years of imprisonment and numerous beatings, he was finally freed from prison, but then transferred to a holding centre for illegal immigrants, where he was held until a sizable civil debt was settled.

Following the news of Kapoustin's release in 2008, CBC News published an interview with his Toronto-based lawyer, Dean Petroff, who said that the Bulgarian government wouldn’t let Kapoustin leave the country, until he payed what was described as a civil debt, of between $17 000 and $30 000.

Petroff said – “We are in negotiations for his ultimate freedom. He has to pay what he calls a bogus payment. We fear for his freedom and his life, just as we did in the past. He feels completely under duress, because he can't get home to his family unless he negotiates this ransom money." But, in the end it was paid somehow, the Canadian Government intervened, and he was finally freed.

Michael Kapoustin, the illegal immigrant.

I don’t expect you to feel sorry for Michael Kapoustin, however you view him – he is a born survivor, and happily takes his own council - but I do expect you to reflect on his trauma; that he was held in solitary confinement for many years – allegedly for his own safety - on death row, in a prison cell next to the onetime place of execution, and the hangman’s noose.

I do, however, expect you to understand how he feels, his memories, and how his autobiography ‘Letters to My Son’- although it might have had a profound cathartic effect on him - might also have encouraged him to reveal some of the hidden truths, bitter memories of his accusers, and finally, the politicians and the corrupt officials, all of whom helped to serve in his downfall.

Letters to My Son, by Michael Kapoustin, will be published by Amazon Kindle, during spring 2017.


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The Unspeakable in Pursuit Of The Unelectable? By Patrick Brigham

Carefully mincing up Oscar Wilds reference to the British landed gentry with the tragicomic hero from from Victor Hugo’s tale - The Hunchback of Notre Dame - might seem far fetched to some, but it goes a long way to demonstrate how comedy, and performers in general, can influence the thinking of a gullible and largely parochial middle class electorate.

From the unlikely invasion by the Turks – Quasi is in fact one of them – to the constant exaggeration about the enormous cost of being in the EU, one man stands out from the rest. As the joker in the Brexit pack of cards - and as we are now forced to accept the result of this democratic debacle - will most European Unionists finally see him for what he is; a really bad joke?

But despite his absurd lies - exaggeration, and misinformation - what was it that made perfectly well adjusted, and generally responsible Little England voters to succumb to his absurd banter, his jokes, half truths, innuendo and pseudo-economic gibberish? What’s more, how did he manage to get Little England, to pass on all this rubbish - to obviously willing recipients - as a well known fact?

Going through past Facebook pages, I notice that many of the firmest supporters of Brexit chose Boris, perhaps because they saw him in terms of being an upper class clown. Nigel Farage, on the other hand, with his Essex boy diction and his constant reminders to us all that he was in the frame because of his hard work and business acumen, did not quite do the trick with Little England. And, where is he now?

I recognise this, because - living in a virtually constant series of Midsomer Murders, Miss Marples or Morse –incumbents in Little England couldn’t possibly pretend to see themselves in the world of Eastenders or Coronation Street. No, their hero had to be quite posh; and not to put a too finer point on it, someone like our Boris, and someone, who could never conceivably tell a lie.

And what about Quasimodo himself; as he swung amongst the gargoyles of Notre Dame, shouting out, ‘I wish I was beautiful like you.’ As he clambered amongst the hideous grimacing Gothic statues, was he dreaming of the lovely Esmeralda, or did he wonder why it was that life had dealt him such a rotten hand of cards? Was, that it?

This time, Quasi has not fallen from the high tower of Notre Dame, and is no longer lying dead at the feet of the conniving Captain Phoebus De Chateaupers. Quasi has landed on his feet and is now the most senior Foreign and Commonwealth Office mandarin in the land, Brexits very own poster boy, and the British Foreign Minister.

I think that Prime Minister Theresa May has got a great sense of humour, I mean, where else could you put a joker like Boris, and where else could a comic genius like him, tell his jokes but on the world stage? I hope that he is half as funny as he has been in the past and that with a face like The Man in The Moon, he manages to continue to make us all laugh, but somehow I doubt it.

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Greece: More a Way of Life – By Patrick Brigham

I live in Greece, because it is easy. Having spent the best part of 20 years living in Bulgaria, and navigating my way through all the painful changes, I was looking for some peace and quiet, an opportunity to collect my thoughts, and time to write my books.

Living in the very north of Greece, I was also close enough to keep in touch with Sofia; only a few minutes away from the City or Edirne in Turkey, and near enough to Svilengrad in Bulgaria, if I found the need to visit Billa or Penny Choice. So with sufficient local distractions to occupy my mind, and enough variety - in order to entertain any visiting guests that might appear on the scene - I have spent my last eight years in Greece.

The other day on Facebook, an Englishman living in the Yambal area, said – ‘I don’t know why you live in Greece, because property is so much cheaper here in Bulgaria,’ and he was right! But, the cost of housing is surely not the only consideration, nor the price of beer or the odd sausage. And, why should an English expat living in Bulgaria, assume that I might wish to live in Bulgaria in the first place? The thought, probably never crossed his mind.

The Bulgaria I went to in the early 90s, was not the Bulgaria of today, and living in the capital was quite different from living in the provinces. Then, Plovdiv was a much nicer place to be and Varna had just as much to offer as Sofia. But Sofia was the capital, was allegedly where it all happened, and undoubtedly considered the place to be.

In those days, Sofia was teeming with foreigners – of various ilks – but many of them had been sent there, either as a punishment, or, as a last resort; because Bulgaria was generally considered by global business, to be an ex Communist basket case.

Big firms often dispatched very young and enthusiastic, ground breaking wannabe’s to Bulgaria. These young entrepreneurs talked a lot about renting spacious – but largely non existent offices - and usually ended up in a one bed flat, their dreams of instant success, drowned in a plethora of incomprehensible bureaucracy. Although, many found comfort in the arms of an amorous secretary, or ‘paid for’ girlfriend, as they were better known, many were disillusioned and soon went home.

But there were quite a few oldies too, who - given one last opportunity to unscramble their blighted careers – ended up in the same situation as their younger counterparts, but with the added excitement of a divorce in their country of origin. Although it is hard to put a specific figure on this statistic, it must have been running at a good 70%.

Diplomats were a little different, and suffering from an incredible siege mentality – due no doubt to exaggerated or faulty secret intelligence – many fearfully confined themselves to their embassy residences. With occasional visits to diplomatic receptions - where oft repeated mantras were exchanged, and copious amounts of alcoholic beverages were consumed - few realized that the sum of Bulgarian intelligence - and most of their national secrets too - could easily be discovered, during an afternoon visit to the Penge Reference Library.

Thirty years have now passed since the political changes, and on the surface, almost everything has improved; but the Bulgarian mentality has not. So, with respect to my Facebook critic, I am pleased to say that these days I live in a kinder country, and without wishing to put too many Bulgarian noses out of joint; a far more civilized place.

Greek people are polite, well educated, and are sophisticated to the unexpected point, that almost everyone speaks English in my village supermarket. My doctor was brought up with the Brits in Cyprus, my lawyer speaks perfect English and I enjoy a good chat with my dentist – before and after, but not during treatment – all of whom face the same financial dilemmas - as all Greeks do - now they are living under the iron fist of Brussels. Everyone is affected by austerity, me included, but they deal with their problems with grace and dignity, which is only to be admired. Also, by the way, another great thing about the Greeks is that they don’t always want something!

In my book, Herodotus: The Gnome of Sofia, and to some extent Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery, I explore many of the early defects of post Communist Bulgarian life in the capital Sofia, and the almost colonial snobbery and self importance of the many expats. The absurd antics of the British Ambassador, Sir Arthur Cumberpot - in Herodotus: The Gnome of Sofia - his dreadful wife, Lady Annabel, and the attitude of a largely dysfunctional embassy staff, take us into the realm of murder and cold war deception.

As does DCI Mike Lamberts police investigations in Judas Goat: The Kennet Narrow Boat Mystery, who finds smug, damning prejudice, and contempt, everywhere he looks; although love does find a way in the end!

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Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and His Coat of Many Colours - By Patrick Brigham

Don’t push your luck Recep

At present, it is hard to think of the Turkish President in glowing terms, mainly because his power stems from street violence, and the many vociferous supporters who gladly undertake his dirty work. To understand why this is, is probably to understand Turkey itself - to some extent its postmodern history - and its formation in the hands of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk.

Although it is clear that Erdogan is a man of the people, it is also hard not to notice his ambiguous stance on Islam, his political gambles, his ruthless pursuit of power, and finally, his unique brand of demagoguery. Claiming to maintain the principles of Ataturks Turkey, it may be that he has quite a different venue in mind.

No matter how many portraits we may see of Ataturk, hanging in Turkish government offices, within the shops and bazaars or even modern shopping malls, it is clear that Atatuk’s latter day successor, is hell bent on reversing many of the principles of a secular society, replacing it with an Islamic state, and finally, his own brand of dictatorship.

Erdogan likes to be listened to a lot, and famous for his interminable speeches, there is no doubt in my mind, that he was directly responsible for a dose of food poisoning I suffered - together with a guest - when we visited the town or Edirne, and a well known restaurant, during the 2015 local authority elections.

Contrary to Turkish Presidential rules, and loudly broadcasting over the local tannoy system, Erdogan regaled the people of Turkey, with his unique brand of political impartiality. This unending political rant – in his trademark loud and monotonous voice - was so absorbing, that the restaurant staff managed to poison the only customers they had that afternoon, or, more accurately, two bloody foreigners interrupting the political debate.

Emanating from relatively humble beginnings, Erdogan is the sum of his many myths, and likes to be seen as a man from the streets. Yet he is building the largest palace in the western world, on the site of the Ataturk Forest and Zoo in the capital, Ankara. Cause for the people of Ankara to demonstrate in the streets, their intransigence was finally stemmed, by Erdogans good old standby; a dose of police brutality.

Sounding more like Saddam Husein, than a man wishing to join the European Union - and its many ‘almost’ federated states- it is hard to see this ever happening, in my view, within the next hundred years or so. And what about visa free travel to the EU for all Turks? Well, the jury is still out on that point, and many European politicians are now regretting, trying to play the Turkish President at his own game.So what has happened in the recent past?

Erdogan has shot down a Russian bomber, which has upset his nemesis Vladimir Putin and although Putin is his secret role model, he has managed to close the door to the largest vegetable market in Eastern Europe, and his own burgeoning Turkish tourist industry.

He has agreed to let the USA fly their missions to Syria and Iraq from Turkey, whilst bombing the hell out of the Kurds as a trade off, and blaming the Kurds for almost everything, including ISIS bombs and terrorist attacks.

In the event of a Turkish Army uprising, "intended to encourage a carefully considered regimen of secularism," although he has managed to put down this recent so called coup d’etat, he is now advocating a return to capital punishment, whilst arresting half the Turkish judiciary, detaining a couple of Turkish armies, and accusing them of all of being traitorous. If he is right, the hangman will be pleased! So where does this ex footballer, - myth maker, ex jailbird and professional loudmouth - stand right now?

There is no question about who his supporters are, many of whom have been enjoying the rewards of a Turkish economic revival, but they also view the EU as their natural marketplace, or even the poor Brexited UK! However, even demagogues can’t manipulate the entire western world, and when the US starts to have second thoughts about Erdogans place in Europe, as Turkey begins to look like just another blighted Middle Eastern state, what will our man of the people do then?

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Whitehall Whitwash or Downright Lies? – By Patrick Brigham

We can all start to wonder- now the Brexit is over and the Sir John Chilcot report is back in the public eye - what has happened to the truth? For years, we have all been fed so many different versions of the truth, that few of us preserve our belief and respect for our leaders. Over the years, they have continually sought to mislead us, and to cloud important national issues, with good old propaganda, and practiced spin doctoring.

Patrick Brigham

Distorting the truth - or even abandoning it altogether - an unacceptable level of mendacity, has crept up on us all, especially when we unwittingly start to repeat the lies - by turning apocryphal statements into probable truths - and finally, into acceptable propaganda. With Brexit – now the main purveyors of ‘porky-pies,’ are out of the race for the job of Prime Minister – we seem to forget, that these very same players, who created Brexit in the first place, are now absent without leave, and, no doubt, gloating over the successful destruction of years of patient and painful negotiations in Europe. But, at the same time, have we all become too soft, and what was Bulgaria like, in their post Communist period, prior to accession into the EU, and how was the truth handled then?

In the second full edition of the Sofia Western News, published in March 1996, the front page attempted to answer the question of, ‘Why The Banks Go Bust.’ At a time when the country was being abused by the Zhan Vidinov regime - and all was not well with the banking structure - there were quite a few lies floating about, from a largely ex-Communist government, and the truth was never encouraged.

Every newspaper was owned or sponsored by a political party – of which there were many – or so called big business, which was a euphemism for the ex Communist groups which had attempted to emulate the antics of the Yelsin administration in the Russian Federation. The fact that Bulgaria had been regarded for years by the Russians as little more than an irritation, didn’t stop the Bulgarian authorities, at the time, from fondly imagining that they were greatly more important than they really were, and not just a bunch of swaggering fools.

In its humble way, The Sofia Western News was a valiant attempt by me, to somehow bring together the Bulgarian and the foreign communities, to promote some kind of mutual understanding, which was something totally missing from the largely inward looking, and self serving diplomatic missions of the day. However, the March 1996 edition of the SWN, was to teach me a good lesson, because, although the foreign community in Sofia seemed almost indifferent to my attempts to bring the two communities together, the Bulgarian authorities were apparently not!

It seemed that my front page had offended quite a number of advertisers, who may – or may not – have been what they seemed! Oddly, the first to withdraw their advertising was British Airways, who, although managed by a young Englishman, was governed by a rather stern Bulgarian lady with solid connections to the old Communist regime. Others followed, but somehow most foreign companies were very loyal, and since the SWN was virtually a broadsheet, we managed to survive. Then of course, there were various visits by officers of ‘The Ministry of the Interior,’ together with a number of invitations to attend official interviews!

First and foremost, they were apparently very concerned about my personal right to be in Bulgaria. This was something which seemed to hang over me until 2007, which was when Bulgarian EU accession took place. So for fifteen years – with the enthusiastic intervention of various officers from within the ranks of ‘The Ministry of The Interior’– I found myself attending the infamous Maria Louisa police station in Sofia, to undergo interviews – officially, and often unofficially - in order for them to get a clear picture of my activities.

For them, I was obviously being sponsored by some sort of clandestine organization; after all, the other newspapers were suspect, as were the TV and radio channels. My office was inspected twice, by a man in a mackintosh, as well as my office lease and associated business documents. Funny clicks were heard on the telephones – which were analog at the time – and extra squeaks were heard over my now historical fax machine. My theory was that they had run out of fax paper! But, why am I telling you this?

I am trying to explain to you, what Communism was like. Forget the fall of the Berlin wall, and the theatricality of newly discovered Eastern European democracy. Because, six years after the so called changes, the Bulgarian authorities were still using Communist tactics to control people. Why? Because the same people were in control from before, and they liked to frighten people.

Reading the 1996 front page of the SWN, it seems very tame these days – almost a joke – but in those days, people were not supposed to know the truth, because, all there was to read, watch or listen to, was propaganda. Anybody who spoke out, was dealt with, and anybody who stepped out of line was punished. I was not so different from most other people, at the time, but what of the Brexit, and where may it lead you?

The question is, has Bulgaria changed enough, or is it still tied down by outdated control mechanisms and almost Byzantine bureaucracy? Will they confound you with obscure rules and will you be frustrated, when they send you away for some even more obscure reason, and waste everyone’s time? Will the gremlins of the past, re-emerge and make your life just a little less boring, or will you continue to live in Bulgaria in peace? I have always managed to see the specter of a Bolshevik hiding behind the smiles of the Bulgarians, because they were very good at messing people about!

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The Party’s Over, but, Is It Time to Call It A Day? – by Patrick Brigham

Her Majesty with James Bond

They have certainly burst all the pretty balloons, but unfortunately, they haven’t chased all the clowns away. Is it time to wake up - all dreams must end - take off their makeup, the piper must be paid?

This evergreen song by Julie Styne, Betty Comden and Adolph Green, easily sticks in our minds, and is so appropriate when we view the last few days in British politics; following the EU referendum. But the last few days have also given us all time to think why and how it happened, and to analyse all the hidden agendas – the cast list involved - and the probable outcome.

Since the changes, Bulgaria has managed to attract a large number of British expats, all happily living in the provincial districts, many of whom have come from fairly deprived areas in the UK where unemployment has been the norm. Forgetting the statistics about 5% UK unemployment, and other jingoistic government propaganda - representing an overall national calculation, which includes London and the major areas where jobs are in abundance - one of the good points about the British economy, is the somewhat absurd price of property.

These days, a retired couple or an unemployed couple with few prospects - struggling to survive on a poor pension or benefits, in the English Midlands - might easily discover that the proceeds of sale from their humble semi, can buy a substantial property in Bulgaria. With land and outbuildings attached, it can represent an opportunity they might never have dreamed of, in the normal course of events, had they remained in Middle England. Good! Now these pioneers - who wish to escape and enjoy a Bulgarian lotus eating lifestyle - will never look back. But some do, and what they look back on, may have been the main reason for the Brexit.

Boris and his Antics

The vast majority of people who traditionally live in the heartlands of industrialized Britain, are Labour Party voters. When the English Midlands became gradually less industrialized, during the last thirty years of EU membership – and with the advent of globalization - they not only saw company closures and the prospects for work diminish, but they realized that they had been put on the back-burner of British society. Margaret Thatchers yuppies couldn't care less about unemployed factory workers, and even Norman Tebbit told the unemployed to get on their bike. Blairs government didn’t fool anyone either – the UK was still being ruled by posh boys in suits – which rather brings us to the present, and our current government front runners. Old Etonians, Harrovians and a plethora of middle class want-to-be’s seem to have dominated the British political scene for the last six years, and now the party seems to be over. But why?

It seems that traditional socialist voters have concluded that The Labour Party has become so diminished, that it no longer represents the views or needs of ordinary working people. In a decade where they have seen their poster boy Blair becoming one of the worlds mega rich, and even grumpy old Gordon Brown – who I admire greatly – finally deciding that enough was enough, the referendum was a wonderful opportunity to strike a blow for ordinary people, for the forgotten industrial areas of England, to finally be noticed once more. Sick of posh boys speeches and the droll political Labour Party dinosaurs, being humiliated daily in the British Parliament, it was time to take things into their own hands. And, it worked! But this was because of a strange turn of fate.

Enoch Powell

What was odd, was that the traditional Conservative voters and the middle classes thought that it was a Conservative – so called blue on blue - referendum, and that they alone were dominating the Brexit campaign. Posing as true patriots and profound Eurosceptics, they imagined that it was the shopkeepers, factory owners and the professions, who were fronting the Brexit programme. With their absurd claims and downright lies about immigration - imagining that somehow they had become latter day disciples of Enoch Powell – they were in fact playing to an audience, with a quite different venue.

That audience was used to a multicultural society, because it lived quite happily, within it. These were people - who might have said, that their favourite English food, was Chicken Madras –were not influenced one little bit, by the antics of Boris Johnson nor were they in any way connected to the gormless and the glib rhetoric, of the gormless and glib, Michael Gove.

Back to our Balkan reality, one can easily see why so many Brits live in other parts of Europe, away from a blatant two layer society, which they inherited from their forebears after WW2. Seeing it as a society where the have-not’s, are often treated with contempt - laughed at and humiliated by members of a private club, who not only rule the roost, but glory in their easily acquired personal fortunes - no wonder those remaining in the UK, wanted to get even. Hopefully, Brexit will teach the very people who instigated it, a very profound lesson, and apart from knocking them off their perch, they will now have to look hard at the mess they have created for themselves, make amends, and move towards a more inclusive society. Do I want to live in the UK, good question?

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Last Brexit to Nowhere – by Patrick Brigham

This is my last and final rant about the Brexit – stay or remain – until the final vote is cast. I will not complain, diminish, demonise, belittle or demean the referendum or its various players, after publication of this article, nor will I trivialize, satirize or lampoon the events as they unfold. I am sick of it.

The British Bulldog, is a formidable creature, and bred for Bull baiting – often eulogized during the Victorian era - it has a powerful bite. Intended to hang onto its quarry - at any cost - it has become synonymous with stubbornness, fortitude and resolve. With qualities ascribed to the British character in general, the question is:-

‘Does the British Bulldog still have any teeth left, or, is it only capable of administering a nasty suck?’

The Brexit debate has revealed all sorts of people and opinions, many emerging from their silent vigil, in the very background of British politics. But it has also exposed a plethora of half truths, innuendo and downright lies. It seems that many of the groups involved in this referendum – to stay or to leave - have either been driven by extreme levels of ignorance, wishful thinking, or the political classes are now so steeped in deceit, that the truth hardly matters any more.

Perhaps a global tendency - as we can see in the current US primaries - it nevertheless implies a total lack of integrity, honesty, and perhaps even a general trend, in many of the national leaders, both in the UK and elsewhere. The question is:-

‘Is it a determination to win at any cost, has the truth only been mislaid for the time being, and is it something to do, with the fog of war?’

This referendum is not about war. It is about the preservation of democracy, involving a properly informed public, voting with their heads, and not their hearts. So, let’s move on to the motivation behind many of these Brexiteers?

There are few who can honestly say that they are WW2 brats - although I can still remember seeing the odd Supermarine Spitfire, flying overhead during my childhood in Berkshire - and most of us have not experienced WW2, except latterly on certain evocative WW2, TV programs.

But in the post war period, a lot of the thinking behind the EEC – latterly known as the EU – was not, and could never purely be about trade, and diplomacy. It was also about peace – Churchills famous iron curtain - and the Cold War. Part and parcel of securing Europe, and adding to the looming presence of NATO, the EEC was then the greatest European threat against the Soviets, a matter which Mr. Putin still acknowledges, as president of the Russian Federation. Recently, he has announced, even he is confused about Camerons referendum, and a possible Brexit outcome!

Revealing that the great majority of present day referendum voters can only see Britains membership of the EU in monetary terms, surely common sense will prevail, because - should Great Britain leave the European Union – not only will the Union itself be consequently weakened, but so will the UK. Or, is the old Bulldog being fitted with some new dentures, which I haven’t heard of?

Boris and The Goldfish Bowl – by Patrick Brigham

If the World was just a goldfish bowl,
Am I looking out or looking in?
Are the things I see,
As I should be,
And, shall I sink or swim.
Norris Throdes 1926 – 2015 The Bard of Wrexham, North Wales

As an old man, Norris Throdes became very angry. In his polemic written in 2015 and titled: “Not Another Bloody Referendum, Thank You Very Much,” he reached back into his past, searching for any plausible reason, why it was that the English permanently dominated British politics, and inevitably told The Welsh what to do.

At a time when few people had ever been abroad, Throdes cast his mind back to his past, in search of childhood clues, that might possibly explain the present state of affairs in British politics. Back in time - to the front room of his comfortable family home in pre WW2 Wrexham - he remembered his goldfish called Dave.

Somehow, he could imagine himself to be Dave, swimming around his glass bowl, casually wondering about the world outside. Was it true that the Earth was flat? Was it true that if you went far enough, you would drop off the edge, and land up in a horrifying place called America? Surely, it was much better to swim around aimlessly all day long, believing that you lived in perfect harmony with nature, in a perfect country, and in five litres of very clean Welsh tap water.

Norris Throdes mind started to race, and as it focused on his idyllic Welsh childhood, he began to adopt the goldfish’s persona, to ponder on his aquatic existence, and to speculate on possible life changing events to come. What would happen, if another goldfish was introduced into his bowl? Would there be enough space for two fish to coexist, and would it cause certain frictions to emerge - especially when it came to size and strength - and of course, the small matter of intelligence. That, of course, would rather depend on the second fish being a fellow male. If it was a female, of course it would be different, and Thodes could easily imagine himself swimming around after her, for all sorts of spurious reasons.

In order not to digress to much, Throdes finally concluded, that there had to be a second male in the bowl, in order for his analogous polemic to make any sense. His original goldfish he remembered, was called Dave, but what would be a good name for the second goldfish – if he were to introduce one into the goldfish bowl - that was his greatest problem. In the end the name Boris came to mind, and in his ever mushrooming dissertation on goldfish, Throdes could now see – in his mind’s eye of course - both Dave and Boris, happily swimming around together in a perfect harmony, in a shiny glass bowl in Wrexham.

Now the story began to unfold - in a very familiar way - because, in due course, Boris wanted to leave the goldfish bowl, and this was when the arguments started!

'You can’t get out, you're in!'

‘You don’t know what’s out there Boris,’ Dave was becoming emotional, ‘and if you jump, who knows what will happen, because you will never be able to come back.’

‘Yes, but I want my own bowl to live in,’ Boris was beginning to sneer, ‘somewhere I don’t have to share with you, or any of the others. I’m sick of you all.’

‘But if you stay, we can look after each other, because we have everything we need. What’s wrong? Don’t you like me – is it because I look different?’

Boris’s eyes twinkled and although he had not fully considered the consequences, he laughed at Dave. ‘You’re pathetic,’ and he kept repeating it, as though Dave had no inkling about life or any future possibilities. ’Don’t you realize yet, that I am the greatest? I am indomitable, and not only can I foretell the future, I can leap into it.’ Having said which, he shouted ‘Goodbye Dave and the rest of you plonkers!’

Boris jumped out of the glass bowl and wriggling over the table, on which the glass bowl was standing, he landed on the floor with a thump. Soon the flapping noise became less and less, and finally nothing. Norris Throdes suddenly remembered his mother’s cat Tommy, and now - apart from the silence - all he could hear, was the sound of Tommy purring, and licking his paws.

I never knew what happened to Norris Throdes polemic, because a few days later he had passed away. His nurse, at the local ‘Home for The Permanently Bewildered,’ told me that, after I left, he had found it difficult to sleep. Apparently, being very short sighted, he had spent the night in the wardrobe, trying to find the light switch.

If the world is like a goldfish bowl,
Not looking out, but looking in,
Are those I see,
As I used to be,
And why they seldom win?

Enoch Powell and The Crystal Ball – by Patrick Brigham

In the late 60s, Enoch Powell was undergoing some serious grief, for his so called ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech, which he allegedly gave in Wolverhampton on April 20th 1968. At a time when social and racial emancipation was the keyword for any western civilization, bound on a course of post WW2 enlightenment, he chose a very poor time to give a warning about the probable result of too much immigration. His punishment was a trip to obscurity, the Denizens of free love won the day, and simply let it all hang out!

I was caught up in the middle. As a young jazz pianist – as I was then - black people were a part of my cultural life. I had experienced racial prejudice at first hand, but had also noticed how easy it was to vanquish, certainly by the drummer in my jazz trio. He was a Master Sergeant from the US air force base at Lower Wellford, and after a session at my family farmhouse in Burghfield one evening, we decided to go for a beer at The Hatch Gate, my local pub.

The pub landlord - who was famous for being cantankerous, truculent and rude - refused to serve my friend, stating quite clearly - and in a very loud voice - that he did not serve blacks. My fellow American musician was totally nonplussed by the whole event, and calmly stated: ‘If you don’t serve me now, landlord, tomorrow you will not have to serve fifty black American servicemen like me, so it is up to you; you decide.’ Of course he got his pint of beer, and a small local skirmish was averted. But, this was also a time – for me at least - that the 20th Century had seemingly arrived in provincial UK, and at a time when most of the student population and the prevailing intelligentsia, we're looking for a fight.

I know, because I managed to get my head thumped. It was on the occasion of a visit by Enoch Powell to Reading University, a speech he was to deliver on economics, and a subject he was very familiar with. The organizers, realizing that there could be some aggravation, asked me - along with others - if I would like to be one of his heavies for the afternoon, and very unwisely I said yes.

As soon as Enoch Powell entered the hall, the mayhem began. Placards appeared accusing him of racism, and a cacophony – reminiscent of a football chant – started, but Enoch wasn’t a Military Cross veteran for nothing, and gave as good as he got. ‘By now,’ he said to the chanting audience, ‘you must all be assured of a first class degree, in your chosen subject, but for one small deficiency which I have noticed in your behaviour. You see, it is the ear through which you gain all knowledge, and not the mouth.’

Enoch left the stage, and we, his secret army, pushed our way through the crowd - being bashed and beaten, by all and sundry - in order to form a passageway to the door and his waiting Rolls Royce. Bloodied but unbowed, we looked back to see where Enoch was, but he had disappeared altogether. An anticlimax for everyone, but not for Enoch, he had slipped out of the back door, and was on his way to Reading train station in a beaten up Mini! So, what is the moral of this story?

The phrase ‘rivers of blood,’ doesn’t appear, in the Wolverhampton speech at all, because Powell used words from the Aeneid: “As I look ahead, I am filled with foreboding; like the Roman, I seem to see ‘the River Tiber foaming with much blood.”

Powell was also cause for a rethink about The Common Market, and his then famous, ‘Get Britain Out of The Common Market,’ speech, made at the New Century Hall in Manchester in 1974. Made before a sea of white faces, mainly from the older age groups, there was serious argument among the audience themselves about their reasons for not being in the pre EU club. But, what were they arguing about, apart from immigration, because there was a lot of ambivalence about bloody foreigners then too!

The Guardian, at the time, reported how, ‘Powell left no doubt that he regarded the preservation of British sovereignty and independence as an end for which “any disadvantage and any sacrifice are a cheap price.” He thus effectively warned Mr Heath – the then Prime Minister - that he was prepared to set the pace for a policy rebellion by the anti-Common Market wing of the party over the next year.’

Addressing a Conservative association meeting in Birmingham, the BBC reported that: ‘Mr Powell said Britain had to be mad, to allow in 50,000 dependents of immigrants each year. He compared it to watching a nation busily engaged in heaping up its own funeral pyre. The MP for Wolverhampton South West called for an immediate reduction in immigration and the implementation of a Conservative policy of "urgent" encouragement of those already in the UK to return home.’

I can’t help feeling that there is an ‘Enoch Moment,’ happening right now. It seems that the argument for ‘in or out,’ is only part of the political landscape, and that UK PLC, needs to decide whether it wants to stay in the 20th Century or live anew in The 21st Century.

If it stays in the 20th Century, we will all watch the slow disintegration of a fading nationalist and largely racialist society. If the UK chooses to coexist, in a shaky but more open minded 21st Century, it can help to lead a more enlightened EU, in which Great Britain continues to have its say. If it says nothing, then it is up to you to elect politicians who will be listened to in the Brussels Parliament, as well as listening carefully to the babble of the streets, and us; the great unwashed.

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Death in The Afternoon - by Patrick Brigham

The mindless piffle which is being peddled by Brexit campaigners in order to influence voters in the forthcoming EU referendum, has reached a point in its silliness, that I for one would like to see the entire gaggle of vapid politicians and glib speakers, out of a job by the next UK parliamentary election. Why? Because they are treating British voters like fools, and, do you really want your country run by people who do that? What they say may be funny, and some of their antics are rather comical, but when are they going to stop this absurd Victorian farce, and kindly leave the stage!

‘Of course, you will be much better off financially, and you won’t have bloody foreigners telling you what to do in Brussels, meddling in British lawmaking, and there will also be no further illegal immigration into Great Britain.’

Oh, really? You mean that illegal immigrants are residing within our sceptred isles, because of Brussels? That there will be no bombers arriving in the UK, because of Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson. What a joke! Oh, by the way, I have got a good joke for you, now I remember it. This was told to me by an Indian friend from Amritser, just across the border from Pakistan and Lahore – it’s very funny.

You see, there was this jihadist who is an instructor for ISIS, and he is lecturing a group of would be suicide bombers, on how to blow themselves up using a suicide vest. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘I want you to pay attention, because I am only going to show you how to do this once…..

You think that’s funny do you? Well, the photograph above, is of a Taliban suicide bomber, who was arrested, somewhere in Kabul, because his vest didn’t detonate. When he was strip searched by the authorities, they also discovered that his wedding tackle was protected by a thick metal sheath. When he was asked why he had protected his private parts in such a way, he replied that it was so he could bonk the allotted 23 virgins, he would be blessed with, when he arrived in heaven, and was declared a martyr.

You see very ignorant and stupid people like this, haven’t heard of Nigel Farage, don’t know about Romanian Gypsys, and know little or nothing about the brain drain from Bulgaria and Greece, to the office markets in England. This is partly because they are extremely thick, their life is not worth living, and they are prepared to kill themselves at the whim of some mad Mulla with a big hat. An event which might take place in a Sainsbury’s car park near you; do you still think that’s funny?

What is not funny, is the way the British Government ignores Europol, and the great majority of bilateral assistance available from all the EU security services; a part of the silly argument, that we don’t need Europe as much as they need us. Our great leaders tell us that our security services are indomitable, and the best in the world. But, what is also not very funny, is that this very subject is fast becoming the pivotal reason for Britain leaving the EU, so, do you really believe that this is true.

In my recently published book The Dance of Dimitrios, my Europol detective Chief Inspector Mike Lambert is faced by two such radicalized terrorists. They are holding a young boy captive and threatening to kill him, unless certain conditions are met. Together with a specialist armed unit, DCI Lambert confronts them, a firefight ensues and although the boy escapes, Lambert is badly injured by hostile gunfire. In my tale of illegal immigrants and terrorists, I don’t disguise the fact that most of the Al Qaeda or ISIS soldiers are uneducated morons, who believe in a luxurious afterlife if they sacrifice their lives for their jihadist cause. What happens to these two radicalized clowns, will not surprise you, except where it happens. A car park in West London, is the unlikely setting, maybe offering my readers a portent of things to come?

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Now for some light relief -

‘Mumbo, jumbo, rhubarb, rhubarb,
Prosti-rhubarb off the streets.
We will fight them on the beaches,
But we’ll lose between the sheets.’

Thus Spoke the Great Bard – Spike Milligan