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Author Patrick Brigham



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.

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 –

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 –

“Each country is very different, but Greece has its own dignity, and a special place in my heart.”

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.

“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.”

All Patricks books are available from Amazon.

Goddess of the Rainbow by Patrick Brigham

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.

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.

With My Little Eye - By Patrick Brigham

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.

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.

THOSE WERE THE DAYS!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Remember that rock outside the British Embassy in Moscow, which MI6 turned into a telephone base station in order to receive information? http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4638136.stm

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.

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.

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.

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.

AUTHOR PATRICK BRIGHAM

What am I writing now?

I have just finished the second edit of a new novel called Goddess of The Rainbow.

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.

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.

THE DANCE OF DIMITRIOS

Author Patrick Brigham

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-

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.

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, The Dance of Dimitrios, which takes place in Greece, Bulgaria, and also in London.

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.

Writer & Journalist Patrick Brigham

THE DANCE OF DIMITRIOS SYNOPSIS

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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."

The Dance of Dimitrios by Patrick Brigham

The Invisible Bank Manager - By Patrick Brigham

Gerald Thwaites – The Invisible Bank Manager

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!’

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!

Mildred Thwaites

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?’

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.

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.

“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!

“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.”

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

Patrick Brigham

The Rolf Harris Care Home for Political Perverts

No longer a subject for political debate, Brexit has now been replaced by Sexit.

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.

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.

The Terrible Twins

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.

The Beautiful People

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.

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.

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 –

‘Get your hands off, Tristian, you really are a pervert,’ they were often overheard with amusement, by fellow dancers and revelers alike.

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?

Billie Bunter

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-

“Your teeth are like the stars, do they come out at night?”

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.

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-

“Keep your mind on the driving, keep your hands on the wheel, and keep your snoopy eyes on the road up ahead?”

Rather than singing, “God Save the Queen,” because, at least, Her Majesty won’t have to send you to prison!

Brinkmanship & Boredom - By Patrick Brigham

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?

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

Who Owns Your Body? - By Patrick Brigham

Ealing council is considering legal action against anti-abortion protesters accused of “harassing” women attending a clinic.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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


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.

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.

*** The result of rape is another matter, and I think it should be treated quite separately, because of the criminal aspects concerned. ***

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.

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.

A Day In The Life Of a Writer – By Patrick Brigham

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.
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.
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.

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.
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.
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!

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.
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.
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?

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.
”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!”
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?

Princess Diana: Death by Popularity? - By Patrick Brigham

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

“Jack Sprat who could eat no fat,

His wife could eat no lean,

And so between them both, you see,

They licked the platter clean. ”

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.

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.