Peter Ridgley

Monday 21st June 1999. Bucuresti.

Hardly feel confident about anything at the moment..

felt confident this morning, then , as usual, with the daytime
passing, time passing, my confidence slowly evaporated, more
so when it occurred to me that Cyntia was playing Royal
Academy of Dramatic Art. with me ..crying …once I start
thinking along those lines, then it is goodnight nurse.
The question is whether to start the book.. how to start it,
where to start it.. the whole thing a black wall in front of me..
not good.. At this moment unable to see anywhere too start,
personally feel have changed so very much over these last
months, especially this morning ..woke up ..thought.. thought I
would make things happen, nothing much has recently….
Now tired, not feel like anything whatsoever.. No longer have
that drive, that motivation as I had with AndreeA.. with
“AndreeA’s Passion” She, no force at all within me now,
hardly feel there is a woman on this Planet who can inveigle
me to get up off my arse and do something ..anything….which
is a different scenario from two years ago.. I breathed, lived
existed only for AndreeA. Whatever she wanted ..I would get
it, or do it. If she wanted me to put shelves up ..demanded I
put up shelves, in her arrogant way, she, adorning,
complimenting, my small beautiful apartment in London…
then I would put shelves up.. She would watch, silent, staring
pointedly, sitting on the floor knees up, arms round, long skirt
pulled down, she would watch, head slightly to one side,..
while I worked, a gentle smile of sublime satisfaction crossing
her face each time I used the drill.. ……….AndreeA.
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 Maybe this is it, maybe these are the words which will
finally finish up in print ..maybe. As previously, will be writing
backwards, nothing normal.. no beginning middle and end.. as
Cyntia remarked about “Normality’ in her acid manner.. “ What
is Normal ? ” then she always answers a question with a
question ..or if the situation is tight, refuses to answer at all.
No it is impossible, my thoughts not coherent.. even erratic..
then I have always been that… the common consensus. one
minute up, the next down.. so be it.. quite capable of jumping
from one situation to another ..no problem at all, able to do this
as my brain never really forgets anything, certainly it
sometimes needs time, eventually it clicks . Fortunately I write
only for myself.. hardly need a audience, so remain free from
any considerations, other than my own feelings.

May as well make the attempt.. not a bad afternoon,

sitting here in Bucuresti, Cyntia gone to work.. thankfully..
Blinds down, doors shut, fan going. Faintly, madmen
motorcars racing up and down the street below…echoes of
Clapton Common… hardly appears to be anything to stop me
from starting.., just my own disinclination .. have become very
lazy during this Bucuresti period.

Book two, a short, sharp essay.. no more, the preamble,

so strong, regarding my conviction, consideration of England,
the English, having an identity crisis.... felt determined to get
that down for whatever reason, not so long ago ..only about a
year. Now, hardly care, said what had to be said, wanted to
say ..did not need any female face for that particular piece.

Out of it , England, Europe, simply become too much, too

many rules, regulations, too many constraints, too much
extortion of the individual, too many cameras watching too
many people.

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 Those who actually control the country.. responsible for
manipulating the proliferating masses down the road of
mirages.. those faces are afraid.. quite evidently afraid, afraid
their wealth, their power, accrued rigorously over centuries, will
be snatched from them, their myriad armies of so heavily
armed, uniformed robots, their cameras, constantly alert,
constantly looking out.. to instantly apprehend, crush, another
Lenin ..or more distinctly, another Hitler.

The politically correct, obedient people of the United

Kingdom “subjects” inexorably watch football, watch
Coronation street, mesmerized. World Without End..
Amen.

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 As said in book two, none of this tension, fear, if you
like, pervade the atmosphere of Romania.. Bucuresti is rather
tension free. Children play in the streets unmolested, old ladies
are able to walk their dogs any time, day or night, not forced to
be imprisoned in their own homes locked, barred and bolted.
Young women do not have to be escorted everywhere.

Could hardly imagine the English, those few elite who

“rule” letting that situation continue if they were in control here..
No.. they would soon import some tension, build some
mosques.. build some temples in Piata Victoria and Unirii…
soon tighten the situation up, London, Neasden, having the
largest temple in Europe.. possibly more mosques than Islam,
the mosque in Park Road, Regents Park, being one of the
most opulent in the World. In Contrast, the “Church of
England “ at the other end of the market, fortunate in
managing to dispose of most of their real estate, it converts
into excellent flats, “Christianity” in deep decline.

The recent fiasco of the war next door, Americans/British

dropping bombs on Yugoslavia, maybe simply a demonstration
of power, what will happen to others if they do not conform to
Big Brother, to NATO, a stern warning of the have's, to the
have not's, to behave themselves.. to be “Politically Correct”
to force the self inflicted tensions, fears and greed of the West
on others in the name of “Democracy” I could spell it
perhaps differently.

Who are the inhabitants of the Pentagon and the

heavily fortified shelters of subterranean Whitehall? these
faceless creators of the greatest one sided European war of
intervention I have ever lived through. All about ?? no one
apparently knows, care even less.

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5
 Heard said “Little more than a deflection on Mr.
Clinton”s part of the Lewinsky affair”.. not quite “Helen of Troy”,
not up to such a standard, culture spelt with a K, how else?

The Americans lost two men, so I believe and they

through a accident. During 39..45. the Russians alone lost
twenty two million. Perhaps, as I saw on one placard “Stop
playing God..” maybe it is that.

The only people who have rubbed their hands at

the oppression here by the West are those making money
from the sad fiasco, a crude, “Carrot and stick for the
donkey” situation. The perception of West being the
Balkans are donkeys, ripe for “development” a little
persuasion .. a B57, perhaps.

The French already having “bought” oil concessions

here and taken back “Dacia Cars” eyes on the practically
slave labour market, as with the Greeks, members of “The
European Community” NATO and the oldest “Democracy”.
Some of these gentlemen have wasted no time in opening up
shop here, averse to exploitation naturally, in the
“Community” , not above it in Romania.

One enterprising, Noble Greek in particular, has

opened a sausage factory in Otopeni, The Romanian ladies
locked in, twelve hours a day, six days a week for $60 a
month, bring your own food…works out .. 20 cents a hour.
(July. 99)

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 Obviously, the Romanian people, struggling from
beneath the clutches of one regime, have in all innocence,
fallen under another, believing the encouraging words,
promises and beatific, gentle smiles of Madeline Albright,
Robin Cook and a few other faces of the West… all bleating
out in unison ..

“Thank you for your wonderful assistance in our

struggle with the despot of Belgrade, but few of you peasants
will get a visa for the West “ italics are mine.

The Russians and the Germans both stripped and took

everything they could carry from Romania, the only difference
being the Germans paid for the bread.

Curious, the cost of bombing the Chinese embassy ?

How much to reconstruct Yugoslavia.. bridges over the
Danube? …stop the sequence of centuries.. Christians and
Muslims eating each other.

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 In View of the Kosovo debacle, Hungary, now a
member of the much trumpeted, nevertheless, crooked
European Community, it would be reasonable to conclude
Romania will be bombed by NATO in the name of
democracy, unless she willingly gives up land the
Hungarians covet.

***********************************************************************

Did you know ? the “Serbs” i.e. the now

discredited people of Yugoslavia, made rubber blow up
tanks and put down white, canvass highways, which the
young, highly trained, highly motivated, dedicated pilots
of 21st century NATO warplanes, proceeded to bomb, at
great expense, with great accuracy and deadly
seriousness.

***********************************************************************

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 It should be perhaps pointed out, now the smoke has
cleared.. Mr Milosevich attempted to stop the proliferation of
Muslims, breeding to the extent of not only destabilizing
Kosovo, but the Balkans.. He is too late.
The Balkans have been the tinder box on many
occasions, my exaggerated scenario being.. the Muslims and
the West fight it out. Russia, who has slept so far
apparently, (then the German’s fell for that one) waits the
opportune moment and strikes whoever remains standing.
Thirty years previous, Mr Enoch Powell voiced the
idea parallel to Mr Milosevich when England had been thrown
open to all who wished to go there, no Visa’s, no questions . At
the time the indigenous working population had control of their
own destiny, they were in a strong position to negotiate a high
living standard, almost independent… much to the extreme
annoyance, displeasure and anxiety of those in control of
Capital who decided to break this powerful labour market by
throwing the country open to mass immigration, smashing the
private labour sector, Mrs. Thatcher, the culmination of this
process, dealing the final, fatal blow by destroying all “State
Industries” ( industries which belong to the people ) last
bastions of organized labour.
First the striking miners obliterated with troops,
violence and humiliation. Then ! with slight sleight of hand and
a poker face, giving away to her friends and acquaintances,
the coal mines, transport, railways, gas, electricity and
anything else she could think of, effectively ending, the era of
Trade Unions and organized labour, attempting to conceal her
remarkable actions with the respectable, nevertheless quite
deceptive word “privatization”. Mrs. Thatcher, now in full swing,
unstoppable, irrepressible, became the founder of Global
Labour Exploitation and in a rare, quiet moment, over a bottle
of scotch, gave nodding assent to the Channel Tunnel. A
most remarkable, ruthless woman.
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 Her final blow to those unfortunate enough to be poor,
to be diseducated was the selling off of Council Housing, a
faint chance of a home, a legacy from more enlightened days..
selling to anyone who wanted to buy, heavily discounted to
sitting tenants. Those clever enough capitalized. Thank her for
quite inadvertently getting Peter off the hook, would most
certainly not be sitting here saying my piece without that
legislation. No, not going back, don’t get excited.. a Romanian
Citizen, thank God. Quite possibly be dead now, London a
very dangerous place for old people, young, come to that.
Council House sales, most controversial, a strange
condescension to the poor, the only substantial piece of the
cake they ever had or ever will eat. End result is no chance
of a secure home, only the .. “select”. In the case of
Hounslow, which holds Heathrow airport, any such person
who gets off a plane without anywhere to live, must be given a
house “immediately” without regard to the homeless
indigenous population, a reward from the revolting rich, who
conspired to divide England, punish the proletariat, save
themselves, a conspiracy indeed…

It has been seen.. Indian wandering the streets, pots

and pans, old blankets, having disembarked from a Jumbo
with two wives and seven kids.. all wrapped up in traditional
Sari gear, shouting out, ..indeed.. demanding.. his right..!!

“Give us our house and money !!”

The only English words he knew…

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 Hackney Borough Council have a further
implementation. A man with two wives must be given a house
with two kitchens…then Hackney is Middle England for Blacks.
Hackney, the poorest borough in Europe and having the
greatest race mix.
For a colourful “tourist” ride, take the 653 bus from
Tottenham Court road to Aldgate, it bisects Hackney.

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It is not possible to negotiate when there are people
squatting on the floor, waiting at the door… waiting to
take your job, without conditions, people who will eagerly
do it so much cheaper, not necessarily better, people from
Africa, India, Turkey, from anywhere, any conceivable
corner of the Planet, a vast army of the World’s
demanding, , unwanted, disenchanted, who clamored into
the country night and day to the aid, protection and at the
behest of money. No bloodshed, no bombs, , no outcry
which could not be suppressed at this, the greatest
invasion in the Country’s history, only the historic
phrase “Rivers of Blood” made in protest by Mr Powell
who was relentlessly put down by his own party, the
National Press, TV and the leaders of this sea of black
faces, this ragged army of invaders, who raged from the
temples and mosques.. shouting the new word “Racist”
at him and anyone else who opposed them and opposed
giving their own country away without a fight, anyone who
decided they object at being forced to live with other
cultures, sheep’s head, not fish and chips, anyone who
decides that black people, en masse, are intimidating, that
the black levers of power are humiliating by design. To
compound this, laws of silence are enforced with heavy
penalties for anyone who dare speak out….. No one
does… The Ethnic population has, by multiplication, and
infiltration, become very strong, strong enough to be in a
position to destabilize the vote in very many
constituencies, as with Ethnic Albanians, they now wish
for independence.. a Black Parliament on the cards.
White people must be politically correct when they speak
to or about black people.. a touch of subservience in their
“attitude” preferred. The “Race Relations” Tribunal
having huge powers and use them, able to take anyone to
the highest court in the land. England now gripped tight in

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the same turmoil as Kosovo, captured from within by a
writhing Trojan Horse.

Ethnic Albanians return in triumph to Kosovo,

with the same savagery, the aid of the West, the
bombs of NATO.

Islam, vindicated or placated ?

Justice , without doubt, is the will of the stronger, the

rule of the many. ( all the trouble and violence in Iran at the
moment is caused by the prolific wave of people born since
1979.
(CNN. 7.14. 99. )

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 Mostly beyond peoples’ comprehension here as to
what is going on there.. Always the same remarks..

“How can this be? Are the English so stupid ?.. why
don’t they do something ? “

England long ago failed to do anything, or to hear

“ The Shrill Clarion Call”
Certainly it clearly, religiously, hears the opening bars of

“Coronation street” Eight p.m. each

evening
And
“Time Gentlemen please !!

Goodnight .. goodnight Mavis,

goodnight Elsie, Ta Ta …

Ask Bill to get your teeth done, you look terrible“

( thanks and apologies to T. S. Elliot)

July 14, 1999.

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15
 Raluka rang last night.. terrible state.. being the
recipient of one of my famous letters, she being the bird who
stole a flat from me here in Bucuresti.. concluding I would say
“Oh well “ as perhaps some men would.. wipe my mouth and
walk away, she is mistaken. Hardly feel there are so many
people on this Planet who can afford to take a blow such as
that.

After having a confrontation with this wall for the last

ten minutes, a very difficult confrontation, apparently it is time
to get on with the story, go back to John’s café, to Lambs
Conduit street, Mickey Kelly, Bernie, Isle of Wight Bill,
Jimmy Skinner, our famous man of Thailand… all the faces,
quite a few of whom are now dead. Berni still kicking round
the Far East, somewhere in the Jungle in Thailand, he almost
eighty. Johnny Miles still out there . Those two men after
being together for forty years working together were split up by
two Thai birds. John and Bernie now live at opposite ends of
the country ..never the twain to meet.. simply jealousy of the
women, John having money, Bernie having nothing by
comparison. Way the world and women go round.. women.!

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 Back to Lambs Conduit street, the night with Glenna, a
situation to wynd its own inevitable course, okay, maybe a
variation..

Became quite intense over Glenna, she moved more

or less into Clapton Common with me, at the back of mind,
always Susan and the kid incarcerated in Shenley hospital, so
my life at the correct level of chaos for men of that age.. Men
in the 40-50 bracket, apparently get themselves in deeper than
other groups, only when they get to the late fifties do men start
to realize how deeply involved they are, how horrendously
difficult it is to extricate themselves, in fact impossible to get
out of the hole they have blindly burrowed into, the “golden
handcuffs” the realization, too late. Yes, I deeply in it, the
palaver of visiting Shenley, driving about the London streets..
going up and down the A.1. attempting to keep two females in
equilibrium.

Xmas day 1985 in the middle of Susan’s silence, I

alone as usual, as always as ever, she and the child
incarcerated in Shenley hospital, the hospital kept open only
for Susan and Jack, the only two with no where to go, no one
wanted. Susan’s mother refused, point blank, to have her and
the child, Susan’s toffee nosed brother most certainly would
not entertain her in his smart four bedroomed house. What!
Silent Susan! what would he and his Irish wife do? how could
they be expected to take in such a person…? Xmas! … More
important.. “What would their friends think !”

As for myself, not even considered, as always, a none

starter. They would not let me attempt to feed, wash, mother
and child.. No, the hospital stayed… open. I ? only the child’s
father (counts nothing in England) a fact Susan kept from him
until November ’92..when he was seven years old.

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 Maybe having suited her to keep quiet for so long, to
insist, she should have kept her mouth shut about this fact just
a little longer as I had to fallen into one of my nervous
breakdowns and she to kick me in the bollocks and out.
Nothing unusual, many men know what I am talking about ..
all still counting the cost.

Late spring, deep snow, suddenly Susan managed to

extricate herself and the child from Shenley, went to Harlow
Hospital, nearer to her mother at Bishops Stortford, not know
how she pulled that, maybe having some intuition about
Glenna, about another female face filling the void, if you like, of
my existence. Arrived there one morning, she, Susan, looking
better, a transition from a grey haired wrinkled ghost, a ghost
which had not spoken, silent for six months, now a woman
somewhat resurrected.

A brilliant sunny morning, snow reflecting through the

window intensifying the light. Susan, full of it, full of herself,
full of life, full of plans, full of aspirations, full of all the things
we, i.e. she and I were going to embark on…. had not
mentioned Glenna sitting downstairs in the car. Sussed by
Susan, vaguely aware I had pulled a stroke.. beaten me to it,
females have this propensity.. played her cards with the usual
feminine dexterity, close to her chest.

Stuck with two of them, one upstairs in the hospital

ward, the other downstairs, patiently waiting in the car, a
situation which had happened to me a very long time
previously in Australia. Always on my mind to put down the
events of that particular day, Susan, Glenna and I.

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 Remember quite distinctly, quietly laughing to myself,
how it tangled itself up, a bun fight in the snow. Hardly feel
like laughing about anything or anyone anymore.. maybe with
age has come a deeper perception ..maybe.. Hardly feel like
discussing the event, exposing people to the bone, never
really gone deeply into the tight, bare knuckle, bare flesh,
scenario. Never been guilty of that.

Surprisingly, after the initial furor settled, Glenna and

Susan became almost amicable.. for want of a better word..
amicable! one will have to think of words associated…..

Susan continued with her improvement . Discharged

herself and with the child went back to her mother’s. Rather
to my surprise, much to my surprise, Susan appeared at the
flat, Glenna and I having breakfast or lunch.. know we were
eating, sitting down in the kitchen.

She came smartly up the thirty nine steps, heard her

leather shoes echoing on the hard oak, sat down as though, as
if, that six, eight, interminable, silent months, had never taken
place.. greeted Glenna like a long lost sister.

Perhaps it was a couple of weeks later, time is not really

specific we three all in bed, the street door bell rang, a rare
occurrence, looked at the clock , mid day, Susan volunteered
to get up and go peer out on the big room window, heard her
shouting against the noise of the traffic to whoever was below.
She went down the stairs. Heard two sets of footsteps coming
up, wondered who she had let in, no one ever comes to my flat
unless they want something , a slight knock, on the bedroom
door Susan appeared, perhaps hesitantly, beckoned to
whomever it may be..

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 To say I was surprised at this intruding face would be a
understatement, momentarily not recognizing the man
standing half in, half out of the green bedroom door, Had only
seen him once before, introduced to him in the pub. “The
Lamb” in Lambs Conduit street, a considerable time ago, a
very happy, smiling Susan at the time. She had made me
struggle through the throng, disregarding how I dislike pubs,
having spent a great deal of time standing out side every one
in Hackney during my childhood, interminable waiting for my
Mother and Father to come out. Remember quite clearly the
look of satisfaction on her face as she introduced this small
neat man with the goatee beard to me. “Jeffrey this is Peter…”
Her Ex husband, he, no doubt wondering what she had “got
hold of” this time.
Jeffrey stood in the doorway staring at the scene. Big
black Glenna and I tucked up in bed, one of the few occasion
in my life when I had been caught literally with my trousers
down, completely off guard the way Susan had lured him up
into the room. Quite obviously it was a “three in the bed and
the little one said” scenario. Maybe she wanted to punish him,
also one of the few moments in my life when I had been lost
for words, even feeling slightly put out for his sake, me feeling
something for someone other than myself..!?
A very brief visit, he quickly ran out in some disarray,
out down the stairs, heard the deep down street door go bang
behind him.

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