Libelling Alain Delon

I have finished my response to the Carter-fucking-Ruck libel report. Now it is a case of waiting to see how much of my ‘credible evidence’ and continuously pointing out reporting of fact should not be viewed as legally dangerous will help the book remain as juicy as it should be.

Even though I have fought as hard as possible to keep the text intact, responding to a libel report is a strategic game. Although I think it is madly over cautious, I concede the line: ‘Anyone who claims they can give a definitive and totally accurate history of the origins of the Mafia is a liar,’ is potentially libellous. If I accept Carter-Ruck’s suggestion: ‘that the word “liar” is replaced with “mistaken” or “misguided,”’ it looks as I am co-operating. This allows me to rant more effectively over Charles Heung.

I really want to every reader to know: ‘Leading Hong Kong actor and businessman Charles Heung is the son of one of Sun Yee On's founders and has never brought libel actions against those who claim he is a leading player in the society today.’ I suspect some compromise form of words will have to be found, but I do not do crime-lite. What is the point of writing about the Sun Yee On Triad if I have not got the courage to tell you who is suspected of directing many of its operations?

Amongst those Carter-Ruck feel may have cause to sue me if they read the book are: Italy’s Christian Democratic Party (yes I know, it does not exist anymore – a point I did make to Carter-fucking-Ruck): Gregorio Bellocco: Bernardo Provenzano; the American Democratic Party; Kaoru Ogawa; Peter Fitzroy Godber; Otaria Kvantrishvil; Boris Yeltsin; Sir Dyno; a certain ex-Ambassador to Belgium; Ceca Raznatovic; Marie-Reine Le Gougne; former Lithuanian President Rolandsas Paksas; Jacob Zuma; John Paul Getty III; Darrren Nicholls; the Essex constabulary; the FBI; Interpol; Ernest Shinwell; Cardinal Michele Giordano and Alain Delon. (As if libelling Alain Delon would ever be something I want to do!)

They were also worried about Al Lewis, the actor who played Grandpa in The Munsters, but hopefully pointing out the fact he is dead will reassure them there is no likelihood of legal action from that corner. My 'private conversations with the Serious Fraud office' are now likely to become ‘sources’, but Carter-Ruck’s over caution in my view is best demonstrated by the fact they even felt uneasy over me telling the story of how former US Presidential candidate Thomas E. Dewey bribed prostitutes with fixes of heroin to get them to testify against ‘Lucky’ Luciano. Aside from it being a true story, Dewey died in 1971.

The worst casualties are the entries covering the outlaw biker gangs. It seems the people Carter-Ruck are most worried about are Hells Angels, Pagans, Outlaws and Bandidos. This is probably because the bikers make so much money through enforcement and assainations for the Mob, methampthetamines, vice and pornography that they can easily afford lawyers like Carter-Ruck. Being able to afford lawyers like Carter-Ruck makes anyone scary.

Fear the Midges

For those readers of this blog who think I am in a permanent bad mood and only happy when I am whining, there is some good news in the pile at the moment. I am pleased to report I am shortly going on holiday to Scotland. (If you want to remember the Sex Pistol lyrics and find jokes in: ‘A cheap holiday in other people’s misery’ or ‘I don’t want a holiday in the sun’, please feel free). This will be my first proper going away to somewhere for a vacation trip in almost a decade and. I am immensely excited by the prospect of disappearing into the Highlands.

My only concerns about the sojourn revolve around whether Surreal Girl and I will still be talking when we return, how my ribs will cope with camping and midges. I fear the midges. I have visions of being munched alive by a living cloud of the black bastards. When the official Visit Scotland advice about dealing with swarms of the ever-present menace is: ‘Go inside and have a whisky’, I am not exactly filled with confidence I am going to survive unscathed even if I exchange the Black Code for Autan.

One-eye Blind

Trying to respond to a Carter-fucking-Ruck libel report when you have once again lost the use of your left eye is not fun. In fact, responding to a Carter-fucking-Ruck libel report could never be classified as pleasurable, but it is even more grim and tough going when you are one-eye blind.

Possibly my mood today has not been lifted by listening to Nick Cave’s Abattoir Blues. Even though it contains the most triumphantly positive love song of his career in the shape of Nature Boy, there is breaking weight of apocalypse in the album’s lyrics. Götterdämmerung is not an ideal soundtrack when trying to ‘provide credible evidence that Kaoru Ogawa runs corporate blackmail operations’.

Within my Author Whining Rights

Today the new editor contacted me to tell me the publisher wanted to remove the mention of Wo Shing Wo on the Global Gangland cover material. Even when I pointed out that as a prescribed criminal organisation the Wo Shing Wo has no corporate status under law or ability to pursue any legal action, nor would any officer of the organisation be in a position to do so, they still wanted to remove it.

However, according to them, it is not about legal action this time; it is about threats of violence. They are not so worried about me losing my hands (they did suggest making sure my insurance covered the eventuality), more about other actions being directed towards them. My argument that by mentioning the Wo Shing Wo, I am reducing the likelihood of the threat to chop of my hands with a cleaver actually happening, is not going to be taken onboard. Given this, I think I am within my author whining rights to pretty pissed off.

Cult Author Piñata

As Mr. Grasso pointed out in an email today, everything for me has recently seemed: ‘fine and rosy (if a bit middle class...)’. However, there are no roses when it comes to libel lawyers and there is nothing middle class about having to fight with the Home Office to get restrictions preventing you from leaving the country lifted.

I have spent more than six hours on assorted tubes and trains today. I almost got into a fistfight with a drunk on a bus this afternoon. My ribs feel as if someone has been dropping bricks on them. I am weary, pissed off and ready to spit electric venom expletives at anyone who wants to play cult author piñata.

The Carter-fucking-Ruck Chill

In my line of business, people know what the phrase ‘the Carter-Ruck chill’ means. It was only after the death of libel lawyer Peter Carter-Ruck in 2003 that a paper like The Guardian would have the guts to point out that he was ‘a dedicated liar and a reactionary with a lust for cash’. Whilst that turn of phrase might describe the vast majority of lawyers in many people’s eyes, Carter-Ruck was notably deserving of it for almost single-handedly creating a climate of libel court paranoia in the UK media and turning the British libel laws into an effective tool against free speech. Although the crypto-fascist bastard is dead, his shade lives on, not least in the sheer panic that the mention of the name Carter-fucking-Ruck induces in most journalists.

Today I have the Carter-fucking-Ruck chill. Carter-Ruck – the firm of media lawyers that carries the name of Peter Carter-fucking-Ruck – have read Global Gangland. They may have been paid more to read it than I got to write it. Having read the manuscript, they are advising my publisher to make major changes to the book. Whilst I might have the Carter-Ruck chill reading what they want excised, my publishers have got the Cart-Ruck standing in their underpants in an abattoir freezer frozen to the marrow feeling.

As it stands tonight, the whole future of the book is in doubt. I told you, it always gets bloody when the lawyers get involved.

Life On Mars

Thanks to the free stuff still coming through my door from Amazon, I have at last caught up with Episode Four of the beyond splendid Life On Mars. It was as emotionally powerful, superbly acted and solidly told as the rest of the series. It is also the only prime time program I have ever watched featuring a scene of a naked policeman handcuffed to a bed having a LSD trip involving a demonic Basil Brush to a soundtrack of Hawkwind’s Silver Machine.

I could rave for England about how good Life On Mars is. I put it up with Edge of Darkness, State of Play and Doctor Who as amongst the best things BBC1 has produced to enrich our dramatic culture. This is not just because is a program based around time travel, explaining why the police are known as filth and heavily referencing Bowie, it really is a new benchmark in prime time TV. I would not be alone in this opinion. From Alexi Sayle to the editorial team of SFX, the show seems to have a legion of fans. I am not sure my love of it comes from the same place as them, but one of the things I adore about it is its honesty about the England in 1970s.

Life on Mars perfectly captures the concrete brutality of the decade. The way the washed out colour of life went alongside orange nylon shirts. The broken dreams of the white heat of technology mired in a failing economy. Why Findus Crispy Pancake would be counted as an exotic, expensive treat in the average working class home. It portrays some of the harshness of being on the breadline I remember from my childhood. It never forgets how grim things could be in a rush towards cheap nostalgia. It is also resolutely not afraid to show the era’s easy sexism, racism and homophobia. It is as good as Haine’s How I Learned To Love The Bootboys or Temple’s The Filth and the Fury for holding up a dark mirror to the seventies.

At first, I was a nervous about the idea of policemen as bastards being so entertaining. That evaporated with a second viewing. I realised the integrity of the depiction of the police’s anti-union views is not compromised by having characters with motivations you can empathise with. DCI Gene Hunt cares about his community. He really does believe that being a vicious, corrupt sheriff is the way to preserve law and order. I do not think that such a generous motivation can be laid behind most bent coppers and travesties of justice of the period, but within the show it works. The emotional life and validity of its characters is a core part of why Life On Mars so outstanding.

I cannot wait for second series. I want it not only to take the temporal mystery and paradoxes on further, but also focus more on racism, the response to IRA bombings and Masonic sleaze level that were all part and parcel policing in the seventies. If you have not already seen it, I thoroughly recommend Life On Mars and can only quote Bowie himself: ‘Take a look at the lawman …’

The Smell of Hospital Corridors

Neil Gaiman once said: ‘Let me show you the terror in a handful of dust.’ Any definition of horror I tried to give would no doubt involve the smell of hospital corridors and the suffocating dread experienced in one whilst waiting to see your specialist. There is more fear in the tang of polished linoleum, antiseptic and the desperate perspiration of those ahead of you to get news from the doctor than any movie or book could ever hope to create.

Day in the Life of a Multi-Meeja Hor

Over the last few weeks I have been receiving emails expressing everything from disappointment to mild disgust that I do not intend to write any more pure conspiracy books or publish a sequel to Secrets & Lies. Anyone feeling this way may like to know that I have just done a new paying conspiracy gig. My latest little bout of meeja horedom has turned me into that strangest and most unnecessary of cultural beasts – a talking head in a top ten show.

In fact, today I have actually become a multi-meeja hor given that the interview I gave is destined for splicing into a series of podcasts for Channel 4. Unfortunately, this involved heading up to meeja scum central – Hoxton – and having to sit in the reception of a production company with a bunch of obnoxious, mildly famous, fabricated pop band members. After an eternity of trying to ignore their whining, I was ushered beyond a door marked ‘The Black Room’.

Once inside I gave my views on not only on an alleged top ten of conspiracy theories, but also an amusing list of top ten political gaffes. I was even asked to give views on the Great Train robbery and the latest IRA bank job. Knowing my own limits I chose not to take the opportunity to talk on the pill, Christ’s birthday or Rosa Parks.

I was not on top form. Cracked ribs, a bad night’s sleep and the hubris of thinking I could get away with not doing more than cursory research because I already know it all, teamed up to ensure a lacklustre performance. If the end result is not too awful, I might post a link on the blog to the finished conspiracy show when it is broadcast.

I am still reeling from the bizarreness of it. Whilst it was good to be paid a couple of hundred pounds (I know, I need to sort out my agent issue) for recounting my memories and lines, it does strike me as incredibly odd that I have crossed into the media hinterland where I can get gigs as a cultural as well as conspiracy commentator.

However, I have to admit dissing Jo Moore in public for cash did feel triumphantly grubby and joyous. Making the day end on an even better note was having the chance to spend my fee on a celebratory curry and then enjoying a Paddington sunset with Surreal Girl. If this was the typical day in the life of a multi-meeja hor, I might be able to adjust to it.

A 'Very Middle Class Weekend'

As has already been pointed out to me, I have enjoyed a 'very middle class weekend’. There is no denying that wandering around a Swedish design shop and Bridgewater pottery after eating brunch at Giraffe is enough to make me a class traitor in some quarters. In my defence, I can only point out that the Swedish store had Moomin tableware and the blueberry and banana pancake stacks at Giraffe were heavenly. There is no reason why an Essex barrow boy cannot appreciate style or a dash of pomegranate juice in his smoothie.

Whether middle class or not, my weekends have certainly become incredible periods of delight over recent weeks. Just when I think each passing one cannot be surpassed, it is. Whilst I can recount to myself all the little details of joy – from thirty seconds of total surprise to curling up on the sofa to watch The Satan Pit – I doubt logging all the individual stabs of pleasure I have felt during the last two days would even begin to capture the totality of what I am experiencing. I feel lucky. I feel blessed.

I have come to understand that bliss can be as difficult to comprehend as the Black Dog. There is an element of bewildering shock when it is encountered, like the first listen to one of the joy-filled Morrisey tracks on You Are The Quarry. It is so unexpected it is deliciously disorientating. However, now that it is here, I do not want it fade or leave - even if it does mean my arms are sore through the constant pinching.

Spandex Heroics

As Surreal Girl pointed out a few weeks back, it was ‘inevitable’ that I would see X-Men 3 at some point. This afternoon, in a cinema empty except for me, the inevitable happened. As a concluding film in a Hollywood trilogy it was reasonably satisfying, but as usual when it comes to putting a comic book love on the silver screen, I have gripes.

On the plus side the plot was good, borrowing some of the best elements of both Grant Morrison and Joss Whedon recent story arcs. It also had some nice touches – one the best of which was Magneto as Osama, sending out video messages – and did not pull away from killing off some key characters.

However, overall it was emotionally flat, often degenerated into a Wolverine and Storm team-up and wasted the introduction of Hank McCoy and Warren Worthington III. Scenes that should have carried huge impact such – as Magneto revealing his concentration camp tattoo and explaining that no one would mark his skin again – failed to deliver; tepid direction and photography bleaching McKellen’s fabulous acting of the moment’s natural poignancy and power.

I am still waiting for just one film that is worth its comic book origins, but taken as a whole, the X-Men movies have probably been the most satisfying comic book translation to the big screen. Part of this has been in the films willingness to engage with the big themes of the X books and not just the potential for explosions and fantasy violence. Starting the series with Magneto being taken into the concentration camp and ending it with him a broken man, playing chess against himself in a park, even shapes the whole affair into a story I would expect to see in my monthly dose of spandex heroics.

The Nexus Points of the DLR

I have learnt this weekend that it is possible for me to have a wonderful time despite the fact when I lie down it feels as if a sword is being thrust into my chest. The secret is the right company and being able to have plenty of fun in a vertical position.

My definition of fun this Saturday, Sunday and Monday morning ranged from enjoying a Greenwich sunset to dinner with delightful Sardinians; my first blowfish to shopping strolls via Kensington Gardens. This may seem provincial vanilla stuff to a hardcore hedonist, but it has left me still smiling despite the fact I am occasionally struggling for breath today.

Walking in parts of London I’ve not visited for years, I feel as if my internal maps are being redrawn. As memories of place, atmosphere and association are updated, a fresh version of me is also being charted in my imagined atlas of the capital. These new diagrams of the city in my head – whether routes between Royal Oak and Holland Park or the nexus points of the DLR – are expressions an exceptionally personal psychogeography. As my knowledge of London becomes more current, the jigsaw of places starts to come together to reveal not just an A-B on the A-Z, but also a new picture of happiness.

It is more than typical writer superstition that stops me from saying anything else at this point, (few authors like talking about things at too early a stage out of fear on invoking the fates to spit on them). The sort of delicious contentment I have enjoyed this weekend is so precious it is neither easily expressed nor readily translatable for an audience. Whatever the destination of this joyous walk, I just do not want it to stop.